Tag: Cricket

Summer of Hope

“What’s the time?” asked Wiseman, nibbling the last morsel on his plate.

“Seven thirty” I replied, and grimaced. “Could totally have made the 7.30 showing.”

He nodded.

“Shops shut at eight, though,” I said. “Could go for a browse?”

We were having dinner in Ocean Terminal, last Saturday evening. Cricket had been cancelled due to the inclement Scottish weather, and Wiseman and I had landed upon a film that both of us would conceivably enjoy (Star Trek). We had bought tickets for the 8.30 showing to allow us plenty of time to eat, but the eating hadn’t taken us as long as we thought it might. We paid the bill and headed off for a mosey around the shops. They were all shut, obviously. Apart from Starbucks. We decided to do laps of the shopping centre instead. Is it not about time Starbucks went bust? Do people not forgo their overpriced cups of bitter-tasting ridiculously-named coffee in a recession? Apparently not.

I found myself at the doctor’s last week. Rushing in, slightly late, I made use of their hi-tech touchscreen self-check-in system, and took a seat in the waiting room. I resisted the seductive delights of Trout & Salmon magazine, and pondered instead on who thought it would be a good idea to install a touchscreen in a GP practice. Probably got swine flu now.

Today is Saturday again, and I would be playing cricket, but am en route to London for a week’s holiday. Have had an utterly seamless journey so far, no doubt due at least in part to having chosen to fly BA rather than easyjet. No queues at check-in, no mad scrum to get on the plane, no paying for your food on the flight (puréed breakfast comes as part of the package). Love it.

Sitting on the plane, looking out at England’s green and pleasant land bathed in sunshine, the summer is stretching out in front of me, full of optimism. Buoyed by a decent batting performance for the Holy Cross 3rd XI in my opening game, I’m actually looking forward to the forthcoming season. That’s if I can get my availability and a sunny day to coincide. The British and Irish Lions are about to depart for an eagerly-anticipated tour to South Africa, and the Aussies arrive soon for the Ashes. It’s beginning to bug me (now, four years on) that Sky have the exclusive rights to England’s home Test matches. Scandalous. With this kind of summer ahead, it would almost be worth getting Sky myself. Oh, and a TV.

Maybe not. My Sky Sports-subscribed friends have been warned…

Narin, 30 October

5.30pm

Today dawned bright and fair. No, really, it did. The forecast was right. Having got the call from Kevin, our Irish American surfing dude, that 12.30 would be a good time, we headed off early to Dooey Strand, and got some beach cricket in before he arrived.

Halfway through Broon’s innings, Wiseman, who had been claiming that he was “not quite 100%” for days, threw up at midwicket, but we carried on regardless. I had half a mind to reprise Allan Border’s quote to Dean Jones, who, having batted for Australia through hours and hours of 40C heat and high humidity in Madras, had got to 170 and wanted to come off because he stopping the game every over to be sick. Border told him “You weak Victorian. I want a tough Australian out there. I want a Queenslander”.

Charming chap, Border.

Kev duly arrived with all the gear, and we got into our wetsuits, with some difficulty. I felt a little like Catwoman.

Surfing was brilliant fun. Actually standing up on the board proved a step too far. About two steps too far, in all honesty. In fact, even lying down on the board, and riding it into the shallows without wiping out, took a fair amount of concentration. And after a few runs, just getting on to the board at all proved exhausting. But very exhilarating.

We returned to the cottage and put the kettle on while Broon and Gilly made first use of the showers. Two minutes into our own showers, Wiseman and I found the hot water had all gone, and made sharp exits. I came back downstairs, and found I’d been doubly betrayed. Not only had the girls taken all the hot water, but they’d put on a chick flick in the living room. I escaped with Gilly and Broon to Ardara for some more provisions, and came back to find the film much the same as we’d left it – dapper young gentlemen making opaque statements about marriage, and the inferior breeding and education of young ladies. Most agreeable, I am sure.

