Apparently, we’re in crisis. Now, I have to confess that I started to watch England play cricket in the mid eighties so for me, the word crisis has rather lost its sting over the years. Indeed, to connoisseurs of spicy English cricket calamity, this latest pickle is rather tame. A captain who wasn’t very good has been replaced by a better one. Even Eyeore would struggle to work that one up into a crisis.
But the c-word just will not go away. Why? Because though your average Englishman will always prefer gossip to investigation, he doesn’t like to admit it. This gives editors a problem. They solve it in the same way governments do when they want to throw large numbers of the populace into jail: by invoking a state of emergency. Old man crisis is brought out of retirement and under his puritanical gaze, we are free to carry on indulging in the soap opera that is the England cricket team. Is Daisy friends with Freddie? Is KP talking to Harmy? It’s all jolly good fun.
Of course, should a chap be so uncouth as to suggest, after coughing politely, that the real problem we have is that the vast majority of players in the English game aren’t actually very good, he would be greeted with a stony silence. It would be the journalistic equivalent of telling a knock-knock joke at a funeral.
Another English trait is our habit of slandering, mocking and generally abusing our leaders, regardless of their merits. The mendacity or incompetence of anyone in power is a given; they represent inanimate effigies that we can safely lay into over our lattes and bacon sarnies. In itself this trait is harmless, the information age equivalent of the man employed to sit behind Caesar and remind him that he was mortal.
But we also have an unrealistically strong faith in the democratic system. Not happy about the state of English cricket? Don’t worry, there’s going to be an election. Get rid of tatty old Giles Clarke and get the new bloke in. Then things will be fine. Democracy of course, can be a blunt but powerful instrument, a savage hammer of justice falling heavily on the incumbent and tearing down the established structure.
Unfortunately, the hammer used in ECB elections is made of foam. The upcoming contest for the leadership of English cricket is about as significant as two ducks squabbling over a piece of bread. In the red corner is Giles Clarke, a successful businessman and passionate defender of county cricket. In the other red corner is Lord Marland, a passionate defender of county cricket and successful businessman. Which of them will prevail? A nation is on tenterhooks.
English cricket isn’t in a crisis. It’s in a coma. A one hundred and fifty year coma, to be precise; a deep and enduring state of unconsciousness in which we may occasionally bat an eyelid, but soon sink back into silent, uncomplaining numbness.
Our game is organised in a way that would warm the cockles of Al Capone’s heart. Huge sums of money are extorted from a profitable national team in order to prop up a loss-making domestic game that no-one watches and which serves no discernable purpose. Meanwhile, members of the public who have the audacity to want to watch their national team must either pay £100 a time for the privilege of squeezing into poky little stadiums like Lord’s or shell out £500 a year for a Sky subscription.
The eighteen first class counties run our game in a thoroughly English way, that is, ruthlessly, but out of sight, whilst being able to pretend that they have nothing to do with it. Think of the ECB as a large polished table, around which sit eighteen super villains, from Dr No to Darth Vader. From time to time they pick a new puppet to do their bidding. So who will it be this time? Clarke or Marland? Who cares.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Scourge of our Times
I used to have a lot of respect for the Worcestershire captain. But not any more. I’ve taken down the posters. I’ve dismantled the Solanki shrine in my living room. I’ve even stopped stalking him every Tuesday afternoon in the Bromsgrove branch of Waitrose. The fact is, I can’t look Vikram Solanki’s life-sized mannequin in the eye anymore.
It’s not just the mighty Vikram. I can’t hear the name Chris Read without feeling sick to the stomach and my campaign to have Justin Kemp’s autograph removed from EBay has entered its second weekend.
Why do I harbour such ill-feeling towards the moderately talented? Well, ever since I read Lalit Modi’s autobiography (Modi, Modi, Modi – A Rich Man’s World) I have started to see the activities of Vikram and his cohorts in a new and sinister light.
What is the biggest problem in the world right now? I think we all know the answer. Unofficial cricket. Let’s be frank, it’s the scourge of the modern age. It is sickening to think that even as you’re reading this there are gangs of rebel cricketers hanging round on street corners all over India. Wealthy residents of Delhi are frightened to leave their homes lest they encounter some unofficial cricket. Only this morning, I had to confiscate a bat from a group of eight year olds playing in the local park. Had they sought ICC clearance? Had they hell!
