I PREDICT A RIOT – SO GET THE IMODIUM READY!

A South African friend of mine once summed up his nation’s attitude to sport thus: “It’s not winning that matters, it’s humiliating the b**tards that really counts!”

            At 4.48pm yesterday at Edgbaston, Shanthakumaran Sreesanth raised his middle finger – albeit behind his back - to the crowd seated in the Barnes Stand. That gesture said more about humiliation than any South African ever could.

            The previous over, Sreesanth, a fiery and competitive young man, had reminded us that India were there to compete rather than to supply half-volleys for Cook and Bresnan to slap to the boundary, by threatening to throw down Cook’s stumps on his follow-through.

            The crowd had responded with derision, and a wag behind me reminded him loudly that this is a far more appropriate gesture when the opposition are 80 for 7 - not 680 for 7. Well, he didn't put it quite like that, but that was the sentiment.

            Warming to his theme and basking in the glow of the crowd's endorsement, the wag persevered when Sreesanth returned to field in front of us at Third Man. After a drink – ditto my friend behind, albeit of the alcoholic variation - the Indian bowler went through as elaborate a stretching routine as I've ever seen. As such, it almost suggested that his wicket-less tally and the 150 runs which his military medium bowling had contributed to the English total were attributable to a niggling back injury.

            “There’s nothing wrong with your back!” yelled the wag. “Your bowling’s shit!” he added a little unkindly. Sreesanth unwisely responded by raising his middle finger.

            “You’re shit - and you know you are!” chanted the wag, un-sportingly. Then he stood and urged the crowd to do likewise: “Stand up - if you’re Number One…“Stand up - if you’re Number One…ENG-A-LAND… ENG-A-LAND…

            By this time, Sreesanth had retorted by working his way through all of the obscene gestures that he had learned from his culturally varied cricketing travels, even the archaic pumping of the arm whilst slapping the bicep with the other hand.

            Whilst I don't approve of the abuse which Sreesanth received, this was, however, the single most interesting confrontation on a day when the cricket had been as absorbing as reading the Comprehensive History of Health and Safety.
            Sure, Morgan had reached a hundred, crouching, poking, and occasionally stroking a glorious extra cover drive for four, to record the milestone of three figures.

            Bopara came and went in the manner of a man as surprised to find himself on the England team sheet as were most observers of the game, LBW to the likeable Mishra for 7.

            The only real surprise of the day – other than that lunch was taken five minutes early following the second rain break – was that Tendulkar managed to hang onto a top-edged attempted pull from Prior, thus ending the Indian obsession with grassing simple chances.

            Earlier in the afternoon, the sumptuously refurbished Edgbaston had experienced a technical glitch in the form of non-functioning electronic scoreboards. There was speculation that the disappearance of Bell, who had been pedalling furiously on his static bike on the pavilion balcony, may have had something to do with this.

            However, of greater concern was the failure of the flood-lights. The four giant pylons with lights fashioned in the letter “E” – presumably for Edgbaston rather than Entertainment – had been on since late morning to brighten the gloom of a typically glum August day.

            When these and the scoreboards failed, play ambled along aimlessly for some time until Messrs Davis and Taufel adjudged that the light was too bad to continue. The fact that spin was coming from both ends mattered not a jot. It was at this point that I noticed that power to the scoreboards had been restored so, presumably, the lights could be turned back on.

            Not so.

            Apparently the Laws state that if the lights have been turned off, they cannot be turned back on until the light improves sufficient for them not to be required. Now, if that piece of legislative nonsense isn’t a good reason for a riot, I don’t know what is.

            But cricket folk don’t riot, they just plod off to the bar muttering how ridiculous everything is; how this wouldn’t have happened in their day when no-one wore helmets and when play went on uninterrupted by darkness, hail, earthquake or monsoon.

            I reached the “food village” to find, to my surprise, the big screen showing that play had re-started. Some sort of compromise must have been reached as the light had got worse, if anything.

