cricket with balls

What could be better than waking up on a sunny spring morning to the news that England have inexplicably been asked to bat on a docile pitch and have, for once, taken advantage of their good fortune.

Mrs Skiver is looking as gorgeous as ever, Skiver Jr is being cute and mischievous, Pietersen is finding some form and Cook has even hit a boundary.

I hop into the car and turn on Test Match Special, point the front end in the direction of the office, and then it happens.

Next thing I know, I’m headed for a ditch. I wrest the steering wheel violently to the right and the next thing I know I’m a mile down the road a bus queue of local schoolgirls is about to receive an intimate internal examination courtesy of the bumper of my car.

I back up, check that the car is no more dented than usual, and set off again. I even wind down a window to keep me awake. And in moments I am halfway to work and passing through a graveyard that definitely isn’t on my usual route.

Blearily, I rub my eyes. I wasn’t this tired ten minutes ago.

And then I realise the cause. TMS have only got Mark freaking Butcher on commentary.

Mark Butcher, the man whose voice could sedate a rottweiler at 100 paces.

What, in the name of all that is holy (and several things that aren’t, including me) is he doing on the radio during the school run? Innocent lives are in danger here. You can tell the cricket fans, they are the ones weaving about the road like Paul Smith on a long walk home. Sooner or later, someone is going to take out a nursery.

It shouldn’t be allowed. Not without the emergency services being on red alert. And the whole programme should have a recorded message, with a text along the lines of the warnings you get on some medicines:

WARNING: This broadcast contains Mark Butcher. If you feel drowsy, do not attempt to drive or use heavy machinery. The BBC accepts no liability for loss or personal injury caused by the tedium of listening to Mark Butcher, including, inter alia, gnawing off your own limbs, setting fire to your children or wanting to listen to Coldplay

If you have ever thought, jeez that Jrod is a bastard, I’d love to see him black & blue, bleeding from the eyeball or crying in pain, here is your chance.

I have stupidly agreed to face Iain O’Brien for charity. The charity I have chosen is the Zimbabwe Aids trust. Which could be funny if I start pissing blood afterwards or I get hit in the balls.

The date is yet to be announced yet as we are waiting for the practice pitches at Lord’s to be ready for such an important event. I do know that equipment wise I will be wearing a helmet, box, thighpad, gloves and pads. Nothing more.

This will be carnage. I am not a terrible batsman, but neither am I any good.

The whole event will be filmed by the Test Match Sofa team, who will also commentate and laugh.

So if you donate you will actually get the extra pleasure of seeing me get hurt on your dime, how could you resist?

It’d be nice if you donated, it is a great charity and I think I will have earned your money.

I assume you are an international or first class cricketer and that you’ve come here looking for tips on how to write a player diary. I’ve put together a cheat sheet for you. In it is all the basics you will need to make sure that book is so formulaic no sponsors will leave you.

- Employ a ghostwriter. Pick a writer who is not that famous but who is skilled as a ghostwriter. You obviously won’t want to sit down and write, that is for angry talentless people, so you need a ghostwriter. Find one who thinks you are great, and then sit down with him for two days. From there, the book writes itself.

- Teammates. All your teammates are great. Some might be out of form, but they train hard and will come back. Some might be in trouble with the law, but that donkey they fucked clearly consented before the group sex, and the boys obviously thought it was male. You can never put enough praise on them; after all, they are the greatest bunch of blokes you have played with, every single one of them. Use their nicknames as well; make us feel like part of the team.

- The media. They don’t really understand you. Even though your writer is part of the media, and you are talking to him now, you hate them all. They say you live in a bubble, but they do. They make things up, blow things out of proportion and end the career of hard working, hard living cricketers. Question their sexuality as well.

- Your Hotel. All fans of yours will really want to know every detail of your hotel.

- Ex-cricketers. The problem with ex-cricketers is that they forget about the pressure. You should really drill this home. Once a guy leaves cricket he will start to bag you, so bag the fucker back. If he says you are shit, question his record, or personal life. All ex-players turn evil (join the media), so abusing them is ok.

- Your family. Even if your wife and children are annoying fuckers, you must say you miss them at least thrice on every tour. Also put in some details about how much your kids have grown/changed/etc and how your wife is such a terrific wife.

- Famous people. If, during the period of the diary or near enough, you met someone famous in another field, include that, and then say really nice, but meaningless, things about meeting them. Then get them to write a boring meaningless foreword as well.

- Charity work. Even if the only charity you believe in is fucking the odd ugly fan, you cannot release a book about yourself without mentioning some charity work. The best charities should be about cricket and or cancer. If you can’t come up with one, I always thought a cricket testicular cancer charity called, “One short”, could work.
- Apologia. Think of the book as your chance to explain all of your actions. No one can interject or use logic to stop you, your book is one long explanation for everything you have done wrong, well, that others think you’ve done wrong.

- Opposition players. If there is an opposition player that pisses you off, don’t get snippy with them in a press conference, do it in your book. If you are particularly angry, it means free publicity.

