One of the many quirks of the game of cricket is that the game is often at the mercy of the weather.
This can mean long and frustrating afternoons sat cooped up watching the skies pour down as the umpires figure out a way to at least get the game started so they can claim their weekly pension top-up and continue dreaming of that villa on the Med.
No play, no fee!
Eleven guys huddled in a dressing room used to produce all manner of conversations covering work, play and so much more. Of course, as a youngster, these were often more “educational” than anything we ever picked up at school.
We listened and learned about the big bad world awaiting us. Hear all, see all…say now’t!
As most dressing rooms contain a cross-section of society – from the respectable to the sectionable – often these enforced incarcerations can be hilarious.
And I never needed a parental version of the birds and the bees, preferring that offered as the rain came down.
Topics range from politics (unlikely), recipes (only on tsunamis days or in younger times to assist attempts to bed one’s latest squeeze) and very basic birds and the bees (where not to shove it and where to go if you do).
The team youngster should sit quietly and absorb all.
We also used to enjoy card sessions and games of “Wallsy”.
This is a game of incredible nerve and skill based on rolling 10p pieces along the mud-strewn carpet, avoiding clumps of earth, cricket bags and stray jelly-beans to claim the pot for the effort that rests closest to the wall.
Villas legend Barry “Hawkeye” Hawksworth was deadly here, often paying for his first few beers as naive youngsters pitted their wits unsuccessfully against him and his selection of dodgy coinage with filed edges and a dab of glue here and there.
Those too knowing to allow Hawkeye to rob them of their tea money sat and watched as he collected another pile as youngsters went without their tea for another week.
Some of us quietly picked up a newspaper, a few sliding the team porno mag inside the cover carefully unpicking the pages, as thoughts of bat and ball faded with the clattering of the rain and the whoops of the crowd watching Hawkeye clean up again.
Periodically, the umpires will knock on the door – now in panic mode as they realise it’s back to the Morrisons Saver Range for another week – as the prospect of a week’s worth of austerity looms.
“Come on lads it’s only drizzling” they plead, wrapped in three coats, sporting sombreros and wellies.
How times have changed though; these days, as soon as we reach the rooms, it’s heads down and silence as mobiles are drawn like daggers. It was never as quiet as this in the school library.
We came off the other week and I counted eight heads staring at bright little screens, lost to the world. I started singing “So Lonely” but to no avail. I even countenanced streaking but there was nothing that could prize gazes from wherever.
Come back Hawkeye, at least I miss you!
Rare Political Comment.
At last Chilcott and what action will it spring? Most likely nothing but how the likes of Blair and Bush sleep with what they did is beyond most civilised human beings.
As for Old Sleazy’s “emotional” performance this week, few bought that. Delusional, arrogant and detached; supreme qualities for a modern day politician.
Even Rarer Sexist Comment.
Soon it may be that our “special relationship” (you bomb somewhere when we tell you) is governed by two women. Mrs May looks a shoo-in with Mrs Clinton a likely winner later this year. Frankly, could they do any worse?
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