            Armed with an over-priced pint of Pedigree and a bag of crisps that I could have manufactured cheaper myself, I returned to my seat to watch the England innings grind on…and on…and on…and on.

            What was the point, we wondered, in this? England long since passed 500, then six hundred, and as they headed towards 700, with a lead of over 450, even the most optimistic Indian supporter wouldn’t have given his side a poppadum’s chance in a fat boy’s mouth of survival.

            There could only be one reason for not declaring: to allow Alastair Cook to pass Gooch’s landmark 333 against the Indians at Lord’s in 1990. And then, perhaps, Wally Hammond’s 336 against New Zealand at Auckland in 1933…and then maybe Len Hutton’s 364 against Australia at the Oval in 1938? Bookmakers were giving 25-1 on Cook passing Gooch’s 333 that morning and, by tea this was beginning to look a good bet.  

            Being a Friday, it wasn’t the official fancy-dress day, but Batman chasing Mr Blobby along the lower walkway of the Eric Hollies stand was much more entertaining than Cook’s faultless shot selection. But Bresnan, to his credit - now considered more of an all-rounder than Broad - livened things up a bit with a couple of huge straight drives for six.

            Unfortunately, one narrowly missed a bloke sitting a few rows behind us who had been trying to contact his mate, Dan, by yelling to him in the Hollies stand. He obviously hadn’t worked out how to use a mobile phone, and so we all joined in to help him, in the hope that he might eventually find him and shut up.

            And then, as Cook moved into the 290s, it dawned on me that there was another reason for Strauss keeping the hapless Indians in the field for two days: this was all about humiliation; here was greatest Indian subjugation since the days of the Raj.

            But at ten minutes to six, having occupied the crease for 12 hours and 47 minutes, the unthinkable happened: Cook played a wild shot and was caught in the deep by Raina, six short of his triple century. England immediately declared and it was no surprise that they removed Sehwag – for his second first-ball duck of the match – to complete their utter domination. Humiliation achieved.

            As an aside, but one that I suspect may have occurred elsewhere that evening, I made the mistake of discussing English dominance and Indian ineptitude rather too enthusiastically with the waiter in the Indian restaurant where I ordered my take-away some hours later.

            Now I wonder, could that possibly have had anything to do with my urgent dash to the toilet at 2am…and again at 3am…and again at…4am?

            Humiliating the opposition is occasionally a necessary part of every sport. But we’re not used to it in England, and perhaps that’s a good thing. For now England have been moved to the top of the class, but let’s not take all of our books yet just in case we’re returned to the back in humiliating fashion– as we were after the 2006-07 Ashes.

           

          

            

WRITER’S BLOG – OR SHOULD THAT BE BLOCK?

 A bit of a departure this, from the old blog. I’m going to write a sort of a diary.

            The reason I’m doing this is to measure my progress – or lack of it - towards the completion of my novel “Cowboys and Indians”.

            It’s not easy to write; just ask any writer – they will do absolutely anything to avoid sitting down and getting on with it. They will even write about something else - anything else, and this will allow them to say: “I’ve done a day’s writing – look, this is what I’ve done today!”

            And this is what I’m doing now.

            Today is Thursday 11^th August, and I really don’t know where the summer’s gone. It’s been raining for ever and it’s nearly September. I’m staying in a friend’s house in North Wales (hence the rain) with a seven week-old black Labrador puppy at my feet. He’s officially called “Mungo” but is currently referred to as “Little Shit” as that’s all he’s done this morning.

            I’m putting this in (or should it be on?) my blog: a) because you might possibly find it interesting, b) it is making a commitment to myself to actually do some writing each day – well, five days a week, and c) it will be a record as to why I don’t actually hit my targets, which of course I won’t. Oh, and to catalogue the excuses for failure… like rioting and looting in our cities, which makes it so very difficult to write. I mean, who knows, a mob of hoody-wearing, baseball bat waving, vodka-drinking teenagers may burst in at any monent, steal my radio, smash my laptop and rape the puppy.