Waffles and Waterproof Trousers

South Africa 322/4

As we departed the hotel for Headingley yesterday morning, we were met by a shower of rain. Regardless, I ventured out in a t-shirt, shorts and sandals (and an umbrella), while DC was more stoutly dressed in a raincoat and long trousers. On seeing the rain, he produced, like some Scottish Presbyterian conjuror, a pair of waterproof trousers from his bag and straightaway put them on. I attempted to dissuade him with hoots of derision, but he was not to be put off, and away we went.

DC and I worked our way through the Daily Telegraph crossword in the morning session, while Nasty Jen, according to text updates from a mutual friend, was working her way through a tentful (she later claimed it was more like a marquee) of Aussie men in St Andrews. The mind boggles.

DC disappeared off to the bookies at tea, to “catch up on the golf”, and Wiseman went off to the toilet, although curiously he came back clutching a burger. On their return, I wandered round to the back of the West Stand, and found a purveyor of waffles. I stood in the gap between the Main Stand and the West Stand for a bit, watching the cricket. The sun was on my back, the chocolate-coated waffle was delicious, and the only thing disturbing the serenity was the semi-riot taking place amongst the denizens of the West Stand. This particular stand, going back to its days as the Western Terrace, has a long history of boisterous crowd behaviour, with a penchant for throwing beach balls around (a banned activity), stacking hundreds of plastic beer glasses together horizontally (another banned activity) and passing the resulting snake around the crowd, cheering wildly as it becomes longer and especially when it evades the clutches of the stewards. Roddy, an ex-Holy Cross wicket-keeping team-mate, was sitting in the West Stand today. I texted him before tea offering to buy him a pint. We had managed to catch up at the tea-break on Day 1, but yesterday I fear he was too busy forming beer-glass-snakes and baiting the stewards and police to hear his mobile phone. He was always so well-behaved behind the stumps as well.

I finished my waffle, got myself a cup of tea, and stood in the sun again, watching England vainly trying to prise out another South African batsman. It wasn’t to be – only one wicket fell all day, and even that was a bad decision. England’s lack of bowling penetration in this Test is worrying, particularly as Flintoff, the Great White Hope, has returned. Flintoff, while bowling well, has not made the batsmen play enough, and has been unable to generate enough pace or hostility to get them out. Lack of swing has been a serious problem, which has rendered Pattinson, the new boy, ineffective, as it might have Hoggard, or even Sidebottom, if they had been playing.

Back in my seat, I thought it had started raining, but in fact it was a chap in the upper tier of the stand, returning from the bar with four full pints. He must have been a little unsteady on his feet, as a fair proportion of the beer was tipped over the edge of the tier onto our heads below. DC’s dignity was protected by his substantial wet weather armour, and I regret to say he adopted an air of superiority as a result.

It eventually did start raining, although long after it was forecast to, and with the close of play imminent anyway, DC fished out the waterproof trousers and we trudged back to the hotel. After the requisite afternoon nap for one of the party, we headed into Leeds for some food, and after a short search, landed in a place called Tampopo, serving a variety dishes from across Asia. It’s a chain, I later determined, but not one that’s made it as far north as Edinburgh, and since none of us had eaten there before, it didn’t count as a chain. Wiseman had an unpronounceable meal from Vietnam.

“Is it hot?” enquired DC.

“No” said Wiseman, shaking his head, and then promptly bit into a red chilli.

We retired to the hotel satisfied by a great meal and a good weekend all round. England are sinking fast in the Test, much to DC’s delight. Wiseman was reasonably content, having remembered his radio on Day 2, and in any case the bars were open on both days. The Trip to the Test can therefore be considered a success for both my companions. I was pleased to see plenty of action (and controversy) on the first day, and generally had fun watching cricket with my mates again, rather than on my own, as I had done (mostly) last time around in Australia. My presence at England matches, however, seems to have had a detrimental effect on their performance, if the last three examples are anything to go by.

Roll on Edgbaston. I promise to stay away.

