Today's the day, in kind

Only just. It's taken me half an hour to get on to the blog. Technology and moi are not in the same carriage. Only my hair to cut and the missus will kindly do that. I am confident she won't scalp me as I behaved myself last night. It was a fiftieth. The lovely lady whose birthday it was danced over with what I thought was a suggestive manner. The dance was full of eastern promise with her hands fluttering and waving like a butterflies wings. I blew out the candle and stripped off her long slinky black gloves, slowly peeling them down as if they were black stockings. They were. She had very kindly lent me a pair of anti embolism stockings for the flight. We set off to Heathrow in two hours. The missus told me to wear loose trousers so that I would be comfortable. I don't want them to fall down mid flight so I asked the lady in question if I could borrow her suspender belt. She asked me If I wanted 'frilly' or 'standard'. As we are flying Economy without frills I asked for the latter. I mean I don't want people to talk. The last time I talked about stockings and suspenders was when my missus and I were on the way down to Spain. We stopped off as you do overnight in a hotel. I can be kind of romantic. Read on.
We cleaned our teeth. I got into bed wearing only my boxer shorts and my hush puppies. The missus was next in wearing a slip, a gully, sorry! Black bra, knickers, stockings and suspenders. (I take it all back about that handbag). Despite my bowling arm being dodgy I began to stroke her. I took my glasses off so my mind could improve the picture I was getting, like they do with those image intensifiers that you can see or just about make out on TV. You know, like they use on Channel 4 to see if it’s a clean snatch I mean catch. My mate used to think that it was a disadvantage to me when we were at the local swimming pool as with my poor eyesight I couldn’t see the talent clearly. I had to disagree as I hadn’t seen a single woman without a perfect body. He replied ‘precisely’. I left it go there as the chlorine was getting to my eyes and my swimming trunks were getting uncomfortable as a Norah Batty look-alike had just got in the pool.
The missus, not having access to the same hardware, turned the light out. My spinning finger slid up the seam of her left stocking. Automatically I switched to the right. I pulled back the covers… into the deep….the phone rang! It was her mother as usual at such times. She must have installed an early warning system into her daughter’s crotch that is touch sensitive, that time she visited her in hospital; a sort of golden receiver. Believe it or not she was calling from an hotel in Torquay, but it wasn’t Basil’s. Our other son who was house sitting his gran’s house and contemplating the world of work had told his gran that the summer house she ordered for her other daughter in Wales had arrived at gran’s place instead of the daughter’s, and it was lying on the lawn. That daughter by the way will be lying on the exact beach in Spain that we are heading for. On reflection, which I suppose is what I am doing; I can understand why the phone call took 30 minutes. What I don’t understand is why the missus didn’t imitate Victor Meldrew rather than Sybil, by saying ‘I don’t believe it!’ instead of ‘I know.’ every 15 seconds.
Rather than let sleeping dogs lie, the missus woke me up with a twang of her knicker elastic, and like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I started to salivate. I didn’t do Biology at GCE so I had no idea about the examination questions on natural lubrication, stimulus and response. I didn’t study equine studies either, but I knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth and I moved down, safe in the knowledge that this was not the night for playing ‘Dutch ovens’. Reception was good so I gently probed the crease. I was beginning to regret that I gave up woodwork, as I was making French connections between tongue and groove. The phone rang again showing that reception was better than I thought. As we all know because of that implant, it was her mother again. We had known for ages that grandpa had lost his dentures. We knew that he’d lost them before they went to that hotel. She had rung to say that she had found them ‘…in her knickers!’
The messages from my taste buds changed from wine and roses to cheese and onion. She had found his teeth in the laundry basket attached to the gusset of one of her pairs of giant knickers. ‘Like father-in-law like son’, went through my head and although I had nothing against grandpa there were some thoughts I just didn’t want to entertain. The missus rolled over but I told her’ It’s not tonight Josephine, Cilla or Cliff’. I was trying to explain optimistically that the next tonight will be tomorrow night, but she didn’t hear me as I was talking through her knickered ass while her mother was talking through her ass about knickers.
I decided that enough was enough so I swiped her pillow, dropped off to sleep and turned my attention to the Maid of Bordeaux. I dreamed about being dressed up as the Maid of Orleans giving V signs to Boudicca who was covered in green wode and was being driven by Jimmy McGregor in her chariot round a field with white cows in designer sunglasses wearing defensive fielding positions while two sunflowers were batting rather well. Pylons are umpiring. Even I could see that I was unlikely to get a game, and I didn’t like the sight of the pile of sawdust at the bowler’s end which appeared to be smouldering. More realistically I set my mind to how I could bring myself into contention for selection into the England team, by converting to a demon spin bowler. I woke up coughing, before I got into Gravesend’s third team. The pressure must have been getting to me as I needed a wee. It must have been all those drinks breaks in the fourths and the number of fags they smoke in the warm ups.
I got back in. She’d retaken the pillow. I could see by her expression that she’d been playing goal attack for England, even though she’s really Welsh. I said ‘shoot’. She sat up; I swiped the pillow back and crashed off to sleep. I woke up at eight to find that she’d got the pillow propped up behind her and was reading her book giggling in that supercilious way which is supposed to say that her book is better than your book. To counter the argument that it was making her laugh anyway, I didn’t hear a single guffaw until I woke up. I asked her what time breakfast was. She chortled ‘Any time before 9.30’. We were obviously suffering from jet lag as it was only 7.30 and our bodies were responding as if we were still in Britain. The missus confirmed this by farting and saying ‘me’ after ‘pardon’.
If I can cope the next installment will be from down under, misssus' mother or no missus' mother.

