This week’s blog is very much a cultural feast…read on.
Dear Mrs Bayne
I thought it about time you had some proof that David is actually playing some cricket over here; I know Mr Bayne is also in need of some validation on his investment for the summer.
Sadly, I have to report the following shot was described by one of the informed, whisky-soaked wags sat in Critics’ Corner in the background as “shit” and led to his dismissal on Saturday.
That will teach him for going out on the lash with the Stiffs’ Captain the night before. Team One lost but Dad’s Army – Team Two – won against all the odds so, naturally, more beers were called for.
As I had a morning free from Special School duties – my Under 15s had no game – the beers were attacked with a bit more success than my one ball stay at the wicket several hours earlier. All I can say Mrs Bayne is that it was a peach!
Rather ill-judged, I had made a rash promise to go watch my Godson in the Under 11s. I awoke to the comforting pitter-patter of rain early on Sunday morning; maybe there was a God after all? Were black coffee clouds amassing?
I did a drunken rain jig around my bedroom one more time hoping to induce a tsunami and wake up your son next door.
Unfortunately the clouds above cleared rather quicker than those in my head; the game was on and it was off the Great Horton Church CC for the third time in eight days; my what a giddy life I lead!
I stumbled downstairs, making as much noise as I could, only to discover a body on my sofa – still breathing – and a pizza box the size of a suitcase on the floor.
It was then I made a severe error of judgement as I naturally assumed it was the local tramp, Team One Captain Joe. The evidence was compelling; foetal state, half-eaten pizza and a smell akin to a dead rat.
Imagine my shock when, as I brewed my coffee, in walked Mr Jack Hartley, son of ex-Yorkshire cricketer Neil. I believe you know this boy well?
Now if you are wondering as to the whereabouts of your son and maybe hoping that his diet had improved…sadly not.
At least David had not opted for the family sized option but my house had taken on the appearance of a squat. Eventually he appeared and no more bodies were discovered so I sought the sanctuary of the Under 11 game.
I am pleased to say that the local pub appear delighted with his work as Head Planter, so if he feigns ignorance on his return when gardening duties are required, you know the truth.
Also I appear to have made some more progress as he is now able to wash the dishes unassisted; if I were you I should buy him some rubber gloves for his return.
I am thinking of opening a business as a finishing school for young men so they can follow my path of sober morality in later life.
And finally, at last I sampled avocado on toast; the verdict? It was like eating flavourless, cold mushy peas but marginally better than cold, flavourless pizza.
Gift Horses And White Elephants
Last week I opened with a letter complaining about the distortion of grant funding, in this case for cricket clubs, seemingly dependent on who and where you are.
This was an attempt to air frustrations felt by many in the wider game, often in silent resignation, at some blatant inequalities.
Having been involved in junior cricket for almost twenty years, I find the English Cricket Board’s (ECB) current fixation on the neatly termed South Asian population somewhat puzzling, if entirely predictable.
The mandarins would have you believe that Asian kids are all cricket mad, that there are numerous clubs bursting at the seams and so this is where the money should go.
It is a central plank of their strategy to arrest declining participation numbers in the adult game and is woefully misdirected, created by the blindness of political correctness.
The harsh reality, certainly in Bradford, is that there is only one club that has consistently run a meaningful junior structure over many years in the predominantly Asian areas. Several have come and gone seemingly having given up the ghost.
Great Horton Church CC may be somewhat unfashionable and play in a lowly senior league but they alone have kept junior cricket alive in this part of the inner city.
Undeniably, young Asian kids have the same distractions and issues as other kids; a lack of meaningful school sport, bad diets and an addiction to gadgets. These are cross-cultural issues.
GHC battle on, knowing their better kids can often picked off by the apparently more glamorous Bradford League clubs and with, in truth, limited facilities.
Last year they won a £30k grant to improve their dressing rooms but lost this as their ground does not have the security of a long-term tenure.
A lot of money maybe but a small fraction of the amount the ECB will blow across town at the old Park Avenue ground merrily ticking off boxes.
Just outside the centre of Bradford is another example of significant money – largely public – poured into a single project as many other clubs struggle on.
Some five years ago the Karmand cricket ground was built from scratch with money from Sport England, Bradford Council, several other sources plus the local community.
It is an admittedly magnificent facility and appears to lack for nothing; electronic scoreboard, mobile covers, nets and a nice pavilion. Facilities most of us have taken decades to achieve.
And yet there is no club actually based there with the ground hired out weekly to various teams to meet the running costs.
With no formal club structure there are obviously no junior teams either, without which the rest of us cannot hope to obtain whatever grants are made available from time to time.
So, as most of us jump through the numerous hoops of governing body compliance like deranged poodles, grant funding seems a touch easier elsewhere.
My point here is that sports clubs are founded on volunteers and evolve over many years. You cannot simply gift a fantastic facility like this and walk away hoping it will all be okay and will run itself.
Who raises the funds for next week’s match ball, the insurance, the utility bills? Who runs the juniors? Where do you find your tea ladies? The list is endless as these are complicated beasts.
Unbelievably, across the road is another purpose built ground that is unused, again built with public money around the same time, intended for the same community. It has never been used and is utter madness.
Much was made of community cohesion and integration, especially in Bradford post the riots. David Cameron has been bleating away this week about the same albeit inner Bradford will feel like an alien planet to him.
Politicians have a lot to answer for as the policies of both parties have created what we have now; so we don’t need a lecture from one.
Show me if you can any sign of investment in sports facilities over this part of Bradford, other than those achieved by the clubs on the back of hard graft and good old volunteers?
Over here the Council see a green field as pound signs with housing developers queueing up to cash in.
Pie in the sky projects like this and Bradford Park Avenue simply enhance division and separatism in the city and do nothing to pull people together.
Sport does because, at it’s fundamental best, it is wholly inclusive. Dressing rooms are shared by labourers and bankers; the colour of your skin is irrelevant and the only religion is the game itself.
We even have prayer mats which are rolled out if the opposition have a lightening quick bowler.
Politicians, do-gooders and community leaders nobody ever voted for know nothing about sport as they grovel shamelessly to curry favour with each other, seeking to appear munificent to the ignorant masses.
When it all goes tits up they blame anybody but themselves as they continue to piss our money down the big open sewer of political correctness and society becomes ever more divided.
Must Get Out More?
Just when life was starting to get a bit predictable along comes something positively life changing. Not for this old boy a Thai bride or a clapped out Porsche; take a look at this beauty and all for £2.79, less than a mucky pint at The Scruffy.
A couple of strong pumps and endless pleasure guaranteed. You can spray like a wild cat. Get one for the greenhouse and one for home too. You can spray your lodger just to see if he is alive.
Guys…no more tired wrists and performance guaranteed every time. What more could a man need?
Have a good weekend all!
Lyn Bayne says
Hi Steve.. thanks for the update on the slothful lodger/house guest. The wag who described David’s shot in your pic did not need to be whisky-soaked in order to describe David’s shot as “shit”. It was indeed odious. In the words of Geoffrey Boycott “his mum could have played a better shot using a stick of rhubarb”. It is probably a good idea to keep the ball on the deck until the milestone of 50 is overhauled. Perhaps your U15 (even U11) could advise him accordingly. With regard to Jack (of the giant pizza) Hartley…….perhaps he picked up some bad habits in darkest Africa! I wish you all the best with the squat/ finishing school. Perhaps you should rename your house “Swiss Cottage”. Regards Lyn P.S. Rubber gloves and gardening tools on order!