Leeds, Day Two

England 203
South Africa 101/3

South Africa were on top yesterday, so DC finished the day much happier than either Wiseman or I, Mark having left his digital radio in the hotel, and so unable to keep abreast of Blowers’ uniquely colourful commentary. Helpfully, I passed them some highlights from that and the shipping forecast when it came around. It was a cracking day’s cricket, despite England’s collapse, with Freddie Flintoff making his first Test appearance since I saw him lead the team to defeat in Sydney 18 months ago. Sadly he flashed at a wide one on 17 and departed somewhat sheepishly.

Wiseman and I arrived at the ground clad optimistically in shorts, he, rather foolishly, following my lead in the matter. The weather was cloudy and drizzly, and not especially warm, and I don’t recall seeing anyone else in shorts in the entire ground, but this being the cricket, there were a number of outfits on show that made shorts look positively sensible, including men in women’s clothing, and a smattering of superheros. At some point during the afternoon session I conceded defeat and popped into a toilet cubicle to change into my jeans, emerging to find Superman wrestling his way back into his suit. It’s good to know that even Superman has to take a pee.

Thursday night, as expected, was largely sleepless, partly due to the skylight, which shed rather too much light on the matter, but also because every water pipe in the hotel seems to be routed through the wall behind my bed. A previous occupant of the room had also helpfully set the TV to switch itself on at 5.30am, for which I was less than grateful.

Last night as considerably better, having tired myself out by sitting watching cricket all day. Was woken by the sounds of Wiseman preparing to go for a run next door – that is he was preparing next door, rather than going for a run in his room. On returning from his run at 8.30am, he knocked on my door, which elicited an appropriate sub-duvet response.

Breakfast was taken at 9am. Wiseman entertained us once more with his unique croissant-buttering technique, and we even struck up some convivial early morning conversation, something neither myself or DC are renowned for, with an Englishman on a nearby table.

And so on to Day Two. Right now, the sun is shining, although showers are forecast. Nevertheless we are in good spirits, and I am confidently starting the day in shorts and sandals again.

Come on England.

The Little Chef and cricket

Had lunch with Glenn and Anna last Sunday. Their oldest daughter, Maria, who’s four and feisty with it, once the main course was over, removed herself from the table and installed herself on the sofa, where she declared she would take her dessert. Anna made it quite clear that unless madam returned to the table, improved her mood and began to behave herself, there would be no dessert at all. I reflected on how it isn’t all bad being a grown-up. After all, you can be grumpy and still have your dessert.

It’s Thursday night, and I’m in a Leeds hotel. DC and Wiseman are in the adjoining rooms. It sounds like Wiseman has just smacked his head off the wall, but I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. We’re here for a couple of days of the Second Test between England and South Africa. DC, being a rabid Scot, has adopted South Africa as his favourite cricket team for another month or so, or whenever their series against England ends. He refers to them as “our boys”. I, of course, am supporting England. Wiseman is along for the opportunity to drink beer, hopefully in the sun, and listen to the TMS commentary via a 15 second delay on his portable digital radio.

Having left straight after work, we were looking for somewhere to eat shortly after the halfway mark. The distance between Edinburgh and Leeds is 222 miles, which makes Leeds a superstitiously perfect cricketing destination for us. Almost bang on 111 miles into the journey, a sign for services appeared. Genius. We veered off the A1, hopping from foot to foot inside the car. “It’s a Little Chef, it’s a Little Chef – look look!!” cried Wiseman excitedly. He had already declared that wherever we stopped for food must have peas. Garden peas. Because he was in the mood for peas.

Little Chef fits the bill. Being a British institution, it must have peas on the menu. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a Little Chef, it was a remarkably dodgy-looking Indian restaurant. Right in the middle of nowhere. It says something for its dubious appearance that three lads not averse to a curry immediately turned the car round and headed back to the A1.

(The next services was only a few miles further on, and it was indeed a Little Chef. Wiseman was beside himself.)