Thank heavens then for the BCCI and their efforts to save us all from these dangerous insurgents. This dedicated band is working tirelessly, literally one, sometimes two afternoons a week on our behalf. You might say that they seem to be doing very well for themselves in the process. But you’d be wrong. They don’t drive top of the range cars because they like it. They don’t wear expensive suits because they want to. It’s just part of the job. In order to infiltrate these gangs of international desperadoes they have to think like them, act like them, get paid more than them.
The ICL rebels are undermining Test cricket and grabbing the cash to play in a pointless domestic Indian league designed purely to make vast piles of money for the shadowy clique in charge. Let’s be clear, that is something that the BCCI simply will not tolerate. You might not like Lalit Modi or Shashank Manohar. But that’s because you’re a neo-colonialist and frankly you deserve to be crushed underneath a heavy roller pushed by Jesse Ryder.
So join with me and stand up to these rebels, these ICL bullies, with their half-empty stadia and pink tracksuits. Go along to New Road, stand by the pavilion and tut loudly as Solanki strolls out to bat. If you meet Paul Nixon in the queue at the butchers, pretend you don’t know who he is. And if you see Dinesh Mongia flagging down a taxi, it is your moral duty as a cricket fan to steal his ride. Let these people be in no doubt about two things. Firstly, that there is more to cricket than money. And secondly, that the BCCI know where they live and where they do their grocery shopping.
It’s not just the mighty Vikram. I can’t hear the name Chris Read without feeling sick to the stomach and my campaign to have Justin Kemp’s autograph removed from EBay has entered its second weekend.
Why do I harbour such ill-feeling towards the moderately talented? Well, ever since I read Lalit Modi’s autobiography (Modi, Modi, Modi – A Rich Man’s World) I have started to see the activities of Vikram and his cohorts in a new and sinister light.
What is the biggest problem in the world right now? I think we all know the answer. Unofficial cricket. Let’s be frank, it’s the scourge of the modern age. It is sickening to think that even as you’re reading this there are gangs of rebel cricketers hanging round on street corners all over India. Wealthy residents of Delhi are frightened to leave their homes lest they encounter some unofficial cricket. Only this morning, I had to confiscate a bat from a group of eight year olds playing in the local park. Had they sought ICC clearance? Had they hell!
Thank heavens then for the BCCI and their efforts to save us all from these dangerous insurgents. This dedicated band is working tirelessly, literally one, sometimes two afternoons a week on our behalf. You might say that they seem to be doing very well for themselves in the process. But you’d be wrong. They don’t drive top of the range cars because they like it. They don’t wear expensive suits because they want to. It’s just part of the job. In order to infiltrate these gangs of international desperadoes they have to think like them, act like them, get paid more than them.
The ICL rebels are undermining Test cricket and grabbing the cash to play in a pointless domestic Indian league designed purely to make vast piles of money for the shadowy clique in charge. Let’s be clear, that is something that the BCCI simply will not tolerate. You might not like Lalit Modi or Shashank Manohar. But that’s because you’re a neo-colonialist and frankly you deserve to be crushed underneath a heavy roller pushed by Jesse Ryder.
So join with me and stand up to these rebels, these ICL bullies, with their half-empty stadia and pink tracksuits. Go along to New Road, stand by the pavilion and tut loudly as Solanki strolls out to bat. If you meet Paul Nixon in the queue at the butchers, pretend you don’t know who he is. And if you see Dinesh Mongia flagging down a taxi, it is your moral duty as a cricket fan to steal his ride. Let these people be in no doubt about two things. Firstly, that there is more to cricket than money. And secondly, that the BCCI know where they live and where they do their grocery shopping.
Friday, January 9, 2009
An Elephant Story
The great herd that had once trampled all over Sri Lanka, India, the West Indies, England and parts of Africa had come to a halt. Punter, the herd leader, held the map in his trunk and studied it.
“Yer holding it upside down, yer galah!” mumbled Bing the Limper.
Punter harrumphed and turned the map around.
“Face it, you don’t know where we are,” grumbled Bing.
“Where is this place?” whispered Pup, looking around nervously at the desolate plain, the sinister fog and the crooked trees.
“I know exactly where we are,” snorted Punter. “We’re in Transition.”
“Is that near Darwin?” asked Roy.