- Praise the fans. This may surprise you, but most people in cricket don’t like you, so use your book to suck up to the fans. Start each chapter with, “the fans at (enter place name here) are some of the most passionate and informed fans in cricket.

- Your name. You are famous; your name will sell shit. Put it large on the cover, and ignore the ghostwriter. He is no one, you are a cricketer.

As seen on cricinfo; inspired by the dude who asked about saw:

One killer. Five cricketers. One house. Who will last?

When Virender Sehwag, and four other cricketers who aren’t Virender Sehwag, wake up in an old creepy mansion they have to face the toughest test of their lives.

Virender, Sulieman, Brad, Daniel, and Shahid all find themselves victims of cruel cricket related horror madness. Are they willing to change the way they play the game to survive. This is the horror film that puts the balls in the right area.

Sulieman Benn wakes up in the end of a hallway, it is pitch black but when he moves a TV screen appears on the roof above him. A blood covered skull moves its jaw bone and says:

“Hello, Sulieman. You are a humble, sane and talented international finger spinner yet you constantly bump into the opposition, trip players up or get in physical entanglements; in Australia you did all three. Did you do it for your team or did you just want some attention? Tonight, you’ll show me. The irony is that if you want to die you just have to have to behave as normal, but if you want to live, you’ll have to walk down this hallway and not bump into any of my friends who are all set up to explode at the smallest of touches, you might survive one bump, but not two.  The door is open at the other end of the hallway; it will be for the next two minutes, the time that your over is supposed to be bowled in if you are playing sensibly.”

A solitary light is turned on and it swings from side to side illuminating all the entire hallway of mechanical creatures that is in store for him and the open door at the end.

Daniel wakes up with his arms and head in a dry plastic tube and the rest of his body in a tank of water.  He struggles a bit, which triggers a voice recording:

“Hello Daniel. If you are tough enough to get hit in the face and then still want to bat in a test match, why don’t you just prove it? Let’s put your so-called “toughness” to the test.  In a few seconds a ball machine will start firing balls into your face, for every one you dodge or deflect will release a fresh water crocodile into the water.  If you are tough, you will take all the balls on the face and make it to the other end of the tank safely, press the water release button, if not, the crocodiles will eat you alive. Each ball will come at 90MPH, Jimmy Anderson pace.”

Brad awakes in a room filled with old machinery he has a letter around his neck.

“Welcome, Brad.  You’ve got fast hands, don’t you?  Now we are going to test them for once and all.  In each of these machines is a key, you will need all six keys to open the door, but the machines will crush the key if you are too late.  If you miss one key the door will never open and you will be stuck here to think about your past digressions until the air runs out.  If you get your hands stuck in the machine, you will be sucked in and crushed.  You’ve gotten away with manoeuvres like this before, think you can again, Brad?”

Shahid wakes up tied up in a body length straight jacket with a weird metal contraption on his head, written in chalk next to him is:

“Hello Shahid. You don’t know me, but I know you. I know you like to use your mouth, but could you use it to save your life? On the table in front of you is a ball of razor wire, inside the ball is a remote control that will release your shackles and open the door.  Since you are such an expert I am sure you won’t cut yourself too much or accidentally slit your throat.  You have 11 minutes, the average amount of time you spend batting, after that the machine on your head will bite your head in half.”

Virender wakes up chained to a vat of yellow liquid with a tape recorder in his pocket:

“Virender, this is your wake-up call. Everyday you embarrass other cricketers by playing shot after shot. Now you will have to change your game.  Your aim in this game is to dead bat the balls, so that the sulphuric acid vat positioned behind you does not break and pour onto you.  If you miss a ball, you will die, if you hit the ball too hard you will die, if you rush forward you will die.  For once you will have to play the anchor role. When you have gotten to the red button at the end of the room the ball machine will stop and your restraints will be released, but to get out of the room you will have to take a blunt axe to the body of an unconscious bowler who is chained in front of your small exit door.  From the time you press the red button you have 2 minutes to dismantle the bowler, if you don’t the vat then the Vat will time out and just release its contents in the room. You have destroyed many a bowler with your bat, can you do it with an axe?”

The first ball fires short and wide of Virender.

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I have said two matches is not a series, and today it is all I can think of.

This could have been one of the best series in the history of world cricket; instead we are stuck with two games.

Look at what we got:

Batsmen playing so well you feel they don’t even need to be looking at the ball to hit it.

Both team collapsing at times.

Fast bowlers bullying the opposition at times, then getting smashed.

Spinners controlling the scoreboard.

One team takes the first game, only for the second to grab the second in tight finish.

Two teams who are evenly matched fighting for the prestige.

Poorly choreographed cheerleaders who didn’t seem to want to be there at all.

Oh, this was a series.

It is just a shame that Pakistan and England only chose to play 2 games of 2020 cricket, think of how great this would be as a 15 match series (to the death).

2020 cricket, there is just never enough.

Buy the book, get a t-shirt, or donate to the whisky fund.