Wiseman stayed in this very hotel two months ago, while on a university-funded course being taught how to hack into wireless networks. Between him and the sat nav, we arrived safely and without undue fuss. I landed in room 34, my age, which I took great delight in pointing out to DC and Wiseman, for whom the thirties are a distant memory. They may have the last laugh in the morning, however, as my room is the only one with what appears to be an ancestor of the Velux window. I also have a normal window, with a quirky triangular window above it, both of which have efficient-looking curtains. The skylight does not have a curtain of any description. I note with some trepidation that the sun is due to rise at 4:56 am.

Here’s to an early wakening…

Keswick and cricket bags

Being completely and utterly out of shape, I look forward to the start of the 2008 cricket season tomorrow with some trepidation. Not that I’m in danger of being found out during the game itself, as a leisurely walk to the middle and back shouldn’t tax even my fitness. It’s carrying the cricket bag that frightens me. It’s absolutely massive. Never has so much sporting equipment been used by one man with such little effect.

The league season actually kicked off two weeks ago, but I was at a worship conference in Glasgow that day, and last weekend I spent a lovely few days in Keswick with the family. Keswick is one of those rare precious places that has, so far, avoided fostering the Axis of Evil partners (Starbucks et al) and as a result retains a wonderful character all of its own. The family, these days, comprises my mum, my sister Alison, her partner Angela, and little Maggie. That’s a lot of females. By the time Monday came, and Alison’s friends Diane and Caroline arrived, with their little girl in tow, I was just about ready to come home. It was just me and Hamish the cat, bloke-wise, and he was neutered, poor thing. You know things are in a pretty sorry state when your only man-to-man conversation is with an emasculated cat.

Couldn’t be more different from my last visit to Keswick, when, all the way back in 2002, I shared the very same cottage with 5 other lads, in order to celebrate my best mate Grant’s impending marriage. Not a female in sight, apart from the TVR Tuscan we had hired for the weekend. Our Keswickian neighbours were mightily impressed when we revved the 4.2 litre straight six outside their window of a morning. I worried for the whole weekend that Grant would wrap the TVR round a tree, which would have instantly lost me £1000 in insurance excess, which I didn’t have. My anxieties were not eased when it started snowing on the Saturday morning. But we all made it back in one piece, including the car.

So anyway, in preparation for the forthcoming cricketing humiliation that is the 2008 summer, I lumbered down to cricket practice two nights ago, and was promptly sent in to bat, whereupon I unfurled my array of cricketing strokes. I managed to display all my best ones, including the leading edge, the top edge and the outside edge. Somewhat disconcerting, cricket practice, as the surface in the nets is some artificial substance in pristine condition, with a hard, true bounce. Whereas we normally play on slow pitches with variable bounce. So the merits of net practice are somewhat questionable, although it does at least allow you to reacquaint yourself with your cricket bat when you haven’t picked it up since last season, and of course gives you some practice in the art of carrying your oversized cricket bag to and from the car. It also allows you to spend at least a few minutes ‘batting’, as distinct from ‘carrying one’s bat to and from the middle’.

Wiseman called me tonight to see what I was up to. I was busy, as it happens, on the way through to Glasgow to see the aforementioned Grant. On my way to my first ever Italian restaurant with an Indian waiter (Parmesan and black pepper, pliss? Thank you pliss) although I didn’t know it at the time. So I suggested we hook up tomorrow night after cricket.

“You’re playing cricket tomorrow? Crumbs, you’ll be depressed.”

Thanks Mark. As distinct from my usual ebullient self, you must mean.

I may not be depressed (although there is every likelihood of this) but I will be sore. Ten minutes of batting followed by what amounted to two overs ‘bowling’ (I use the term loosely) and two days later I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Or maybe a large cricket bag…

Cricket, and in particular, how it is scored

For 12 squared, and anyone else who is confused. And cares.

There are currently two basic game formats in cricket, which are scored slightly differently. In any format of cricket, the team that scores the most runs wins.