Suddenly, Mitch hurried to the front of the front of the line, his tusks gleaming in the setting sun.
“Skip, Skip, come quick!”
“What is it boy, can’t you see I’m busy?”
“It’s Haydos, Skip. He’s not moving!”
Haydos had been around as long as anyone could remember and in his day had been a feared warrior. Always the first into battle, he would stomp up and down, waving his trunk and bellowing, smiting fear into the hearts of his foes.
But now he was a pitiful sight. His great bellowing had become a timid whisper. His arthritic hip meant he could no longer stomp and there were days when he couldn’t even keep his trunk straight. The evil day could be delayed no longer. The law of the herd was harsh, but they could afford no stragglers. Punter knew that the time had come for the old campaigner, just as it came for Warnie, Pigeon, Gilly and the other one. Just as it would come for him one day.
“G’day, Haydos,” said Punter.
The old elephant was sitting down and tried to struggle to his feet.
“No, don’t worry mate. No need to get up.”
“Just needed a rest, Skip. I’ll be back on form for the next mission.”
Punter remained silent.
“What is it, Skip?”
“Thing is Haydos, we don’t need you for the next mission.”
“Oh. Right. Give the younger elephants a chance. Good idea. Happy to stand aside this time, for the good of the herd.”
“Or the mission after that,” continued Punter.
“Oh.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Guess this is it then,” said Haydos. Punter looked down, rubbing his trunk in the dust.
“Guess it is.”
“Right. Well, I’ll see you then.”
Punter turned to walk away.
“Skip?” asked Haydos, for the last time.
“What?”
“Will you do me a favour and break the news to Roy. I don’t think I can.”
“No worries mate,” said Punter.
And so the great old elephant lay down to sleep under a coolibah tree. Punter marched to the front of the herd, trying not to dwell on the day, fast approaching, when he too must lay down in the shade. He looked at the line of expectant faces.
“Right,” he ordered, “keep a nice tidy line. By the left, quick march!”
“Incompetent oaf!” muttered Lee.
“Silence in the ranks!” shouted Punter.
And on they marched, the great, noble herd, trampling almost everything that lay in their path though sometimes they had to take the long way round.
“Yer holding it upside down, yer galah!” mumbled Bing the Limper.
Punter harrumphed and turned the map around.
“Face it, you don’t know where we are,” grumbled Bing.
“Where is this place?” whispered Pup, looking around nervously at the desolate plain, the sinister fog and the crooked trees.
“I know exactly where we are,” snorted Punter. “We’re in Transition.”
“Is that near Darwin?” asked Roy.
Suddenly, Mitch hurried to the front of the front of the line, his tusks gleaming in the setting sun.
“Skip, Skip, come quick!”
“What is it boy, can’t you see I’m busy?”
“It’s Haydos, Skip. He’s not moving!”
Haydos had been around as long as anyone could remember and in his day had been a feared warrior. Always the first into battle, he would stomp up and down, waving his trunk and bellowing, smiting fear into the hearts of his foes.
But now he was a pitiful sight. His great bellowing had become a timid whisper. His arthritic hip meant he could no longer stomp and there were days when he couldn’t even keep his trunk straight. The evil day could be delayed no longer. The law of the herd was harsh, but they could afford no stragglers. Punter knew that the time had come for the old campaigner, just as it came for Warnie, Pigeon, Gilly and the other one. Just as it would come for him one day.
“G’day, Haydos,” said Punter.
The old elephant was sitting down and tried to struggle to his feet.
“No, don’t worry mate. No need to get up.”
“Just needed a rest, Skip. I’ll be back on form for the next mission.”
Punter remained silent.
“What is it, Skip?”
“Thing is Haydos, we don’t need you for the next mission.”
“Oh. Right. Give the younger elephants a chance. Good idea. Happy to stand aside this time, for the good of the herd.”
“Or the mission after that,” continued Punter.
“Oh.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Guess this is it then,” said Haydos. Punter looked down, rubbing his trunk in the dust.
“Guess it is.”
“Right. Well, I’ll see you then.”
Punter turned to walk away.
“Skip?” asked Haydos, for the last time.
“What?”
“Will you do me a favour and break the news to Roy. I don’t think I can.”
“No worries mate,” said Punter.
