cricket with balls

I should say he wasn’t actually in the toilet at Lord’s, but he was in there via this picture.

Forget for a moment that Dirk looks like he would rather be anywhere else than the photo shoot.

And even forget that Lebara have found the cheapest no name shirts they could for the ad, and think about what this could have been.

It is placed above the piss troughs at the grounds, it should be Dirk with a shit eating grin on his face, pointing his camera down like he is taking a picture of your cock, while Vaas and Saqlain kick the shit out of someone in a chicken suit in the back ground.

Some people just don’t have the flare for advertising that we do.

There are several perks to working with Jrod. For example, it is not often that I get to be the least sweary one in a room. Or the handsomest. And it isn’t that often that you get a book acknowledgment which is more glowing than the one that the author gives to his English teacher. But what really makes it worthwhile are some of the conversations. The conversations are, at times, surreal.

Last week,  for example, I was accused of being like this guy, during a conversation in which the aforementioned Big Cheese revealed not only a poor grasp of the script of ‘Team America: World Police’, but of his own megalomania generally. But it did give me an idea. Suppose we here at the Balls went all Niyazov on the world and decided to rename the days of the week and months of the year after cricketers?

For example, November always starts with loads of fireworks and fun, but usually ends up being grim, depressing and throughly downbeat. It is no coincidence that the month of November sees more suicides than any other month of the year. Welcome, then, to the month of Botham.

Following Botham, we currently have December. It is a month full of anticipation, a long build up to a lot of wonderful things. Or is it? Isn’t it more a month of anticipation, usually followed by a bit of a damp squib at the end, when everything turns out to be nowhere near as wonderful as you expect it to be? In which case, we should rename it ‘Afridi’.

And we can go on. January could be dedicated to Cricket Administrators, because no matter how much the new year promises, you can guarantee that it will be fucked up somehow. February, on the other hand, is short and wonderful. You get paid more quickly, either the weather is decent or at least the long winter months seem to be coming to an end. It is, in a way, mercurial. Therefore it has to be Tendulkar month.

Then there are the days of the week. For example, Wednesday is a completely pointless day. Nothing good seems to come of it and it’s appearance usually only serves to remind you just how much work still needs to be done. A bit like Ian Bell, really.

And as for Monday, well, don’t you just want it to fuck off as soon as it arrives? Like you do with Ricky Ponting?

Whereas Friday is the classic day that usually starts well, then all goes horribly wrong. Forever. In which case we should call it ‘Ashraful’ instead.

That’s as much thinking as I am going to do. The rest of the days and months are up to you lot. Besides, I’ve got to get on with being a despotic headcase*.

(*I’ll concede that the banning of lipsynching was a pretty good idea. If only he’d banned street theatre, too.)

Happy Jesus on a stick day. A day that is all about honouring someone who died so that we can all be perverts and animals, but you can’t eat steak, in case some is made of him.

In honour of Jesus dying I’ve compiled an XI of players who died, and were then reborn, or you know, other Christian type shit. Jesus, as we all know, was a wicket keeper.

S Katich – Found himself in a cricket career cave due to some horrific test form, but then his God, Bob Simpson, helped him, and thankfully we now have Katich shuttling around the crease for days on end.

M Sinclair – Impossible as it is to enjoy the way he plays, Sinclair is the one cricketer most likely to survive Sodom and Gomorrah. When the Kiwis are having a selectorial apocalypse, it is Sinclair they turn to. He will always live with us.

I Bell – If Bell truly was the son of God, Christianity would have died out by now. Instead Bell seems ordained by some higher power, perhaps Murdoch, to play the number 3 position for England. He coveted it while he had to wait out Pestilence (Shah), War (Bopara) and Famine (Trott) but he found his way back to number three.

M Hussey – Has never left heavenly earth, but what exactly was he doing between the age of 12 and 30.

K Pietersen – An outcast with his old religion he became the father, son and holy bail of a new one. It still hasn’t been smooth sailing, but he no longer has to bowl off spin, so that is good.

K Akmal – Crucified on the pitch for one of the most heretical displays of wicket keeping ever written about. But he will be back, you can’t keep a Pakistani cricketer away for too long. Even if he comes back as a kolpak.

A Flintoff – as was written.

