It’s been a little while since I slagged off, I mean talked about cricket, so I thought what better time, as the season to bash extremely hard balls about is bowling off in earnest, than talk about the bloody sport.
I mean bloody in the kindest (you know me) sense of the word. I’m amazed that we don’t hear more stories about the carnage on the cricket ground. Forget murder on the dance floor.
Considering the fact that it consists of whizzing a cannonball about and trying to score runs while someone throws those same cannonballs back at you, I mean at the stumps, to get you out, I would expect the body count to be higher than a Rambo film.
Rollerball? Ha! That’s like playing shove ha’penny with the grand kids compared to dodging one of those projectiles as some spotty young oik, out to prove himself, tries to flatten you with the village greens version of WMD’s.
I know that the few instances I’ve been persuaded, cajoled, press-ganged into playing cricket I’ve felt the need for more than just a box to give me some modicum of protection. More like full Kevlar body armour. And that’s when I’m fielding on the boundary.
Yep, there’s nothing like stretching out to try and catch a ball as it hurtles past you at sub-sonic speed, only for it to catch the tip of your fingers and damn near take your finger nails off. And what do you get for your kamikaze efforts? Looks of dismay from your team members and shakes of their heads.
So I tip my hat to those about to do battle for Queen and County and hope they’ve got their slot booked at A&E.
It certainly is a huge price to pay for cucumber sandwiches in the pavilion.
But really this post was just an excuse to show this cover from a new book by Simon Hughes which I think is marvelous.
A sneaky plug?
It’s just not cricket.