The forecast was clear for all to see and the clouds duly amassed around the appointed time of one o’clock as stumps were pitched. Marsy led us out into the cold, damp air followed closely behind by eager opposition batters.
Our only consolation was that surely, beers were not that far away.
Taking strike was Windy Miller, oblivious to the rain in his sombrero, keeping himself dry by wafting his bat like a wind turbine. Soon he was back in the hutch as the rain continued to pour down.
Benny also clearly thought his time at the wicket would be limited and thrashed around like a blind horse; it was not long before the old maestro Molly snared him, the noose a juicy half-volley.
If they ever pause to wonder why cricket is losing mass appeal they may want to consider days like these. After almost two hours in the field, umpire Bob finally deemed that it was too wet to continue and that a cup of tea may be alluring.
Windy and Benny were aghast, perhaps distraught at the fact that they would have to go home early and bore respective wives with tales of very shit shots.
As we huddled back in the dressing room, talk switched to all manner of subjects and why not. A range of ages and views to consider the election, the earthquake in Nepal and maybe even what’s trending on RedTube.com? But no, sterner subjects were to be floated.
And so the afternoon began with Lynton, covered in blood after retrieving a ball from the bushes, playing Guess That Tune via his phone.
We had Camberwick Green, followed by Trumpton and then, to finally put our twin teenage opening bowlers into sheer despair, the theme from The Clangers.
Windy was pacing about outside, oblivious to the abuse he was copping inside our now warm hutch; there was no way we were coming back out of there until Molly’s wife enticed us with her buns. An early tea was called and we sprinted across the turf to get our hands on her buns.
We knew there was no chance of ever getting back on when Honorary Twelfth Man – Big Geoff – arrived straight off the plane from Lanzarote dressed in his customary shorts and t-shirt.
As the rain got ever heavier, it was safe to risk an extra slice of sponge cake. Benny knew the score and loaded his plate higher than an Eddie Stobart trailer. Windy sat there disconsolate, knowing that home called and his day was over. How would he explain such a day to the missus?
Fortunately, having had her buns mauled, Carol was in a benevolent mood and so early beers were arranged to honour the clouds and continue the earnest discussion of who was the fittest of Scooby Doo’s two female friends. Fortunately, Shaggy did not get a mention; Liberalism was, indeed, dead.
We may be crap at cricket, it may be a game on it’s arse belonging to another age. But get eleven blokes together on a Saturday afternoon and there is no better company to be had. Cricket is simply our excuse for being there.
People Power?
More on the campaign to save Hutton School as the campaigners here have now started a petition.
Given you read this junk every week I credit you with a modicum of taste so please take a minute to sign this petition to attempt to arrest the wrecking balls.
Too many of us moan about inept, corrupt and greedy politicians without ever doing anything to make their existences uncomfortable.
Here’s your chance to have a little swipe back.
Life And Times Of A Volunteer
This week’s scramble to get eleven kids out of their pits, unhooked from X-boxes and subject them to the twin evils of fresh air and exercise has been fraught as ever. Very soon we are going to have to invent five-a-side cricket.
As a coach you cop it from all angles, most noticeably from the kids that do want to play; you might try pleading “it ain’t my fault” but the message gets lost somewhere.
Parents who simply cannot be bothered to answer a basic text really get up my nose. Busy…aren’t we all (really? Ed) but a couple of seconds to reply is surely a basic common courtesy.
They tell me life is changing; if that’s the case then let me say I don’t think it is changing for the better.
There! I feel a bit better now!
Of Mice And Men
Behind my garage sits a three-stage compost heap and I have to say I do wile away many hours digging shit. Of course, a key component to any compost heap is…pee; we gardeners always have a spare plastic bottle close by.
I like to store mine in a 2 litre Comfort bottle, giving my produce a slightly fragrant edge and a bit of bounce. Once full, I take it to the compost bin, knock a couple of times to give the local rats time to scarper and pour away.
This week I knocked, opened the lid and stood amazed to see a family of mice running around completely unbothered by me and a big bottle of yellow liquid. So I let them have it; call it a golden shower but they fled to all parts.
You have to hand it to them though as they were back again the next day. This time their treat was the waste extract from Billy’s home brew next door.
Just another day on the piss I guess.
Obesity Gravy Train
One of the more bizarre interviews I have seen this week was that of a Harley Street surgeon specialising in bariatric surgery; that’s cutting up fatties and charging the NHS a fortune.
This is a good game to be in as it’s clearly on the up and definitely recession proof. He was asked what his views were on more news revealing that Europe is on the edge of an obesity crisis.
He claimed there were two stages of obesity. Stage one concerned those way beyond any possibility of lycra assisted help, in other words, his future customers; keep them coming and soon have that villa in Barbados.
Stage two were those not quite there but only a few Big Macs away.
Incredibly, his suggestion was that they should start shopping at the local fishmonger and greengrocer, begin cooking all their meals and take regular exercise; which planet he lives on was not explained. Perhaps they should all take up nuclear physics too?
Once again, most people have not got the brains to make these choices even of they could afford them. Only by starting with the very young again can we hope to arrest this slide in health and that will only be by education and scaring the shit out of the kids at the same time.
Obesity is no picnic.
…A Silver Lining
Even if it had to be Labour, anything has to be better. On sale this weekend are the following items:
Things I Did For Bradford – mythical tale from delusional old man prone to wearing silly hats and dressing up as a cat.
A-Z of Bradford – unopened pristine copy returned by ex-MP who’s appearances were rarer than the Abominable Snowman.
My Future – frightening predictions of where a serial hanger-on finds his next bunch of “believers” and keeps the wonga rolling in.
Bye bye George, I’d like to say you’ve been fun…but you haven’t!
Leave a Reply