And so the great old elephant lay down to sleep under a coolibah tree. Punter marched to the front of the herd, trying not to dwell on the day, fast approaching, when he too must lay down in the shade. He looked at the line of expectant faces.
“Right,” he ordered, “keep a nice tidy line. By the left, quick march!”
“Incompetent oaf!” muttered Lee.
“Silence in the ranks!” shouted Punter.
And on they marched, the great, noble herd, trampling almost everything that lay in their path though sometimes they had to take the long way round.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The Bloodless Revolution
Typical ECB. Can't even organise an exciting double-sacking. Where were the angry shouted questions from a baying mob of hacks? Where were the scuffles with reporters? The tears? The threats of legal action? No, all we get is an exchange of press releases and then timid little Hugh Morris reading out a prepared story as long as the assembled media types promised not to ask him any questions.
"Once upon a time," he began, in a whispery little voice, "there were two nice men called Kevin and Peter. Thenwesackedthembotheventhoughneitherofthemhaddoneanythingwrong. And they both lived happily ever after. The end." And off he skipped to Neverland.
Mind you, Sky News wasn't much better. Between 5:40pm and 5:55pm we saw the same footage of KP at Durban airport approximately fourteen times. I've memorised it now. I can picture him, wearing a light burgundy top with a hint of charcoal. He walks past a Subway (closed) and a man with a shiny forehead who turns to watch him go. The camera lingers on the back of KP's head for a while. A little later on, we see him handing a ticket to an official. Fourteen times. And Sky had the nerve to call this, 'Exclusive footage of the England captain.'
Thank God then for Bob Willis. Called in to fill the gap between when Sky started to tell us about the 6 o'clock statement and when it actually arrived, old Bob grumbled, whinged and moaned delightfully for a few minutes, managing to explain that KP had been stupid and that the England players didn't like him.
Then it was Gower's turn.
"Is English cricket in a mess, asked the excitable studio presenter. Not really, I was thinking.
"Yes it is," opined David and proceeded to lull us to sleep with a five minute exposition, the finer points of which I may only be able to recall under hypnosis.
Of course it's nothing of the sort. Socrates would have summed it up thus:
"Wouldn't you say that yesterday we had a captain who wasn't quite up to the job?"
"Yes I would."
"And would you also say that we had a coach who wasn't that great?"
"Well, yes, that's true."
"And would you further say that the captain and the coach didn't work well together?"
"I suppose that is true, yes."
"And that the team was divided, not all of them supporting the captain?"
"I would have to say yes."
"And would say that these were bad or good things?"
"Bad things, certainly."
"And after today's mess, do these things still exist?"
"Well, no."
"So if it is a mess, isn't it a peculiarly good kind of mess, in which all the problems which existed yesterday have now been resolved?"
"Why, yes it is."
"So can it really be considered to be a mess?"
"When you put it like that, no, I suppose it isn't."
So there you have it. Socrates would have made mincemeat of David Gower. But probably not Andrew Strauss. Which is reason number 94 in the long list of reasons why he should already be captain and we should not be having this conversation.
"Once upon a time," he began, in a whispery little voice, "there were two nice men called Kevin and Peter. Thenwesackedthembotheventhoughneitherofthemhaddoneanythingwrong. And they both lived happily ever after. The end." And off he skipped to Neverland.
Mind you, Sky News wasn't much better. Between 5:40pm and 5:55pm we saw the same footage of KP at Durban airport approximately fourteen times. I've memorised it now. I can picture him, wearing a light burgundy top with a hint of charcoal. He walks past a Subway (closed) and a man with a shiny forehead who turns to watch him go. The camera lingers on the back of KP's head for a while. A little later on, we see him handing a ticket to an official. Fourteen times. And Sky had the nerve to call this, 'Exclusive footage of the England captain.'
Thank God then for Bob Willis. Called in to fill the gap between when Sky started to tell us about the 6 o'clock statement and when it actually arrived, old Bob grumbled, whinged and moaned delightfully for a few minutes, managing to explain that KP had been stupid and that the England players didn't like him.
Then it was Gower's turn.
"Is English cricket in a mess, asked the excitable studio presenter. Not really, I was thinking.
"Yes it is," opined David and proceeded to lull us to sleep with a five minute exposition, the finer points of which I may only be able to recall under hypnosis.
Of course it's nothing of the sort. Socrates would have summed it up thus:
"Wouldn't you say that yesterday we had a captain who wasn't quite up to the job?"
