Oh Christ, it finally happened

The thing I have feared for the last few months; the terrifying prospect that I have anticipated since the start of the season; the source of many disguised attendances at matches: It happened.

It actually, really, finally, horribly happened.

I was walking into the Oval to watch a twenty20 match, and then, from the pits of hell, He came. Who was he? I don’t know. I doubt whether he did. All I can remember is reasonable height, green t-shirt and short, possibly curly, hair.

This thing strode further, and uttered the following bone-crushing words to me:

“Excuse me, are you a left arm Chinaman?”

…

What facial expression are you supposed to wear when your world collapses?

I considered this interesting social question briefly, as my body involuntarily creepped to the right, and away from this person that could only be described as a man.

I decided that the best course of action wasn’t, as my rabid sub-conscious screamingly suggested, panic like a maddy, but was to decant the madness to him.

“You are a nutcase” said my face. Coupled with the deranged side-stepping, I think I may have persuaded him that he was clearly a total weirdo for asking such a silly question. With this, I pressed home the advantage, and answered his question:

“No.”

I then ran away like a frightened little girl.

So, now I’m a celebrity. Sachin Tendulkar, you have my empathy.

Titillation on the 1004 to Fenchurch Street Station

That’s three times this has happened now. Why me? Where there? Why them?

For the past few months, I have suffered an affliction. A tragic, strange condition that impinges upon me only with a small locality.

This morning, like other, innocent mornings, between Limehouse and Fenchurch Street Stations, a usually innocuous stretch of rail-track, I spied from the dubious safety of my train carriage another naked man. Totally starkers.

This is the third time it has happened. And always at the same train line. Different men; different places, but always the same area, and I’m always on the train.

Thankfully, they are not.

It impossible not to look at a naked man. Your eye, like some masochistic, rogue organ, darts hungrily from peripheral view to all-consuming OMG there’s a naked man subsuming my entire vision within an instant. Your conscious is powerless to prevent its own temporary destruction.

Now, I fear, my eyes become excited whenever they reach the area. They begin their prowling, hopeful search for naked men. “This will distress our owner” say those malevolent bastards.

What is it with the men of Limehouse? Does it have a scorchio micro-climate? If so, why the hell isn’t there counter-balancing women? I have never seen a women perform a little East End dance of public nudity. Or perhaps my eyes discretely guide me away from such sights?

A friend claims that there’s a women homed near to where he lives, who stands in her bay window and four o’clock every day. Only, she seems to forget to dress above the waist on each occasion.

It is curious that she chose four o’clock. Maybe it was her post team-time treat?

In other news, India beat Bangladesh.

AYALAC sells out

That’s right. I’ve joined facebook. It’s all a bit confusing, and reminiscent of schoolhood social one-upmanship.

So, I’ve set up a little group about me and how wonderful I am.

I’m sure I’ll do something with it, once I’ve worked how to do stuff. And things.

Weirdly, this group has members and a major proponent in the form of Unkie JRod at cricketwithballs before I’ve even announced its existence to the world.

This is why, quite frankly, the whole facebook thing terrifies. It’s populated with the most dangerous people outside reality.

AYALAC does it again

Do you remember last year? I was struggling with HTML tables and the problem of England’s next captain. Before my Hoggard Epiphany, I worked out who was going to be the new captain.

Actually, you probably don’t remember. You’ve taken way too many drugs since then.

I decided that England’s next captain was going to be Kevin Pietersen.

Unfortunately, I lost the use of my tongue and typing fingers for about month after I made this heretical pronouncement. Promotion of dodgy Saffers isn’t good for the street cred.

But now, he has been elevated through default, I’ll take full credit: I am responsible for this; I have a direct line to the ECB. I am their guru.

Before I continue bragging, it’s worth highlighting KP’s enormous powers of captaincy in England’s latest triumph against New Zealand.

His choice of relying heavily on Owais Shah’s unplayable off-spin and sticking on a frightening Graeme Swann at the death was genius. To restrict the Kiwis to just 266 after England’s bowlers had them at 124-4 after thirty overs was an indication of mighty captaincy skills for years to come.

England’s batters were equally as impressive.

