Musings From The Padded Cell

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Beware The Honey Trap

A Honey Trap...according to my imagination

A Honey Trap…according to my imagination

Ahead of the ICC Cricket World Cup, international players have been warned about the risk of “honey traps” laid by match-fixing syndicates; women luring players and blackmailing them has become a big risk.

This is nothing new to us in league cricket with many a honey trap more potent than the stench of linseed oil and Deep Heat.

“They might notice the person has got family troubles…or mental health issues.” said a spokesman attempting to identify vulnerable targets. I can think of several former team-mates that fit the latter instantly.

Most men who have just left the wife with several screaming kids, a yapping dog and not even X-Factor to look forward know there may be trouble ahead.

With a cheery wave, cricket bag slung over the shoulder and little prospect of a return until thrown out of the pub, you never know when you will need the blow up bed in the greenhouse.

And after a day on the field contending with senile umpires, spotty kids sledging you and your ever diminishing powers, mental health issues tend to follow too.

Match fixing at the Villas...the opening bowler takes a fix...of whisky

Match fixing at the Villas…the opening bowler takes a fix…of whisky

Some of the best local league match “fixes” though are perpetrated by the umpires.

We’ve all had the experience of an old boy with a hot date, keen not to miss the bus into town who suddenly starts raising his finger as if it had developed an uncontrollable twitch.

Wickets tumble as Cedric licks his lips at the prospect of a night on the tiles. Not one LBW till 6pm then all of a sudden a batting collapse inside twenty minutes as off he strides clutching his match fee.

There is also the risk of being “nobbled” on a Saturday afternoon by the opposition cakes; some weeks the creamy temptations of Heaven are laid across a trestle table and fifty overs on the field becomes a daunting prospect.

They could lay a naked woman on the pool table and eyes would not divert from the Victoria Sponge and Chocolate Gateau.

Saturday Afternoons

Cutting edge television

Cutting edge television

I awoke feeling a chill in the air and resolved to not take austerity so seriously wiping away iced snot from my chin; it really would be a good idea to switch the heating on this winter.

Snow was lightly dusting the rooftops outside as I assessed a long day ahead with plenty of hours to fill before Take Me Out.

A perfect storm was brewing; City were away and Big Al was sure to be seeking a beer sometime soon before Luckless Linda rolled up for Saturday night nookie.

Posh Boy awaits the ball

Posh Boy awaits the ball

Luckily, Posh boy Lawrence Jnr was playing rugby down at Apperley Bridge for Old Grovians/Ringerians and this seemed the best chance of keeping the big man at bay for a few hours.

I donned my winter gear over my pyjamas, still guided by the austerity mood as clean clothes seemed extravagant for a date with Big Al at The Scruffy. If I ever smelt as bad as half the regulars in Nob ‘Ed Corner the cemetery is only up the road.

The Boss

The Boss

Looking like a tramp fit for Nob ‘Ed Corner, with Bruce in my ears it was off through the glorious local Buck Woods; yes, this really is My Hometown.

One of my favourite parts of Bradford and a chance to escape from the fast pace of modern life (what? Ed). Not even Bradford Council can mess up this bit of our city.

Dropping down to the canal there was not a soul in sight and I was free to sing and drum like a madman; life was good. Then just when you thought it could not get better, around the corner I bumped into Elvis…Idle Elvis to be factual but still Elvis.

Uh huh!” I nodded.

Surely a return to the Villas soon?

Surely a return to the Villas soon?

A regular guest at the Villas, nobody gets the knickers flying through the air faster than Peter…I mean, Elvis. And there’s little that gets my mum’s old heart ticking more, costume straining every sequin, sweat rolling off his wig as he croons her favourites.

Eventually I arrived; Sam and Matty were already on the touchline as I noticed a very dainty referee.

“It’s a woman!” Sam helpfully pointed out not trusting his old opening batter’s ageing eyes to deduce this. I mused that it was the first rugby match I’d seen officiated by someone wearing hot-pants.

She was very good though, commanding the respect of players and spectators alike. In one comical moment Posh Boy was flattened – by his own man but very effectively – only to get up and use some choice language unaware as to the perpetrator.

Older brother Sam dryly remarked this was “naughty use of the tongue” going unpunished. The game was a canter for the home side and even Posh Boy lumbered over for a try; it was time for The Scruffy.

Saturday afternoons draw the most wonderful crowd and a fair smattering of dogs too. It seems that dog walkers find it impossible to walk past the doors; I may have to get one.

Get me a beer?

Get me a beer?

By 6pm it was like Crufts. Mad Doctor David had arrived with Lady Cruella and their two dogs in tow. Big Al confessed that he had been at the hob all afternoon cooking a chilli for Luckless.

The dogs devoured several Peperami sticks; what with Big Al’s chilli and Peperami there would be dark clouds hovering over Idle soon I mused.

