Winter nets are approached by most club cricketers with a combination of dread, bewilderment and a shared belief that the destructive little red ball must have got even harder.
Padding is checked with the same scrutiny of a bomb disposal expert and we make sure the Radox is ready for our return.
We practice on indoor wickets with the bounce and pace of Perth’s WACA ground, honing our talents for soggy days in April when Trundler Ted will barely get the ball above knee height, knowing we will not locate the middle of our new bats until at least June.
I abstained of all temptations Saturday and retired early to bed with my hot water bottle, resigned to my fate as a half-blind 50+.
Confessing to Shutty that I was enforcing a sex ban for the month he casually replied that his wife had had one in place for the last five years and it had not improved his batting!
Morning came and in went the protection courtesy of Specsavers reducing the chances of crashing en route. With suicide ruled out it was death by firing squad.
A decent turnout and good to see our hosts had relaid a part of the surface; sadly, not the area where the ball often snorts like a spitting Cobra but the bit where the bowlers land. Offering a surer footing to the queue waiting to knock my head off and break my ribs this was puzzling.
Despite the numbers we also had a “bench” the size of a Premier League football team with Pete (bad back), Joe (broken wrist) and Molly (bigger than ever belly) all watching from the safety of the sidelines.
Rob the “Stiffs” keeper was there having once again avoided being sectioned this winter, entertaining us already with his eccentric approach to batting. Unbelievably, he survived without breaking anything and so I made my reluctant trudge down to the stumps trying to remember the words to Hail Mary.
Shutty had kindly volunteered to take the other net where the Under 11s were bowling with tennis balls. I walked the walk hoping that I would not need a straw to take my afternoon beers with later.
Rob had decided to take the gloves behind the sticks and helpfully conceded that “It’s not easy to see here is it?”. Just what every 51.9 year old wants to hear with six foot eight Sam getting ready to knock his head off. Smiling, in he loped at barely three-quarter pace.
My nutty companion had taken refuge to the side confident that the only thing getting hit would be me and not the ball. I squinted through my contacts and squeezed out a fart, sure that I could hear Shutty giggling in the next net.
“Watch the ball, watch the ball” I muttered squatting lower than usual as if to make myself a smaller target – old age really is shit!
Just short of a length the nasty little red cannonball spat off the worn surface and, with the precision of a missile, unerringly found the only bit of my arse unprotected by my expensive thigh pad. PC Sports would be getting this thing back come Monday!
In a moment of sheer pathos the ball flew off my rear, gaining pace as it did and finding Rob with equal accuracy just below the throat. Two men down with one ball, pretty impressive stuff; we were like fallen skittles.
I hung on and then got my reward – Sam loped off to get his pads on – danger over at least for another week. At last I could see the attraction of romantic weekends away in March.
Meanwhile, in the other net Shutty was timing the tennis ball better than ever suggesting he had already peaked for the season, dismissing the 10 year-olds with aplomb.
We all knew it though; it was great to be back playing this daft game, swapping insults, banter and varied observations on life – most unprintable even on here – even if it meant sitting in the pub all afternoon on a cushion.
Maybe Sam will sleep in this weekend?
You Reap What You Sow
Over the last week or so the airwaves have been full of people opining on that misunderstood “extremely gentle and kind” chap Jihadi John.
Seeking to almost excuse why he feels the need to behead people at will, our pathetic media have shown no regard whatsoever for the feelings of the victims’ families. I cannot be alone in having wanted to kick my television in.
At the root of this is apologetic and rancid political correctness which has made our society weak, directionless and vulnerable to a wide range of deranged idiots and debauched practices. PC permeates all parts of modern life through politics, media, the working world and into even sport.
As a result we reap what we sow; Rotherham, Oxford and countless grant funded organisations undermining the everyday values most of us have grown up cherishing. Nobody is allowed to challenge or to question, nor to speak with any measure of common sense.
And at the very top not one vote grabbing political leader dare say anything that might alienate a “community” for fear of losing face and votes. Our Establishment can rarely have been so spineless and hopeless.
Normal people get it, its just those at the top that simply don’t want to.
Vorsprung Durch Technik
{Translation – 78 year old buys smart phone}
Now that he has managed to prise the thing from it’s box, Smart Daddy On The Block is inseparable from his new toy. Each parental visit I get this annoying thing rammed in my face as if anything would make me part with my battered, if reliable, retro-Nokia.
This week’s tutorial was an attempt to sync his address book – total of three numbers – with the car.
I politely asked why when he drives on average 11 miles a week but no matter, Smart Daddy was insistent and so we mucked about for ages – the blind leading the blind – just so Aunt Lil can one day receive a call on the move.
I fear for my Mother who is too late in life to aspire to become his PA and the weekly trip to Morrisons may well end up fractious.
“Turn it on and point it up!” Smart Daddy will instruct as my Mother searches for the window button to accidentally toss it out of the window. “Put the GPS on it will tell us how to get there.”
“We’re only going to bloody Morrisons!” she will protest to no avail whilst holding the thing upside down oblivious to the numerous Apps at her fingertips none of which, as yet, allow her to eject Smart Daddy.
My Mum hates gadgets as proven by the mobile phone I bought her years ago, safely locked away in a drawer, probably for longer than Nelson Mandela.
I can only imagine modern day care homes with Shackleton High Chairs full of oldies busily swiping away all afternoon, fixated on their toys. Apple the new Valium?
HS4 In Bradford
The relentless drive to cover most of North Bradford in housing developments has an end game apparently.
Our Council have a plan – so they would claim – to redesign the busy Greengates junction that is consistently overloaded at peak times, mostly by people trying to get out of Bradford.
Having seen the numerous schemes ranging in costs anywhere from £2m to £7m the most glaring element is the proposed time savings for peak time journeys that are used to justify this; they are estimated at circa 3 minutes.
So, for a time saving barely the length of an X Factor contestant’s moment of fame – and not factoring in the impact of hundreds of new houses plus a train station – we get 15 years of chaos.
The only real solution to this junction would be to tunnel under it and close both ends up with the Council Executive down there.
And with sweet timing here is a story that epitomises the chaos that ill-planned housing developments will continue to add to in the future.
More school runs, more pollution…total gridlock as they say in sunnier climes.
Hammer Time – Episode 4
I felt like her prisoner, pushed and sandwiched into such a small space, just me and my tool.
“In there” she said and pointed me to a darkened cupboard; I blinked and wondered would I ever come out again?
Tape was called for this being a tight fit; there was no margin for error. My tool whirred into life seeking a soft spot, somewhere to fix my plank. In I went and soon it fit perfectly, hanging in the air, erect as if for life.
Job done as she rested her fluffy towels on my new labours, mopping my brow with her finest Turkish.
Risible?
Lifted from Private Eye (1387) (all writs to Mr I Hislop please George).
Number Crunching
£67,060 Cash George Galloway receives from British state each year for his work as MP for Bradford West.
£79,200 Cash George Galloway receives from Iranian state each year for his work as presenter for state-owned Press TV.
As Private Eye is fond of saying “trebles all round!”
To all you mere mortals out there – especially in Bradford West – have a great weekend.
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