I’m not at all incredibly pissed off at their feeble efforts today. It’s not like they throw away a lead every week.

It’s not like I want to burn down Lords at all.

Name That Bum #13: Answer

The answer to yesterday's Name That Bum was, of course, Dazzler Hair.

Well done to park, who won. Here's a portrait.

General smugness has indicated that Name That Bum is a bit too easy. Next week, it will be impossible.

One dayers, briefly, get fantastic

I missed a key issue in yesterday’s ODI between England and New Zealand.

Of course, there was the whole “I am a right twat, me” thing with Paul Collingwood. In case you didn’t hear: a Kiwi runner was downed by an England bowler, resulting in his losing his verticality, the use of the left side of his body and his wicket.

Of course, it was a hilarious incident, especially when the full extent of his injuries was revealed, but it displayed a rather unseemly element to the England captain’s game.

Despite the fact that the umpire repeatedly asked if Collingwood would like to withdraw his appeal, he claims that it was a “split second decision”. We claimed he was a twat.

In fairness, it probably was an unthinking moment of stupidity, where any appeals to reason by the umpire were drowned up by the cricketer’s usual ridiculously high levels of elation after taking a wicket.

You might say that this distinguishes international players from international captains, and that Collingwood isn’t really captaincy material. You might say something different.

In any case, the key moment of this match was just after the last ball, when the New Zealand captain lost it completely. After the Kiwis one he did this:

Leap around like a maddy, pointing at the English.

And he said this:

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you all!” at the English.

Oh, how I wish I could have seen it. Oh, how I wish all teams could do that after winning. The MCC should put it in the rules.

That a professional sportsman can sink to the level of a jeering darts player, after winning his local pub’s drunken competition against his ex-wife gives hope to us all.

Name That Bum # 13

It's that time of the week again, boys and girls.

You. Bum. Ogle. Name.

Good luck and good bumming.

Can you... NAME THAT BUM?

Collingwood: we can’t sing. Shit.

Paul Collingwood, the inspiration of England, said in an interview recently,

“When we’re on song, we’re on song.”

So, we can only suppose in their latest slump against New Zealand that they weren’t on song, because it didn’t look like they were on song at all.

Tunelessness seemed to affect all elements of England’s game. Their batsman, although promising, failed to capitalise. Their bowlers, although tight, failed to prevent release. Their fielders, although pisspoor, failed to be any less pisspoor.

New Zealand, held themselves together like the grown ups that they are, and deservedly won on the last ball. Weirdly, even though they weren’t on song, they were a bit on song. Perhaps, if not totally on song, they were a bit singy.

Like Bjork sings a bit, in between her deranged hamster wails.

Predictably, I was disappointed by Collingwood’s rather wankish decision to injure one of the Kiwi runners and then insist on running him out. Being a bit of an old fart, I rather feel that that sort of thing isn’t cricket. But I have a feeling that I’m just not on song today.

La la la burp.

No. No, it’s just not happening. Maybe tomorrow?

How do deal with India

Obviously, these people have become a right pain in the neck. They’ve become the Russia of modern cricket. Pushing everyone around, and no one is really sure why. It’s as if they’ve got lots of nuclear bombs, or something.

First, they refuse to involve themselves in twenty20 cricket. Then some people think twenty20 is a good idea. The BCCI reverses its decision and attempts to cash in on twenty20 and sets about ruining the lives of anyone involved in the original “rebel” league.

The BCCI’s own “legitimate” league is a farcical, purely commercial affair that ignored its effects on any other country.

Following the “amazing success” of the IPL, a Champions League of between domestic champions from across the world is announced. As soon as it is publicised, the BCCI decide to remove the English, because some of their players thought that twenty20 was a good idea before they did.

Then, the BCCI unilaterally announced that the international players playing for their sides would remain in their Indian team, presumably, they will be forced to play against their own home side.

Now, all of this is fine. Where the line must be drawn is when they make you spend your entire day off queuing at the Indian Embassy in London.

These buggers must be stopped.

I reckon we should remove the Indian teams from the Champions League, except for perhaps the ICL sides, which should solve some of our player-overlap problem. Then we naturalise Geoff Boycott as an Indian citizen, and make sure he’s on the telly all the time. That’ll learn ‘em.

