“You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing that we call ‘failure’ is not the falling down, but the staying down.” Mary Pickford
Barely a month to go now before the first edition of The Trumpit in it’s new format is published. And out of the blue comes forth a competitor.
Is it shome coincidence as Private Eye magazine often suggest with a touch of irony, that a publication targeted at the same market as The Trumpit suddenly materialises.
Whatever, competition is good for the soul.
Hopefully we can maintain the high standards of entertainment and information all in a truly local publication with a good causes angle too. What we will not be is a dreary rag stuffed with adverts.
Live In Cook Required
The biggest threat to any overseas cricketer coming to the Villas is known locally as The Joe Lawrence Diet. Back in the fold after a few years down in the not so beautiful South, much to his mother’s obvious dismay, Joe has taken Tim “under his wing”.
As I snuck out for a few quiet ones last Thursday, I left Tim home alone. Joe had offered him dietary advice of a sorts, contained in a little shiny flier offering all manner of artery clogging options.
I came home to find an expectant Tim like a hungry chick in a nest. No worries he protested, food was on it’s way as I delicately prepared my late evening salad, a form of carbon-offset for the three pints and a bag of Wotsits.
A strange dusky chap with a funny hat – not a chef’s I hasten to add – was seen lurking at my back door. I flexed my bat, preparing to try and middle something this summer, as the strange figure approached.
He stuck his mit out as if in some form of greeting, the other offering a tiny plastic bag.
“Thirteen pounds eighty!” he said as Tim shoved me out of the way, gently wresting the bat from my grip, not wishing me to be sent away for GBH on a delivery driver.
As I chopped my tomatoes I glanced at the greasy glop about to contaminate Hamilton’s finest and most likely render my bathroom a no-go zone until at least lunchtime the following day.
Even Tim looked unsure as to what the equivalent of $28NZ had bought him as he settled down for more iconic British culture with Super League Darts on the television. I left with my two spare cucumber slices for weary eyes to rest.
Saturday came and, at last, a game of cricket at the Harden Mud Bowl with the prospect of a night out sampling the twinkling lights of Leeds with ex-boy band member Louis Brown.
Louis had been for a spray tan top-up the day before worried that the charmer from Hamilton may relegate him to second choice, especially if token fat lad, Joe Lawrence, stayed in to read a book.
I awoke to clattering around five in the morning knowing that not even Bradford burglars make that much noise. I decided to pray for the best and adjusted my sleeping mask.
Finally, I decided to venture downstairs, aware by now that my lodger had failed to mount the stairs.
As the sun attempted to beat it’s way through the blinds, there he lay, almost cuddling a cold half-eaten plate of Aldi curry, rice splattered all over my sofa’s defence blanket. Lordy, come back Tuna Man!
I tried to encourage him to wake up and catch the rare offering of sunshine but little bar the odd grunt flowed back. Fearing this could be a long summer I gingerly picked bits of yellow coloured rice from him.
It did cross my mind what state he may get into when we actually win a game. God forbid he scores a ton; I think I will have to direct him to the greenhouse.
Eventually, he climbed the stairs only to collapse with a thud on the bed. His absence was duly noted at Sunday Prayers and a full disciplinary hearing will be held next week.
One Hundred Years Ago
Different times a century ago with this extract.
Pte Albert Taylor, whose wife lives at Field Street, Shipley, has been killed. He was a member of the Shipley Primitive Methodist Cricket Club and also played in the billiard team
The Continuing Dumbing Down Of Life As We Knew It
Many sports have fallen victim to the marketing men’s belief that if you pump up the volume and sod the game itself, the crowds will flock.
Now we have golf at it, the last bastion of sportsmanship and honour, struggling with ageing memberships and responding by introducing music on the tee – see here.
Having played with many a fiery character I cannot imagine what their reaction to another duffed tee shot on a freezing cold winter’s day would be.
Just as cricket seeks out formats that would barely hold the attention span of an infant, with fireworks, dancers with stupid smiles and a battery of shrieking commentators devoid of anything worth listening to, so goes golf now.
“A golf course is no venue for dry ice. These are usually beautiful places, don’t obscure their majesty with artificial clouds of fog, incongruous music and intelligence insulting announcements.”
Hear, hear.
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