Mungo - aka "Little Shit"

                        He’s gone to sleep now, Geoff Boycott is on commentary on Test Match Special - as good a reason as any to turn it off - and I’m stuck on the Times Crossword (thickos version) so I’ve got absolutely no reason not to write.

            So here goes…

            …Oh, I’m going to day three of the Edgbaston test tomorrow, so I won’t get much done there. I will, of course, take my laptop on the train so that I can turn it on, read the paper and leave it behind when I get off.

            Here’s my target: to write 1,000 words a day, or a total of 5,000 a week. I’ve written 60,000 words already (but some of that will be cut out) and I reckon it will run to around 80-85,000. That would be…let me see…five weeks, plus maybe two to re-write the first part. So, seven weeks – eight at most to finish the first draft!

            Yep, sounds good! If I've got that far by Christmas I’ll be happy!

            Puppy’s awake again…

Letter to The Times, 2nd August, 2011

Sir,

Much has been written in your columns and correspondence page about the Spirit of Cricket, but I feel I must share this with you.

Cricket, in its purest form, is a game that is punctuated by meals. During a recent holiday game of beach cricket, my girlfriend (also occasional third umpire and tea lady) had just opened her well-endowed hamper, popped a champagne cork and arranged scones, sandwiches and slices of pork pie onto picnic plates.

Understandably, but prior to an agreed cessation of play, my fellow protagonists began to drift off in the direction of this gastronomic finery.  I was left to bowl to her 6 year old son, who (un-Bell-like) showed absolutely no intention of leaving the crease.

In order to be relieved from my duty of 5^th change bowler before the fare had been entirely consumed, I came in off my long run, sending his stumps to all parts. The promise of membership of the illustrious Primary Club did little to allay his howls.

My girlfriend ruled that unless he was re-instated for the post-tea session, not only would I be barred from the fruits of the table but fruits of all sorts would be off the agenda for the duration of the holiday.

This, to me, was a summary lesson in The Spirit of Cricket and thankfully one, which in keeping with events at Trent Bridge, was not shared with the crowd.

Common Sense and the Spirit of The Game.

As featured on Radio2, The Jeremy Vine Show

There was a wonderful moment yesterday when, in the second test at Trent Bridge, Bell emerged from the pavilion, to resume batting after tea.

            For non-cricketers, it was wonderful because sportsmanship and common sense had prevailed, and in the world in which we live, this so rarely happens.

            To the unenlightened, or for those of you with no interest in cricket, Bell (on 137) had been given out – correctly but somewhat unjustly – for an act of crass stupidity on the last ball before the tea break. Having stroked the ball for what he thought was another boundary, he walked off for a cuppa, only to find that he had been given out when an Indian fielder threw back the ball and another removed the bails. The ball had not crossed the boundary and was still live, so technically the umpires had no choice but to uphold the touring side’s half-hearted appeal.

            This could have resulted in a pretty nasty escalation of hostilities and would almost certainly have ruined an excellent series between the two top test sides which has been as good-spirited as it has been competitive.

            And this brings me on to the situation in Libya, which was got absolutely nothing to do with cricket; in fact, it is one of the few countries where cricket is not played. But what it has to do with is Common Sense and The Spirit of The Game.

            Can anybody tell me, what the heck are we doing interfering in the politics of Libya? Ostensibly the involvement of our military forces is to protect civilians – nothing more. But the government of this country, and that of France, have made it perfectly clear that the only outcome they will accept is to see the back of Muammar Gaddafi. Dead or alive, he has to go from office, although we’ve backed down a bit so he may now be permitted to live out his remaining years in his homeland and not face trial for whatever crimes the international community can throw at him. They can justify this by the UN resolution which specifies – nice and vaguely – that their secondary mandate is to prevent “…destabilisation of the region.”