That'll learn 'em good.

New Zealand’s South Africans beat England's South Africans

The English selectors came under further pressure today, as their radical policy of not fielding an all South African eleven against New Zealand resulted in another loss for the “English”.

Sensing weakness, the Kiwis picked a little known Saffer by the name of Bruce Lee. After making a bang at club level, Brucie forced his way into the New Zealand outfit through his undeniably South African qualities.

He scored the only fifty in England’s latest spineless defeat in Bristol, and also returned bowling figures of 2-9.

Requiring only 183 to win, England took pity on the weenie Kiwis. “Oh, they’re only small; let’s give them a few wickets.”

But like the relentlessly biscuit eating aunties in my family, if you give them an inch they’ll take the whole bloody packet. As the overs ticked away, England were rapidly running out of South Africans, and somehow converted certain victory into hilarious defeat.

Interestingly, this is probably one of the few occasions were the qualities of the captain were revealed. The English captain really showed his ginger nuts, by electing to bowl harmless dibbly-dobblers for twenty bland overs to allow the Black Hearts off the hook and let them build a defendable total.

Daniel Vettori, on the other hand, was like Nelson at Trafalgar, like Wellington at Waterloo and like Gordon Brown at the 42-day vote: amongst the chaos and impending doom, his magisterial and prudent figure saved his nation from total and immediate destruction.

Unlike the French President. Not only is he French and married to a woman that only wears socks, but has charged the responsibility of the “death of African children” at the feet of Peter Mandleson – the British Commissioner to the EU. Although this might be right, there’s a way to do these things, Sarko: you have to do it in a picket whilst your followers sing the red flag and smash up Paris.

They just have no idea over there, do they?

Name Those Man Boobs: Answer

I was blown away to Lisa's stonking moob performance yesterday. Correctly identifying the man boobs of all three cricketers.

The answers were...

All natural man boobs.

Hey hey, we're the moobies.

Pasty man boobs, with light covering of ginger fluff.

Lisa's prize, moob connoisseur that she is, is well deserved:

Sadly, no one got the Bonus Boob, who was, of course, Graeme Smith.

England not English

If there was one aspect of the game that the English excelled at, it was losing gracefully. There was no moaning about biased umpires, not blaming the pitch, and not (much) complaining about injuries.

We were simply inferior people and we accepted that.

Occasionally, we could hope for a plucky, match-saving rear-guard by a brave tail-ender: grinding a draw out of an angry opposition. We took pride in our sportsmanship.

Not in our latest game against the Kiwis. In a shoddy and rather Australian display, England delayed the match’s progress at every opportunity to ensure the eventual abandonment of the rain affecting game.

Paul Collingwood has blamed the game.

“Cricket has nothing to do with sportsmanship or spirit. It’s about gingers leading men into battle. We should probably change the rules. Only red-haired captains allowed.”

In response, the New Zealand captain, Daniel Vettori, said,

“Does my bum look big in this?”

It is uncertain which country feels more shame towards their captain. I’m guessing South Africa.

Name Those Man Boobs

A bit of a change this week.

In stead of the usual, Name That Bum, I'm introducing a new competetion.

I will show you three different Man Boobs, and you tell me to whom they all belong.

Good luck and good boobing.

Man Boobs 1

Man Boobs 2

Man Boobs 3

Bonus Boobs

This one is probably impossible, but if you get it, you will be deified.

Can you...NAME THOSE BOOBS?

Shah: Pietersen is a “freak”

Owais Shah labelled England’s best batsman as a mutant today in a surprise hostile bid to enter the national team.

Shah unearthed the old MCC rule of “No Ungodly Abominations” rule of 1913, after an experimental nuclear research institute at the Nursery Ground accidentally produced the strains that would later lead to Paul Adams. He got through on a retrospective law defence.

Shad argued strongly against Pietersen’s freakish weirdness. And a cricketing court heard a detailed account of Pietersen’s stroke,

“The batsman dislocated his left armed, removed it entirely and re-attached it to his right ear. This had the effect of turning the entire ground behind the batsmen into the off side. It also put the fielding team off their game, as they had to spend the next three minutes vomiting.

