Under a bank of threatening dark clouds we convened around ten in the morning, ran the Super Soaker up and down a few times, splish-sploshed on the square and conceded to the reality that no game of cricket was taking place today.
Kettle on, phone calls made and a day tending the crops was calling.
Like a caged animal let off the leash, naturally Molly was not in a rush to return to captivity. A nip of whisky in the club Maxwell House stirred up the courage along with the customary three sugars; it was time to ring the wife.
“Love” he said whilst bizarrely cupping both testicles in his free hand – one more apparent plus for i-phones – “how about I score for the Firsts if they play so Chloe can revise for her GCSEs?”
(Translation – I reet fancy a few beers this afternoon so please don’t make me come home and paint more bloody fences!)
Staggeringly there appeared to be an almost instant consent coming back…cue more rummaging down below…please stop I thought.
(Translation – Stuff the revision Chloe and me are off to the Trinity Centre on the cocktails you old fool!)
Maybe Molly would still get that job in the UN Diplomatic Corps. So off we scattered to make the best of the day ahead.
Regardless of the fact that any attempt to try to start a game would have turned the playing area into a quagmire and may have necessitated a tow truck to get Molly back to the dressing room, our decision to preserve the ground proved futile a few hours later.
All around us in everyday life we have to contend with morons; most days we pass them by and if we are lucky we can limit our exposure to those more cerebrally challenged. Just occasionally we suffer from their pointless existence and desire to wreak havoc.
On Saturday afternoon, two doubtless misunderstood souls simply in search of an ASBO, decided to drive their quad bikes all over the ground attempting some form of decorative vandalism in the process.
Why is an obvious starting question but then apes are easier understood. They would not have known this but the worst damage was to the junior wickets – good work lame brains!
This is not a new problem locally as the area has been plagued by trial and quad bikes, driven on and off the road, seemingly without any fear of retribution from the authorities for some time now.
Ordinary people have a right to ask why the response from the police is so inept. These criminals are not University Challenge material, the police know who they are, where they live and the machines they ride.
We cannot keep shrugging shoulders at this sort of stuff any longer; we need a strong and long arm of the law.
Definitely Not A Cool Cat
I went to a gig the other night…how cool am I? Well, actually not so as it turned out.
To begin with we endured a warm-up act whose talents were completely lost on me; some depressing mop-headed, spotty youth who sounded like he was singing through a duvet. The whoops around the room could only have been drug induced or blatant nepotism.
When the main act eventually came on with me with one eye on my own duvet, even the magical talents of Glenn Tilbrook could not get me past the interval.
This was the first – and last – time I have ever been to the Hebden Bridge Trades Club; it’s a sort of refuge for middle aged druggies who can’t dance and scream deliriously at the sight of a light bulb changing colour.
Typically we got the village idiots in front of us although the standard was high and there were a lot to choose from.
The woman must have been on LSD all day, either that or fat birds are just shit dancers with a piss poor repertoire. Even the fact that, at last I had met someone who was worse worse at dancing than me, could not improve the mood as she wobbled on the spot.
Tilbrook sang some great old Squeeze numbers but still I could not keep my eyes off the sweaty mass in front of me, largely for fear of her collapsing and squashing me to an early grave.
I looked around the dump and the sensible people were perched on ledges or tables – away from gyrating fat birds with stained underarms – whilst me, as a novice gig-goer, wished I had been wearing my dad’s old steel toe-cap boots.
Without a backward glance we left at half-time with Mrs Humpalumpa still at it.
Aldi – The Drugs Don’t Work
I love everything about Aldi not just the way it has frightened the living daylights out of the big supermarket operators. To hell with misted vegetables, loyalty cards or glossy adverts for numpties who think Waitrose food is anything but the same just highly packaged.
Aldi is no-frills, great value and wonderful entertainment; watch the 4x4s sneaking in trying not to get noticed and stuffing their groceries in their old Waitrose and M&S carriers as soon as they get to the car-park.
One reason why they will never be allowed into Hebden Bridge though is their policy on drugs.
I had purchased a couple of packets each of paracetamol (man-flu) and ibuprofen (playing in a cricket team with an average age more relevant to a care home than a sporting club) when I was stopped by the comely check-out girl.
“Policy is that you can only have two packets maximum so make your choice please” she announced in a soft Eastern European lilt.
I suppose as I was wearing a hoodie – albeit my Villas one – and was shopping in Shifty Shipley, then caution was merited? Did I suffer the sniffles a bit longer or let the lads down and cost us a cup run.
Reasoning that half the team were reliant on me as their drug-mule, back went the paracetamol – that’s what they call being a team man – and the queue can start forming now in the dressing room for Saturday’s hand-out.
Civil Liberties & Human Rights
Molly made a rare sane point the other day regarding t’Management Committee’s obsession with lap-top based scoring.
“How on Earth can you grab a few sneaky beers anymore with a call to the wife to say the game has just finished?” he bemoaned “all she has to do is slip on t’internet and she can see it finished hours ago”
We counselled that, as it only applies to the Firsts at present and that as a lifelong “Stiff” he appeared safe.
There was little to fear as all team mates were under orders to answer calls from Carol with the standard response of “…a few more hours yet love…yes he’s out there batting…been there 20 overs!”
It reminded me of Dirty Den – Dennis Wood – many years ago who, not keen to go straight home to the wife with the game washed out adopted a unique approach.
Whites out of the bag he scuffed them furiously on the wet turf as if to give the appearance of being soiled. Job done it was a day on the sauce and the frying pan’s effects numbed by a gallon of ale.
Gardeners’ Corner
Public enemy number one for all us gardeners is the dreaded slug. Advice today on the radio was that the most effective way of getting rid of them is to hurl them at least 65 feet (how precise).
This, apparently, ensures that they cannot find their way back to your lettuces assuming that they are capable of surviving the equivalent of being thrown out of a plane.
Getting them drunk will not deter them – once again I cite Molly – and spearing them is an infringement on their basic rights to destroy your entire plantation.
So watch out for flying slugs in the vicinity of Idle, raining from the skies, bellies full but never to feast round here again.
Adios!
John Roper says
Think you need a gate to stop the bikers…….is it possible? just asking ! Great write ups, Barb mentioned that snails and slugs are homers but they can’t come back when you chuck ’em in the road!
Steve says
Hi mate…we have gates and close them as often as poss but we had a “turn” on that night and she was setting up…they are just low-lifes. If there is any comfort a few roared by leafy Adel yesterday…it seems we are not alone! Thanks for the nice comments but my arm has gone so 65 feet might be a stretch!
Gasman says
Collect all slugs from garden and cricket ground, catch said bikers, shove slugs up arses using a large stick for maximin compaction, place back on bikes/quads set throttle to jam and fix steering to oblivion, order restored sit back and enjoy.
Tally Ho
Ian Whiting says
I see you have mellowed in your old age you bloody wooly liberal. Why don’t you just speak your mind? Get off the fence you’ll get splinters in your backside.
A good read nonetheless. You can’t beat a good rant for comedy value.