            And the best way to do that, of course, is to give political and militaristic endorsement to a bunch of rebels who we know nothing about. Well, that’s not entirely true: we know that they dispense summary justice by murdering their own leaders if things don’t work out how they had planned.

            I have two questions about our intervention. Firstly why, and secondly why now?

            Personally, I don’t think we should be there at all.

            I had hoped that we had heard the last of William Hague’s whinny minor public schoolboy prefect’s voice when he lost tenure as leader of the Conservative party. John Humphries ran rings around him on this morning’s Radio4 Today programme. The only reasonably plausible argument he could come up with for this huge waste of tax-payers’ money is this: if we stood back and did nothing, Libyan refugees would flood the shores of southern Europe, and by that, we mean Britain. Bollox – it will happen anyway, because we don’t have either an equitable or an enforceable immigration policy. And as for the justification of freeing up Libyan assets to give to these rebels, the mind just boggles! Where this cash will go is straight into the back pocket of Al Qaeda. 

            Giving legitimacy to the rebels as “freedom fighters” is absurd. Perhaps we should we follow this logic and recognise the Real IRA or the UFF as well?

            There is, of course, the issue of lives of innocent civilians. I’m sorry, but that is just not our problem. We didn’t interfere in any of the other “Arab Spring” insurrections so why Libya?

            However it is the question as to “why now?” that really makes my blood boil.

            Gaddafi came to power in a bloodless coup in 1969 and has remained the undemocratic but undisputed leader of Libya ever since. But what is so great about democracy that we, in the West, feel we have to impose it on every banana republic or tin-pot state that we don’t like? Democracy has only brought us corruption in the form of expense fiddling, phone and computer hacking and thousands of quangos that cannot make a decision without cog-oiling levels of bribery. And look at Belgium for goodness sake: they cannot even be bothered to sort out a cabinet.  On 1 June 2011, Belgium matched the record for time taken to form a new democratic government after an election, at 353 days, held until then by Cambodia in 2003-04. Democracy really works for them, doesn’t it?

            The way in which Gaddafi has run Libya has changed little over the past forty or so years. Sure, it’s an unpleasant repressive regime based on autocratic rule and the subjugation of the masses, but his level of unacceptability has not changed over that time.

            Well, actually, that’s not strictly true. In 1985, with the miners’ strike in its second year, he formed an unlikely alliance with Arthur Scargill. The purpose of this was regime change – namely to bring down Margaret Thatcher. And then in 1987, a shipment of arms was discovered on-board the Eksund bound for Ireland and use by the PIRA. It turned out, that Gaddafi had been supplying the IRA since 1972.

            So why on earth did we not do something about these flagrant breeches of diplomatic relations? Both of these policies could have been considered acts of aggression and a threat to the citizens of this country. And yet we sat back and did absolutely nothing!

            And then, of course, we sent home Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi, the Lockerbie bomber, in August 2009. This was for no better reason than that we didn’t have the stomach to have him die in a British jail – not that he has shown the remotest intention of dying since touching down on Libyan soil.

            And so we come back to Common Sense and the Spirit of The Game.  Andy Flower and Andrew Strauss trooped off to the Indian dressing room yesterday, cup of tea in hand, to enquire of MS Dhoni if he really wanted to stand by his appeal. There were no umpires present. They didn’t need to be, as they had done their bit – they had upheld the laws of the game.

            We, the British, have taken upon ourselves the onus of umpiring every conflict that occurs even although it is not our job to do so. Bosnia, Afghanistan, Libya…and, of course, Iraq have all become theatres of conflict which have absolutely nothing to do with us and are policed by Western interventionists for the most spurious of reasons. And now, perhaps, Syria – why not?

            So my solution to problems in the Middle East (and elsewhere) is very simple. Let the players sort it out themselves. It is not our problem.

            That way Common Sense and the Spirit of the Game will prevail. Fat chance!