“It also made the pitch slippery.”

The MCC’s greatest legal minds were put to use, but they eventually ruled in favour of Money.

Pietersen later spoke to the assembled press.

“Look at me. I’m fantastic.”

Here's another weird shot that Pietersen played in New Zealand. Weird, isn't it?

A discourse on Indian administrative policies

Apparently, cricket happened today. I wouldn’t know; the Indians authorities detained me in an over-crowded, under-red nasty corporate room for the entire day.

It was like the 21st century equivalent of the Black Hole of Calcutta.

I had to get a visa for my sub-continental holiday. Oh you bastard, India, you couldn’t have made a normally painless procedure much worse today.

First off, I completed their damned forms weeks ago, but for my hellishly busy life, I was unable to submit them.

However, since my obedient pen-pushing, the buggers had changed the system – unbeknownst to me. So I turn up at the Indian High Commission promptly first thing this morning, on my day off.

Eventually, some incomprehensible goon starts bleating at me,

“A blur Vec toria a blur blue” he said, whilst pointing at an obscure piece of paper on the room.

I squinted at it,

“Visa applications have been outsourced. These are now being handled at Victoria. Fuck off.”

Where in Victoria, I had no idea. Fortunately, work was just around the corner, so I actually went into office on my day off. Searching the internet for a bloody map, fielding “I thought you were off today?” remarks.

Only, I would of, if anyone talks to me. Mercifully, this is one torment I do not presently endure.

I go to office at Victoria. Chaos is all about me. It’s like human-marmalade factory. A woman barked at me: “HAVE YOU APPLIED ONLINE?”

I simper.

“YOU IDIOT, GO AWAY AND TRY AGAIN.”

So back I go to the office, conveniently located on the other side of London. To re-fill those bloody forms. And then get on the same bloody train back again to Victoria.

Now, I have some experience of dealing with third world officials. There are two approaches to take.

Method one: obsequious toadying. Hardened travellers don’t have spines: the customs bureaucrat has a chip on their shoulder the size of Sourav Ganguly’s head, use it against them and flatter your way across the border.

Method two: the British Bluster. A technique used by many colonials throughout time, you bamboozle the official with your feigned air of superiority.

So, in I went, opening with “Now, I say, look here”, when Madame Card Index pointed me towards a ticket. It said 2180. I looked at the board. It said 157. My “methods” nullified in a second. Damn, she was good. Damned good.

The next eight hours were spent losing my sanity, and convincing myself I was a battery farmed chicken. It was a fantastic experience, being sandwiches between man who endlessly informed me of his housing opportunities in Harrow and man who belched vivaciously and joyfully for all he was worth.

£40 and a day off well spent.

Damn your eyes, India!

England vs. New Zealand: Live coverage

Now that ball-by-ball coverage is the next Big Thing (can be found here, here and here), AYALAC needs to get in on the act.

Although, we don’t have the energy to fit in front of the computer and telly at the same time, so AYALAC sent along one of our correspondents. Here are the first of his reports:

Start

“Morning. Spots of rain already at the street. Should they really play cricket this far North?”

Interesting question, which suggests a more fundamental problem: should anything happen that far North?

England 100-3

“Bell did well. Pietersen is steady; Colly good. Very enjoyable. Beer good.”

But not enough, I fear. But not enough.

England 200-3

“England have the advantage. KP played well for an English Saffer. General consensus is Harmison is a twat and DFID needs restructuring.”

Things are getting political oop Narth. I suggest that insufficient beer is being consumed.

“True. I’ve given up and reading the Observer. I hope to bring is back n the second session. Have they always played music at one days? WTF?”

WTF indeed.

England managed 307-5 in their 50 overs. Things have gone a bit quiet, so I've asked what's going on...

New Zealand 72-3.

"Not sure. I've just woken up. It seems New Zealand have tried to bore us all to death. The crowd was buzzing, but everyone seems hypotised."

140-5

"Mini riot in the barmy army stand. New Zealand grinding out a loss. Hairybottom hair isn't that bad in real life. Gus O'Donnel needs tighter control of the civil service."