N Hauritz – Outbowled by M Clarke and then shunned by his country, his state, and his knew state. One day four wise men decided to pick him up from the gutter he found himself in, and bugger me if he hasn’t stayed around since then.

S Bond – Needed to go on a spiritual adventure to India so that one day he could come back to New Zealand and tell them he was available for white ball games and then continued his spiritual adventure in India.

A Mendis – The man is full of mystery, but once you work it out, it is all kind of simple and you don’t really care anymore.

A Nehra – From a world cup final to the great abyss, but thanks to Lalit K, Nehra has been brought back so that we can all pray at his long limbs and permanent angry face.

J Patel (12th) – Is so good at being 12th man I couldn’t see why he wouldn’t do it for Jesus.

You think I feel dirty for writing that, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong.

Now, it is fair to say that opinion on Bell is pretty much divided. Jrod, for example, wants to keep him naked in a gilded cage. This isn’t legal, but probably should be. Balancing this view, you have the likes of Suave who want to remove him from the gene pool, preferably with fire. This isn’t legal, but probably should be.

Both, of course, are wrong. Wronger than a baby seal sandwich. Because the one thing that you can’t deny about Bell is that he’s a determined little bugger. Like the fly that keeps bashing its head on the window, in defiance of the logic that going through the open window above it might present a better option, Bell has hung on to his international career despite all of the obstacles in his way. When you are born short and ginger, and are then sent to a minor public school – so minor that you are the most notable alumnus – the temptation to give up on life and become a bank clerk must be strong.

Not Bell, though. No matter how many times you tell him that he’s not quite good enough to play international cricket, he tries to prove you wrong. Before today, one of the big complaints against him was that he only ever made big runs if everyone around him was doing the same. Yesterday, for the first time, he made a century when no-body else did.

OK, so it was ‘only’ Bangladesh. But it was the ‘only’ Bangladesh who posted over 400 in their first innings, as against an England side who only got that far because of a seventh wicket partnership which featured at least four decisions which were manifestly wrong in favour of the batsman. An England side for whom Fat Boy Bresnan will be the second top scorer.

This tour was supposed to be a sinecure for the England team, a nice rest before the rigours of the summer and winter. It has been nothing of the sort. For one or two, this may be the last time they pull on a Test shirt. For Ian Bell, it might just be the tour where he cements his place in the side. No-one has been as consistent wtih the bat on this ‘easy’ tour, and international runs count, no matter who you make them against. Could we have just witnessed the moment where Bell confirmed his place over and above that of another ginger-haired lad?

As the hours tick down towards the start of their oh-so-tricky first Test against Bangladesh, England’s selectors are apparently enduring sleepless hours wondering who to leave out from the side.

So far, the only people certain not to be in the starting XI are Luke Wright and Stephen Davies. Even Liam Plunkett might get a call, on the grounds that (a) Stuart Broad might not be fit and (b) he’s the next most-capped bowler in the side – which would mean adopting the age-old English policy of going for experience despite the player having been resolutely crap for the entire tour.

Which means that they have to play Broad, because otherwise they have to play someone slightly less threatening than Angelina Ballerina. Except they can’t play him as a part of a two man pace attack, in case his back goes again.

In which case they have to play Finn, despite his being likely to blow away at the first gust of wind, because they have to play Bresnan, if only to ensure that there is some food left come the intervals.

But if they play three seamers, they have to leave out either a spinner or a batsman. Which means either leaving out Swann (unthinkable), the leading wicket taker on this leg of the tour (Tredwell), the guy who scored a ton in the last game (Trott), the only specialist opener in the side other than the captain (Carberry) or Ian Bell, who hasn’t really done anything to justify being dropped. For once.

And before anyone starts, you’ve more chance of catching Andy Flower climbing out of the back entrance of Robert Mugabe than you have of him dropping KP.

Never fear, though. Because the Balls has the answer. There isn’t one England player who isn’t taller than any given member of the Bangladesh starting XI – even Bell. And when you get to a certain height, your features must just be fading into the distance, like mountain tops. Which means that England should just take advantage of their opponents being a bit on the short side and just play Broad. And then, if he starts falling apart again, slip Finn onto the field in his place. A bit of hair dye and no-one will ever know.

And then the selectors can get a decent night’s sleep and stop coming up with stupid ideas such as Trott opening, or dropping Tredwell on a track prepared for their opponents’ 1283 spinners.