“You get one chance in life fellas. You can either take advantage of it or you can piss it away. You do that latter and you’re gonna regret it the rest of your lives.” Coach Taylor, Friday Night Lights.
It seems like only yesterday that two cheeky and grinning 12 year-olds walked through the gates of the cricket club dragging flashy wheeled bags crammed full of new gear, representing a bold and perhaps hopeful investment by two sets of parents?
Or perhaps they were just glad to offload these two on us for a night?
It was a win-win really; obviously you hope for two talented lads but if not maybe you might get a nice new wheeled bag going cheap at the end of summer because you’ve always wanted one.
Luckily we got two diamonds both cheeky enough to suggest very early on that my boss might want to know if I was as dedicated to my sales targets compared with coming up with new coaching drills every Monday.
Wind on the clock and as time whistles by, this year Worthy gets married.
Although his cricket life was cut short as he masqueraded as a chef – no recorded deaths so far – we always welcome him back any chance we can. We wish him good luck for the big day, the guests content in knowing he’s not doing the catering.
His “mucker” Marsy has graduated into my drinking companion showing how we can all move on after his mum tried to strangle his coach – me – as his early batting career faltered.
Lady Marsden is currently serving the harshest sentence possible for assaulting a coach, that of a position on our Committee and quarterly brain-draining sessions.
I like to think I have offered her son a view on life of sorts but, as we sat quaffing down a nightcap at The Scruffy the other night, I sensed my work not yet complete.
When he confessed he was sat there with me instead of a late evening glass of red with his lovely girl, I shook my head in dismay.
“Grasshopper you must see these days as those the sun shines brightest” I offered before ordering another of the brightest from the Sultry One aka Young Our Jackie.
I asked her if she thought Grasshopper’s judgement was clouded as it was still time to ditch the old Master and also save a quid avoiding the Salvation Army man’s collection tin.
The young man contemplated his options as the “War cry” shout sounded in the distance; the all-knowing regulars slipped to the loo for a few minutes hoping the old boy might get mugged at the door.
“Aw it’s so nice to see a Dad that cares so much” she said, in an instant clarifying the folly of years of face creams and expensive mud-packs.
“Come on Dad” said Marsy risking a nasty pre-season fall from grace off his stool “time to get you home before they lock the doors!”
I skulked home to a sweaty cheese butty and Aldi’s cheap imitation Branston. My beaten spirits were lifted in a flash by the return of Gardeners World perhaps proving the Sultry One right?
Monty has a new dog called Nellie to keep old Nigel on his toes. I thought about my long lost mate old Molly – last seen in The Scruffy pre-Christmas – with his new dog and wondered if Monty got out to the pub easier than Molly.
A smile broke over my face as Spring was finally in view even if the Autumn of my days was also looming far too quickly.
Soon the bit of pickle on my chin would be wiped by Svetlana on a zero hours contract promising to “make good wife as soon as you sign here so I bring family over!”
They think it’s all over…it may well be!
A Traditionally Slow Start.
Back in those high pressure sales days with the big bank, a wonderful old colleague of mine had a great way of explaining away a lacklustre start to the year, albeit that it became more the norm rather than the exception.
Macca, our old boss, would lean back in his chair awaiting the annual reply, delivered with aplomb by our colleague PK as both wished for something better to talk about other than why, even at this early stage of the year, a bonus was but a pipedream.
“It’s a traditionally slow start to the year Boss” offered PK as Macca glanced out of the window at another beautiful Spring day, counting down the hours till his lunchtime tee-off at nearby Moortown, quietly polishing his balls beneath the desk.
With this in mind I awoke Monday to sun bursting through my curtains; would it be today to begin the quest for world domination or could it wait a while longer?
Generously, I decided to give myself the day off and found my way down to the canal under clear blue skies alongside shimmering waters and swans whiter than any white I’d ever seen. On days like these where better to wile away some time at Toby’s.
It struck me that, as modest as the figures PK and the rest of us produced, at least they were inescapably factual. Given the recent woes of my old employer, still suffering the fallout from the reign of Casino Bob and his cronies where little was based on fact, perhaps mediocre was not so bad?
Who wants to be a millionaire after all?
More Nanny State.
Plenty has been written and said about the proposals to ban tackling in junior rugby and by people far more qualified to make a case than me.
Fabulous sports as both codes are, I never saw the attraction of being beaten to a pulp voluntarily at school; in those days there were enough dangers to contend with for a blonde haired midget who could read and write.
Still, it is a ridiculous suggestion and is believed to have caused multiple earth tremors in the Southern Hemisphere from outbreals of pitying laughter.
Where will it all end? Imagine the following bans.
– Footballers banned from wearing headbands and hair-clips for fear of asphyxiation or strangulation?
– Ice skaters banned from wearing skates because you may lose a leg?
– All cricket to be played with tennis balls?
We force feed generations of kids with garbage whilst allowing sedation via electronic devices; simultaneously we gradually strip all sense of engagement, competition and freedom of expression.
Pathetic.
How Governments Work.
News that the French energy giant EDF are getting cold feet over the Government’s wish that they – supported by oodles of freshly laundered Chinese dosh – build the new nuclear reactor in Somerset begs a question.
We blew over £10bn on the Olympics (for what?) and yet we cannot afford £18bn to build a critical national asset, in the process offering eye-watering inducements to the Chinese and French.
Work that one out if you can?
The New Kid In Town.
Just before you vanish for a beer or a glass of wine, Old Killjoy here has to correct an error made in last week’s blog concerning the safe level of pleasure – sorry alcohol – a man should have.
Ladies please note I have excluded you as you are far more fun “in drink”; please ignore any Government advice and continue to get lashed affording us men some level of peace and quiet.
The “safe” level is now 14 units a week (6-7 pints) according to the attached article. With that in mind I sought out a new and novel addition to the local scene – The Black Rat – over the border in downtown Thackley.
Termed as a micro-pub what a pleasure the place is and a pointer to the future perhaps? Of course it is small but who said size matters? It’s cosy, smart and offers a range of good value products in an atmosphere crackling with conversation.
Additionally, there’s no Sky Sports, no music and definitely no room for a fruit machine. Dare they go one more step and be completely ground-breaking by banning phones? Go find it as you won’t be disappointed.
Cheers!
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