England win by 114 runs.

"A pleasant afternoon in the North. England were average, nothing special. New Zealand were rubbish. KP played well. He is suprisingly tall. Crowd and beer were good."

Well, I hope you enjoyed that. It was straight from the horses mouth. Proper journalism, is that.

England don’t know what they’re doing

Peter Moores has admitted that the $100 million England team need practice.

Their value, which can only be recorded in dollars, came from Donald Trump and his continued attempts to buy cricket.

Moores, the England coach and chief blokie, stated that England’s players were a little rusty when it came to twenty20.

“Frankly, they’re only good at boring cricket. But that doesn’t earn any money, so we’ll have to start taking limited overs seriously.”

The West Indies will fancy their chances of making huge amounts of money in this competition (especially when you facture in PPP – high five to the economists out there!) And, to be quite honest, I think the Windies players need the money more than the likes of KP.

There was a programme on the radio just now. The presenters were discussing the role of the Church of England – possibly the meekest, most mild-mannered religion going. It is polite and is embarrassed and focuses heavily on things like flower arranging and cucumber sandwiches. In short, the perfect religion. An English religion.

Cricket is a lot like that. People shamble about on a village green for a while, and then nip of to the pub. No one really knows why, and are too self-conscious to discuss it, it’s just part of life and people get on with it.

So, I don’t have a fucking massive problem with cricket being a shameless money-seeking enterprise that sucks all that is good out country in what remains of this plastic, atomised world.

Oh, due to some miracle that, once again, makes me question my theological position, I didn’t lose my job today. I survived! Ryan Hairybottom did his bit for me today, he really did. Here’s for six more weeks of gay and paid working life!

Right! I’m off to the pub now, to celebrate employment! Cheerio!

Name That Bum #12: Answer

The answer to yesterday's name that bum is, of course, Matthew Hayden.

Well done Spigglers for winning. Also, it's worth checking out his fantastic new competition, too. Prize:

I might have a bit more time from here on in. You see, it looks likely that I’ll be jobless as of tomorrow.

Sure, it’ll be like that Greek-Jewish bloke from the Apprentice: please Sir Alan, don’t fire me, please, please don’t. I'm not above begging and demeaning myself for cash.

But it looks like I’m for the chop.

Which is bad, because I’ll have no money; but is also good, because the ghastliness and stress that has been my life for the past few weeks will end.

Heigh ho, do you think the ECB are recruiting? I hope so. I am nice to them.

That’s what I’m talking about.

Donald Trump set to “buy” cricket

“It looks like a class act,” the American billionaire was heard to say, as he stepped off his fully functioning Chinook helicopter this morning.

He has flown in especially from the land of plasticy cheese and watery beer, to make cricket “the bestest sporting event in the outside America.”

Before addressing their lordships this afternoon in the Long Room of Lords, Trump had his teeth painted with uranium and was stitched into his best suit. Although, naturally being an American, he suffered from a national affliction: no matter how moneyed they are, they never look good in suits. Perhaps it’s the healthy complexion?

Trump’s plan to show “you god-damned limies a thing or two amount real entertainment, and I’m not just talking about your Peg before wicket crap, mean end-zone, strike out clean-ups” was greeted with respectful applause.

Trump then produced his large, laminated chequebook, and the polite clapping turned into frenzied ovation.

Giles Clarke later said, “Mr Trump of Foreign Parts, sometimes says confusing things, but he has come here in good faith to implement a programme that I don’t really understand and, in the face of his generous stimulants, who are we to stand in the way of progress!”

The wild party that followed then spilt out onto the Nursery Ground, where several small boys had their bats broken by an ECB director explaining to a Trumpite (Trumpet?) flunky the art of collapsing after a well-built foundation.

The boy was told to, “naff orf.”

Name That Bum: #12

Hard one this week; another of Miriam's Bum in Ones.

Same rules as always, you have to identify the international cricketer in lovely paintbrushed shot below.Please give you answers in the comments.

Winners will have a poem written in their honour, or have a paintbrush masterpiece devoted to their genius.

Good luck, and good bumming.

Can you...NAME THAT BUM?