"Yes I would."
"And would you also say that we had a coach who wasn't that great?"
"Well, yes, that's true."
"And would you further say that the captain and the coach didn't work well together?"
"I suppose that is true, yes."
"And that the team was divided, not all of them supporting the captain?"
"I would have to say yes."
"And would say that these were bad or good things?"
"Bad things, certainly."
"And after today's mess, do these things still exist?"
"Well, no."
"So if it is a mess, isn't it a peculiarly good kind of mess, in which all the problems which existed yesterday have now been resolved?"
"Why, yes it is."
"So can it really be considered to be a mess?"
"When you put it like that, no, I suppose it isn't."
So there you have it. Socrates would have made mincemeat of David Gower. But probably not Andrew Strauss. Which is reason number 94 in the long list of reasons why he should already be captain and we should not be having this conversation.
Monday, January 5, 2009
A New Dawn
Today was a momentous day in the history of English cricket as the ECB unveiled the new-look English Premier League.
“Today is a momentous day in the history of English cricket,” said the ECB’s Head of Corporate Bollocks, Giles Clarke, whilst stuffing his fat cheeks with Cheddar.
The English Premier League is modelled on the Indian Premier League, but with a few regional adjustments.
“Obviously, we can’t just copy the Indians, so you’ll see a few differences,” said Clarke, gnawing on a rat. “For a start no-one will want to watch it, because it’ll be rubbish. So we’ve gone away from the idea of big stadia and we’re holding it in my back-garden. Well it was either that or Taunton. And we’ve sold the rights to Mongolian State TV, so those lazy old buggers in their armchairs won’t be able to see it either.”
Asked whether there would be IPL-style player auctions, Clarke chuckled. “Oh yes, sure,” he replied sarcastically. “What am I bid for this Gareth Batty? Do I see ten pounds. Ten pounds anyone? Don’t be saft, lad.”
The English Premier League will run from January to December, with forty-eight rounds of matches, a month of play-offs and a Grand Final to decide which is the least worst team. Amongst the galaxy of international superstars scheduled to take part are Jonas Van Kolpack, brother of someone who almost played for South Africa and former Australian 12th man Carl Rackemann or someone who looks very much like him. The eighteen counties have been specially renamed for the tournament, the names being chosen by a consultancy firm, ‘Old Rope Associates’ and finely tuned to reflect the diverse reality of modern British life.
Lancashire Drizzle
Durham Beer Bellies
Yorkshire Moan
Nottinghamshire Accents
Derbyshire Fly Tippers
Leicestershire Kolpacks
Northamptonshire Traffic Cones
Worcestershire Wellies
Gloucestershire Flood Warnings
Glamorgan Slag Heaps
Surrey Shooters
Middlesex Mortgages
Sussex Nimbys
Hampshire Chemicals
Somerset Inebriates
Kent Racists
Essex Nightclubs
Warwickshire Idiots
“Today is a momentous day in the history of English cricket,” said the ECB’s Head of Corporate Bollocks, Giles Clarke, whilst stuffing his fat cheeks with Cheddar.
The English Premier League is modelled on the Indian Premier League, but with a few regional adjustments.
“Obviously, we can’t just copy the Indians, so you’ll see a few differences,” said Clarke, gnawing on a rat. “For a start no-one will want to watch it, because it’ll be rubbish. So we’ve gone away from the idea of big stadia and we’re holding it in my back-garden. Well it was either that or Taunton. And we’ve sold the rights to Mongolian State TV, so those lazy old buggers in their armchairs won’t be able to see it either.”
Asked whether there would be IPL-style player auctions, Clarke chuckled. “Oh yes, sure,” he replied sarcastically. “What am I bid for this Gareth Batty? Do I see ten pounds. Ten pounds anyone? Don’t be saft, lad.”
The English Premier League will run from January to December, with forty-eight rounds of matches, a month of play-offs and a Grand Final to decide which is the least worst team. Amongst the galaxy of international superstars scheduled to take part are Jonas Van Kolpack, brother of someone who almost played for South Africa and former Australian 12th man Carl Rackemann or someone who looks very much like him. The eighteen counties have been specially renamed for the tournament, the names being chosen by a consultancy firm, ‘Old Rope Associates’ and finely tuned to reflect the diverse reality of modern British life.