However, in first-class and Test match cricket, in order to win the game, a team has to not only score more runs than the opposition, but also has to get all of the other team out. Twice, as each team bats for two innings each. If neither team bowls the other out twice within the allocated time for the game (usually 3 or 4 days for first-class, and 5 days for Tests), then the game is a draw, regardless of how far behind one of the teams may be in terms of number of runs scored.

Thus Test cricket (and 1st class) places a higher importance on bowling, and taking wickets (getting people out), than the shorter forms of the game.

Test matches are played between countries who have a cricket team of a high enough standard to compete. And Bangladesh. But hopefully they’ll get better as time goes on.

First-class matches are played in countries where the game is played professionally, like England, Australia, Pakistan, India, South Africa, West Indies etc. Usually between county or state sides.

Club cricket, relying as it does on keen amateur players, who commonly need to go to work during the week and would find it tricky to explain to their employer why they didn’t turn up for work 3 or 4 days out of every week in the summer, tends to use the shorter forms of the game – 50 over and Twenty20.

50 over cricket is played over the course of one day. (One over is six deliveries bowled by one bowler). One team bats until they are all out, or they have batted for 50 overs. Then the other team bats for 50 overs, or until they are all out, or until they have scored more runs than the team batting first, whichever is the sooner.

Twenty20 is the same, but played over 20 overs (each) instead of 50. Being shorter, it can be played in an evening as it only takes 2-3 hours.

Clubs all over the world have been playing 20 over cricket for decades, but a few years ago it was a launched officially in England and played by county sides with professional players. It was (and still is) a big hit with crowds, and its popularity has spread to other countries. Recently the first international Twenty20 tournament was played in South Africa. India won it. Cricket is virtually a religion in India, with 50 over cricket being most popular, but the expectation is that Twenty20 will now take over as the most popular format since India’s win.

Cricket fans in England, and possibly Australia, still prefer the Test match format. We’re purists, y’see.

Finally for now, an example of a cricket score is 112/6. The first number (112 in this case) denotes how many runs the team has scored, the second the number of wickets (the number of outs, in baseball parlance). Since in the longer forms of the game each team can bat twice, a score might read England 454 & 189/6, Sri Lanka 421. In this case England are 189/6 in their second innings, having scored 454 in their first innings. Sri Lanka scored 421 in their first innings and are still to bat their second innings.

There we are, a brief overview, leaving out some background detail for the sake of clarity, such as the pitch/weather factors. If anyone wishes to correct anything, or add to what is here, please be my guest…

Donegal, Tues 23 October

Got a good night’s sleep last night, slept soundly. Still woke at 6.30 though. Sounded windy and wild outside, but when I surfaced at 8.45 all was calm. Might even see the sun today.We heard a weather forecast on the radio yesterday, in Irish Gaelic. Broon was confident the girl was saying it would be a nice day today. Perhaps her grasp of Gaelic is better than I thought…
Since we’re on holiday, we’re all trying to do things differently from how we might at home.

I, for example, am drinking tea with no sugar, which admittedly only happened initially because Broon was detailed to bring the sugar and she didn’t arrive until Sunday night. But have persisted, more or less.

It’s bizarre how we’re all waking early. Broon wakened at 5.15 this morning and felt ready to get up. No-one has so far been able to sleep much beyond 9. This is in stark contrast to my normal experience in Ireland. When I returned home to my parents during my university days, after a day or two I could happily sleep until midday no trouble. I put it down to the country air. However, the air doesn’t get more country than it is here, and it’s not working…

This morning the sun duly shone and we all trooped down to the beach for a game of cricket. Wiseman found a good bit of swing from the Golf Course End, and induced an edge from Broon, but she refused to walk. Outrageous. The game ended once Wiseman started taking a liking to my bowling and despatched me into the soft sand at deep extra cover, twice. Off came the shoes and socks, and we braved the arctic water temperature for a paddle. Once numbness had set in we dumped Broon in the sea, accidentally, although this appeared to be cold comfort for her, and came back for some lunch.

Driving in Donegal can be a challenging experience. To begin with, there are the aforementioned road surfaces. On leaving a village, a sign will optimistically inform you that you can now drive at 80km/h. Not if you value your shock absorbers, you won’t.