Home was calling as I’d been in the same clothes for over a day now and was starting to smell like the dogs. Plus, Paddy would be exhorting “no likey, no lighty!” and would need me baying my support from the sofa.

Another Saturday afternoon to cherish.

Civil Liberties


You might notice that I have refrained from any bold statements recently such as “Je suis Idlelord“; much as I am keen to increase my subscriber base, I won’t be marketing this column with Al Qaeda.

However, there are moves to increase the security services powers to monitor our social media activities and I for one cannot see what is wrong with this.

Sadly, we have a twerp of a Deputy Prime Minister, clinging to his last months of any influence who is blocking this.

Normal people have nothing to fear whatsoever from MI5 peaking at our Facebook accounts; most things I see posted might send a few spies into a very deep sleep.

It’s okay for Clegg with his state funded security detail to posture on our behalf, after all his arse is well covered. If the price of making me feel a bit more secure is James Bond & Co tuning in to my Facebook page then crack on lads and enjoy the blog.

Saving Ernie & Daisy – More



More on my piece last week urging you to support your local milkman and, as a consequence, dairy farmers.

According to Charles Clover in The Sunday Times, several major supermarkets – Co-Op, M&S, Tesco and Waitrose – do support UK farmers with cost based contracts ensuring a fair supply price. The rest – Aldi, ASDA, Iceland, Lidl and Morrisons – do not.

Either way, I still prefer Ernie.


£4.99 for 3...who needs Calvin Klein?

£4.99 for 3…who needs Calvin Klein?

What kind of man are you? Often this can be defined by your choice of underwear and how you wear it.

A friend of mine – Unnamed Suspect 1 (UN1) – was remarking how his Mother would be visiting the following day to collect his washing. Nice you may think but maybe not for a bloke approaching sixty.

A possible clue?

A possible clue?

He confessed that this week he only had four pairs; had he been getting some extended wear in? I once went on holiday with someone who soaked his soiled pants in the sink overnight in an effort to combat having only brought a single pair for two weeks.

Not so; apparently his method of undress each morning takes place on the landing. UN1 will wiggle on the spot like a belly dancer until the soiled pants reach his ankles at which point he aims a flick with his left foot into the washing basket.

It appeared that only four attempts were successful last week and that there were several pairs backed up behind the computer desk. If only England could convert penalties with such success.


UN2 listened intently before confessing that his preferred pair are the clingy boxer types, a classic sign of an insecure man either looking for that bit of extra reassurance or suffering from cold nuts.

He also confessed to a strange habit that can only end in the divorce courts. As his wife sleeps he will gently place the day’s pair over her face and presumably waits until she either asphyxiates or simply knifes him.

This tends to go on for several attempts with their poor daughter presumably mistaking the screaming for enthusiastic love making and vowing to leave home as soon as Mum gets her settlement.

Personally, I prefer to hang loose and keep my modesty covered at all times. On occasion that these should be writhed off (sorry mum!) I do insist on full recovery on the frequent trips to the loo that men of my age make each night.

Accompanied or not, it seems the right thing to do even if I have to scale the wardrobe or untangle from the chandelier.

You Read It Here First

Several newspapers over the weekend have picked up on the Youth Sport Trust’s recent findings that – surprise, surprise – there has been no promised Olympic legacy in terms of the health and sporting activities of our young.

Some three years ago I did make this case in the Yorkshire Post.

Once again politicians and those charged with managing publicly funded governing bodies have got away with simply telling lies. As Dominic Lawson of the Daily Mail wrote, this was little more than a £10bn “vanity project“.

We’re Rich!

Looking after who's world?

Looking after who’s world?

British Gas announced a price cut this week amounting to around £37 a year off the average dual fuel bill. How will you spend your extra 70p a week? Austerity is well and truly over!

Money, Money, Money…and Sport


Two extracts from the Daily Mail this week demonstrate – once again – the corrosive impact of money on sport at the top level.

Adidas have committed a staggering £750m to supply Manchester United’s kit for the next ten years. Having bust the bank, Herr Adidas is now looking to save a few Euro and the current deal with the England cricket team is unlikely to be renewed.

Apparently sales of the figure hugging brilliant white shirts have not been flying off the shelves. Could it be that Adidas’s marketing people missed the obvious that fat lads watching cricket – juggling beer, burger and brollies – may not see this as practical wear?


Meanwhile, that last bastion of true sportsmanship – golf – is rumoured to be about to sell it’s soul to Sky in the process pawning The Open from next year.

One more sport struggling at the grassroots about to become invisible to many future generations and all for a few quid.

And Finally – Honest!

I came home a few nights ago to silence and freezing cold. Using all my knowledge and experience of old boilers, I began fiddling and twiddling up and down, caressing various knobs until – Eureka! – she sprang to life and poured forth her warming embrace.

You never lose it – allegedly – where old boilers are concerned.

Have a great weekend!

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