Lancashire Drizzle
Durham Beer Bellies
Yorkshire Moan
Nottinghamshire Accents
Derbyshire Fly Tippers
Leicestershire Kolpacks
Northamptonshire Traffic Cones
Worcestershire Wellies
Gloucestershire Flood Warnings
Glamorgan Slag Heaps
Surrey Shooters
Middlesex Mortgages
Sussex Nimbys
Hampshire Chemicals
Somerset Inebriates
Kent Racists
Essex Nightclubs
Warwickshire Idiots
Peter, Kevin and Michael too
I wasn’t there when Kevin Pietersen was offered the England captaincy – for some reason, they thought they could muddle through without me. That was a mistake and so, it turned out, was appointing Kevin Pietersen. Like I say, I don’t know what was said at that meeting, but I’m fairly sure it went along these lines:
Geoff Miller: Kevin. Do you think you could do the job?
KP: Yes, I am.
Geoff Miller: Is there anything you’d like to tell us before we offer it to you?
KP: No, nothing at all.
Geoff Miller: Kevin, would you like to be England captain?
KP: Yes I would.
But it turns out that not everyone was being honest in this conversation. Can you guess who wasn’t telling the truth? (I’ll give you a clue: it isn’t the one who wasn’t born in Pietermaritzburg). Because it turns out the conversation should have gone something like this:
Geoff Miller: Kevin. Do you think you could do the job?
KP: Er…probably.
Geoff Miller: What does that mean?
KP: Well, I’d like to do it. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be England captain, ever since I stopped being South African.
Geoff Miller: So what’s the problem?
KP: It’s just that I’m not very good at the tactics and stuff.
Geoff Miller: I see.
KP: I know! Could I bring my friend Michael?
Geoff Miller: Michael?
KP: Michael. Vaughan.
Geoff Miller: You mean the one who just resigned.
KP: Yes.
Geoff Miller: The one who hasn’t scored a run against anyone apart from New Zealand in the last three years?
KP: That’s him. See, he could help me out with, like the tactics and all that and I could do the press conferences and wave my arms about at mid-on. And you wouldn’t have to pay him much, cause he says he’d do it for nothing.
Geoff Miller: Well it’s an interesting idea.
KP: So you’ll do it.
Geoff Miller: No. Get out.
KP: This is so unfair! I’m going to live in Sri Lanka!
The only man angrier than Peter Moores at the moment is probably Andrew Strauss. You see, back in August, it was agreed that Straussy just can’t be captain because he isn’t guaranteed his place in the one day side and as we all know, Team England carries no passengers (although one or two have been keeping their heads down at the back of the bus for a while now).
Five months later and we’re apparently considering selecting someone who hasn’t scored a run since the Olympics before last purely on the grounds that he might be able to help the captain out with, well, captaincy. Rest easy in that comfy chair, Mr Collingwood ‘cause it turns out we do carry passengers after all.
So what has changed in the last five months? Well, there’s a recession. A new American President. Liverpool are top of the league. Oh and it has suddenly become apparent that Kevin Pietersen isn’t up to the job of England captain. Well I don’t know about you, but I certainly didn’t see that coming. What with his vast experience of leadership and renowned interpersonal skills, who could possibly have forseen that it wouldn’t work out? Certainly not mystic Miller.
So the next time you’re going to a job interview, don’t forget to ask if you can bring a friend. After you’ve got the job, obviously.
Geoff Miller: Kevin. Do you think you could do the job?
KP: Yes, I am.
Geoff Miller: Is there anything you’d like to tell us before we offer it to you?
KP: No, nothing at all.
Geoff Miller: Kevin, would you like to be England captain?
KP: Yes I would.
But it turns out that not everyone was being honest in this conversation. Can you guess who wasn’t telling the truth? (I’ll give you a clue: it isn’t the one who wasn’t born in Pietermaritzburg). Because it turns out the conversation should have gone something like this:
Geoff Miller: Kevin. Do you think you could do the job?
KP: Er…probably.
Geoff Miller: What does that mean?
KP: Well, I’d like to do it. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be England captain, ever since I stopped being South African.
Geoff Miller: So what’s the problem?
KP: It’s just that I’m not very good at the tactics and stuff.
Geoff Miller: I see.
KP: I know! Could I bring my friend Michael?
Geoff Miller: Michael?