Then there are the road junctions, which appear out of nowhere frequently without any form of road markings to indicate whether or not you have the right of way. You have to work out if your road is wider than their road and behave accordingly. If you are on the narrow road, then plough on, and those on the really narrow road will just have to wait.

The signs at junctions are just hilarious. Frequently they will be pointing in a direction which neatly bisects the two roads they may be referring to. As a result, often you have to drive past the junction before you can read the sign you’re interested in. Also, certain regions of Donegal are An Gaeltacht – that is, Gaelic is officially recognised as being the first language there.

When this is the case the signs switch from being in English with an Irish translation, to just simply Irish. None of us are particularly fluent in Irish, Broon’s weather forecasting notwithstanding.

This afternoon we went on a road trip. At least Shazza, Broon and I did. Wiseman stayed back at the cottage to “write”. He’s “a writer” you see.

Shazza and Broon, being farmers’ daughters, have been largely unimpressed with the tractors we have come across on the holiday thus far. There’s been a lot of quantity, but not much quality, apparently. Plenty of Massey Fergusons (“wouldn’t pull the hat off your head”). We saw a couple of John Deeres today, which got them a whole lot more excited.

We took in the Atlantic Drive, which took us through Downings, where I spent a great weekend in the company of a schoolfriend and his family, near enough 20 years ago. Then headed along the coast stopping off at various points en route to the Bloody Foreland. Stopped in Dunfanaghy to buy Broon a shillelagh, since she didn’t know what a shillelagh was. Oh, the shame. Now she still doesn’t know what it is, but at least she knows what it looks like.

We came home to find that Wiseman had been busy in the kitchen, and had rustled up a pot of chilli big enough for a platoon of Mexican soldiers.

After dinner we played 3 games of Articulate, boys v girls. They got hockeyed.

I hate cricket

The problem with cricket is you wait 3 or 4 weeks for the rain to stop, then you finally play a game in a muddy field, and are brutally reminded that you’re actually not very good at it when you get out for a very low score.

Indoor bowls is becoming a more and more attractive option. Apart from being immune to the vagaries of the British summer, there’s sartorial considerations to be taken into account.

I discussed this with my sister on the phone the other day, and we gradually built up a picture of me in a pair of grey slacks with elasticated waistband, flat shoes, and a diamond-patterned jumper.

“In lemon. With socks to match.”

It’s a seductive image.

Wiseman might find such a makeover beneficial himself, given that his blog character page has not been receiving many hits recently. I have caught him murmuring idly about appearing on Celebrity Big Brother in an attempt to restore his public profile. I trust it won’t come to that.

Meanwhile, at work, a state of emergency has been declared after we arrived this morning to discover a small loch in one of our consulting rooms and a waterfall coming through the ceiling. It transpired that the boiler in one of the flats above us had no overflow pipe as such, apart from the interior of the building.

Dish, perhaps unable to work in such conditions, or possibly in French-style solidarity with the Edinburgh postal workers who have just gone on strike, tossed her head petulantly and stalked out. But we coaxed her back in with some biscuits.

No cricket this weekend, due to music commitments at church, and so no chance to improve on my dismal average.

I don’t really hate cricket. It only takes one or two days after a catastrophic batting performance before you’ve forgotten all about it and are itching to get playing again. That elusive half-century is only a few scratchy boundaries away, after all…

Radio 2 and cricket

Heard a new song from Duke Special on Radio 2 this morning, as I was wending my way westwards towards the coast and another visit to Northern Ireland. The Admin Supremo expects me to derail the peace process while I’m there, having been thwarted by hitherto unknown goodwill and peaceful intentions on my previous visit, but nothing could be further from the truth.