KP: Michael. Vaughan.
Geoff Miller: You mean the one who just resigned.
KP: Yes.
Geoff Miller: The one who hasn’t scored a run against anyone apart from New Zealand in the last three years?
KP: That’s him. See, he could help me out with, like the tactics and all that and I could do the press conferences and wave my arms about at mid-on. And you wouldn’t have to pay him much, cause he says he’d do it for nothing.
Geoff Miller: Well it’s an interesting idea.
KP: So you’ll do it.
Geoff Miller: No. Get out.
KP: This is so unfair! I’m going to live in Sri Lanka!
The only man angrier than Peter Moores at the moment is probably Andrew Strauss. You see, back in August, it was agreed that Straussy just can’t be captain because he isn’t guaranteed his place in the one day side and as we all know, Team England carries no passengers (although one or two have been keeping their heads down at the back of the bus for a while now).
Five months later and we’re apparently considering selecting someone who hasn’t scored a run since the Olympics before last purely on the grounds that he might be able to help the captain out with, well, captaincy. Rest easy in that comfy chair, Mr Collingwood ‘cause it turns out we do carry passengers after all.
So what has changed in the last five months? Well, there’s a recession. A new American President. Liverpool are top of the league. Oh and it has suddenly become apparent that Kevin Pietersen isn’t up to the job of England captain. Well I don’t know about you, but I certainly didn’t see that coming. What with his vast experience of leadership and renowned interpersonal skills, who could possibly have forseen that it wouldn’t work out? Certainly not mystic Miller.
So the next time you’re going to a job interview, don’t forget to ask if you can bring a friend. After you’ve got the job, obviously.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Sid Vicious
Not only are the barbarians at the gate, but they've started lobbing bricks through the windows, replaced the Australian flag with a pair of underpants and set fire to Ian Chappell's slippers. The empire has fallen and the baggy green shadow has been lifted from the face of the globe. For a bit.
But from the rubble, a new breed shall rise. The cloning laboratories in Alice Springs and Darwin will spew forth smoke and lo they shall come, like unto Terminators, dozens of freshly minted Aussie cricketers. Indestructible. Illiterate. Indistinguishable. Our Wisdens will not avail us, nor our Cricinfo Guide to International Cricketers and we shall have not the foggiest who they all are. It will be like the nineties when none could tell which was Blewett and which was Bevan.
But fear not. I have put in the hard yards, hit my straps, come to the party and stepped up to the plate. Into the dark crevices of that sandy continent I shall shine my torch of truth and reveal all. Stick with me and I'll teach you which is Noffke and which Hilfenhaus; I'll help you tell your Bollingers from your McDonalds. And I shall begin with the chubby upstart who has barged his way to the sweaty front of the fast bowling queue, the man they call 'Vicious'.
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's Peter Siddle
See, this is why the Aussies are best. They take their nicknames seriously. If he'd been born in Todmorden rather than Traralgon, he'd probably be saddled with some feeble moniker such as 'Siddley' or 'Siddles'. Instead, his nickname is a minor classic of ingenuity. Siddle - Sid - Sid Vicious - Vicious. Genius. (If you're wondering who Sid Vicious is, then you're probably Ray Illingworth and there's nothing I can do to help you). Siddle is twenty-three, he comes from Victoria and he bowls fast.
He used to be a lumberjack and he's okay
The story of Little Red Riding Hood is so popular in parts of rural Victoria that every young boy dreams of becoming a wood-cutter (or wearing a red dress). The teenage Vicious was no different to thousands of other young Aussies, leaving home with just an axe and a dream. Competitive wood-chopping has not yet caught on in this country, since we tend not to make a sport of of just any domestic chore, but young Pete it appears had quite a future as a professional timber splicer. His tree-bothering days are behind him now, but all those years swinging his chopper has left him with a legacy of weakness in his right shoulder that threatens to hinder his cricket career, despite drastic reconstructive surgery two years back.
He's bringing chubby back
Unkind commentators have also suggested his generously proportioned frame might create extra physical strain. But in a world of dieticians and super-athletes, it's quite refreshing to see men like Siddle, New Zealand's Jesse Ryder and our own Samit Patel bringing fat back. And though he claims to have modelled his bowling on Alan Donald and Glen McGrath, the former bowler he most resembles is that other hefty Victorian, the gutsy Mervyn Gregory Hughes.
Are you Mervyn in disguise?
Siddle favours the traditional bleached blond look rather than the bushy tache, but like Hughes, he bowls what they call a heavy ball, has a nasty bouncer and above all, he's quick, repeatedly hitting 150kph at the MCG. It's easy to imagine batsmen around the world trying to duck out of a confrontation with Vicious, and with Clark and Lee injured, he's got a chance to nail down his place as first reserve pace bowler ahead of his rivals for years to come.
The Empire Strikes Back
Picture Ricky Ponting in his little Tie Fighter, spinning away into the inky blackness. You think he's gone for good, that the Death Star (let's call it the MCG) is overthrown. But you were wrong about Darth Vader and you're wrong about Punter. He'll be back, with another army of cricket clones. Don't be surprised if the Third Test at Sydney ends with Graeme Smith frozen in carbonite, Dale Steyn getting used to a mechanical hand and the baggy green empire rising once again.
But from the rubble, a new breed shall rise. The cloning laboratories in Alice Springs and Darwin will spew forth smoke and lo they shall come, like unto Terminators, dozens of freshly minted Aussie cricketers. Indestructible. Illiterate. Indistinguishable. Our Wisdens will not avail us, nor our Cricinfo Guide to International Cricketers and we shall have not the foggiest who they all are. It will be like the nineties when none could tell which was Blewett and which was Bevan.
But fear not. I have put in the hard yards, hit my straps, come to the party and stepped up to the plate. Into the dark crevices of that sandy continent I shall shine my torch of truth and reveal all. Stick with me and I'll teach you which is Noffke and which Hilfenhaus; I'll help you tell your Bollingers from your McDonalds. And I shall begin with the chubby upstart who has barged his way to the sweaty front of the fast bowling queue, the man they call 'Vicious'.
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's Peter Siddle
See, this is why the Aussies are best. They take their nicknames seriously. If he'd been born in Todmorden rather than Traralgon, he'd probably be saddled with some feeble moniker such as 'Siddley' or 'Siddles'. Instead, his nickname is a minor classic of ingenuity. Siddle - Sid - Sid Vicious - Vicious. Genius. (If you're wondering who Sid Vicious is, then you're probably Ray Illingworth and there's nothing I can do to help you). Siddle is twenty-three, he comes from Victoria and he bowls fast.
He used to be a lumberjack and he's okay
The story of Little Red Riding Hood is so popular in parts of rural Victoria that every young boy dreams of becoming a wood-cutter (or wearing a red dress). The teenage Vicious was no different to thousands of other young Aussies, leaving home with just an axe and a dream. Competitive wood-chopping has not yet caught on in this country, since we tend not to make a sport of of just any domestic chore, but young Pete it appears had quite a future as a professional timber splicer. His tree-bothering days are behind him now, but all those years swinging his chopper has left him with a legacy of weakness in his right shoulder that threatens to hinder his cricket career, despite drastic reconstructive surgery two years back.
He's bringing chubby back
Unkind commentators have also suggested his generously proportioned frame might create extra physical strain. But in a world of dieticians and super-athletes, it's quite refreshing to see men like Siddle, New Zealand's Jesse Ryder and our own Samit Patel bringing fat back. And though he claims to have modelled his bowling on Alan Donald and Glen McGrath, the former bowler he most resembles is that other hefty Victorian, the gutsy Mervyn Gregory Hughes.
Are you Mervyn in disguise?
Siddle favours the traditional bleached blond look rather than the bushy tache, but like Hughes, he bowls what they call a heavy ball, has a nasty bouncer and above all, he's quick, repeatedly hitting 150kph at the MCG. It's easy to imagine batsmen around the world trying to duck out of a confrontation with Vicious, and with Clark and Lee injured, he's got a chance to nail down his place as first reserve pace bowler ahead of his rivals for years to come.
The Empire Strikes Back
Picture Ricky Ponting in his little Tie Fighter, spinning away into the inky blackness. You think he's gone for good, that the Death Star (let's call it the MCG) is overthrown. But you were wrong about Darth Vader and you're wrong about Punter. He'll be back, with another army of cricket clones. Don't be surprised if the Third Test at Sydney ends with Graeme Smith frozen in carbonite, Dale Steyn getting used to a mechanical hand and the baggy green empire rising once again.
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