I started receiving emails advertising Duke Special’s forthcoming gigs some years ago. Didn’t come across as spam, but had no idea who Duke Special was/were, and so I binned the emails and requested my name be taken off the mailing list. Which it was, so it can’t have been spam. Now, having heard the song on the radio, it sounds uncommonly like Peter Wilson, who I emailed via Friends Reunited some time ago after spotting his name in the inlay notes of a CD I was listening to. Which maybe explains how I ended up on his mailing list. Peter Wilson used to go to my school, Down High, which is why I was interested in the first place. So Mr Wilson joins Ash in the select group of people who have left my school and had a song played on the radio. Although, strictly speaking, I think Ash achieved that feat before leaving school, the upstarts. Perhaps Broon, another DHS ex-pupil, may yet make it a hat-trick. It would be a shame if her skills on the slide trombone were not exposed to a wider audience than just Bellevue Chapel.

Potentially even more exciting (I know, I know) is that I heard Jo Mango on Radio 2 last night. Apparently Stuart Maconie had highlighted a song of hers earlier in the week, and we heard another snippet of it last night. I heard her perform the same song live, in a barn somewhere between Perth and Dundee, a year or two ago. In fact, you could say I actually played on the same bill as Jo Mango, although it would be stretching the truth a little.

But enough of my brushes with A-list celebrities for the time being. Back to cricket. Two weeks ago, I noted with some relief that the Australian government had decided to bite the bullet and ban their cricketers from touring Zimbabwe, which they were due to do this year.

A note of explanation. The ICC, who mismanage cricket on a global scale, have a Future Tours programme, which all Test and ODI-playing countries are obliged to subscribe to. This commits them to playing against all the other major cricketing countries home and away within 6 years. Failure to fulfil this obligation would incur a heavy fine for the guilty cricket board, possibly along with a ban, which would bring even heavier financial losses. Accordingly, countries that have been contemplating a refusal to play in Zimbabwe on account of Robert Mugabe’s regime, e.g. England, have decided to tour anyway because they can’t afford to be banned from world cricket. The ICC have copped some flak for their stance, it being widely believed in some parts of the cricket world that they (the ICC) should suspend Zimbabwe from playing international cricket until the situation in the country improves. The ICC refuse to do this, claiming that they don’t get involved in politics, only cricket. The only way a country’s cricket board can legitimately not tour without incurring a fine is if the government actually BANS the cricket team from going.

Cue the Aussie government’s announcement. Compare this with the British government’s approach: when England were faced with the same quandary a few years ago, the government refused to have anything to do with it, saying it was a matter for the cricketers. The ECB, conscious of the financial implications, hummed and hawed for a bit, then prevaricated, chewed things over and weighed them up, before finally giving in and going ahead with the tour. Money is money, after all.

“I don’t think it’s fair to leave a foreign policy decision of this magnitude on the shoulders of young sportsmen,” the Australian PM John Howard was quoted as saying. “It’s much better, in the end, for the government to take the rap.” Must be good to live in a country where the politicians talk in straight lines. Unlike the UK, which moreover sanctimoniously outlaws Australia’s tourism advertising slogan “So where the bloody hell are you?” but has no issue with French Connection’s grubby marketing. One wonders idly if Australia taking money out of the UK economy, and French Connection putting it in, might have anything to do with it.

A prime minister that says it like it is, and loves cricket too. Now there’s a thing. Midway through his re-election campaign in 2004, Howard was asked how things were progressing. “It’s like having built a very solid Hayden-Langer partnership,” he replied. “We’ve made a good start.”

Brilliant. Perhaps Gordon Brown will someday describe a stinging reply in the House as a “Pietersen slap through midwicket.” Or a wide-of-the-mark question as a “Harmison”…

Well, it’s about time for me to return to the P&O Express car deck and drive off into the homeland. The smell of a ferry’s car deck evokes so many memories of childhood holidays to Scotland and beyond (England, occasionally). Not so much a whiff of nostalgia, as an intense petrol vapour-fuelled sensory experience. The whiff of nostalgia has come instead from an unexpected source. A girl has just started playing a recorder in the passenger lounge. A RECORDER. Three notes in, I am reminded of what an irritating noise they make. Don’t think she’s in line for a record deal.

Unless, of course, she goes to my old school…