One day to go

All packed according to flight regulations. Hand luggage and cabin luggge labelled and ready for the off. The boy is also getting there. Bell made more than a century, Collingwood only a little less. If it doesn't last five days it's not heart breaking as there will be loads to do. We are off to see the 'fleet in about 20 mins. Time enough for the missus to cut my hair. England expects and so do I. Want a read? OK I'll see what I can do for you. There may be a few bouncers zooming around next week. There may be some Barmy Armies wearing 'Douglas Jardine T Shirts on top down under. It won't include me as 1. they were not cheap and 2. I don't want the bouncers coming in my direction.
There’s only one batsman that I ever wanted to hit. Not that I would have bowled a deliberate beamer, even to him. I was about 19. The Police were looking for an arsonist who was wreaking havoc in my home town. Apparently somebody was seen to leave the scene on a ‘rusty bike’. You guessed it, just like mine. It was a ‘Blue Streak’ with drop handlebars and Disraeli gears. I used to leave the bike propped up outside the house. I never bothered to padlock it; you didn’t need to. This was Cornwall and it was forty years ago. Besides unlike its namesake it wasn’t combustible. My dad was the first to mention it. One of the people he knew at Mass on a Sunday was a policeman, and he’d brought it to my dad’s attention. Despite a good reference from my dad, a detective came around to interview me. They obviously thought they had a red hot suspect. Who was I to throw cold water on it? You don’t think my earlier years as an altar boy lighting all those candles would count against me do you? The lasting impression of this cop was his shoes. Big brown brogues. He probably interpreted me staring at them as eye avoidance. I cooperated but not in the way he wanted. I didn’t admit to the crimes. I felt it best not to as it wasn’t me who had committed them. Eventually he moved on to the possibility of someone nicking the bike, doing the deed and then returning it to the exact same spot. What an honest arsonist. I think he saw the flaw in his argument. He didn’t accept my ‘I would have missed it if it wasn’t there.’ He definitely didn’t like my ‘I can’t see your brown shoes now,’ when we were eyeball to eyeball ‘but I’d know if they weren’t there. He ended up with ‘You don’t know how lucky you are that you don’t fit the description!’
He didn’t know how lucky he was when he got out first over later that year when he came out to open the batting for the Police team that was playing against our Milk Marketing Board side. I didn’t recognise him but I did recognise those big brown shoes. There was a time I would have toed the line as well as bowled line and length only, but I’d done a bit of growing up during that ‘interview’. I’d deliberately looked at a little spot on the wicket and measured out a very long run in preparation for the next over. I wanted to launch a rocket propelled missile that would strike home to add a further brown or red streak to those shoes. The colour would depend on my choice of target. I wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t given his wicket away deliberately. More yellow than blue. I’ve heard of the good cop bad cop techniques, so I was happy to let the same delivery go to the next batsman. After all it was a Saturday. He could put some holy water on it the following day.
See you in Australia!

Here we go

My son met Mark Butcher in Bluewater where he ( my son ) works. He asked him if he was going to Australia. He said no. My son told him that we were off to watch the first two test matches on Sunday. That night my mate phoned to see if I fancied going to watch Gravesend and Northfleet play Oxford United on Saturday. They are bringing loads of fans with them and someone said their own police. I'll look for the red Jag.I hope the weather will be OK as a lot of them will get soaked on the away end at Stonebridge Road as there is no roof. Last season by mistake I went through the kid's and OAP's turnstyles. I handed over my ten quid. He gave me a fiver back. I thought the Kent Policemen on duty looked young enough to be my grandchildren. I felt a bit down, but the extra fiver helped in the bar before the game. Although I am retired now I am only early retired and not yet 60, I couldn't bring myself to go through the same entrance when the Fleet played Dagenham and Redbridge earlier in the season. I paid the full quota though this season ten is twelve.
Anyway even though totally unaware of Butcher's brief meeting with my son my mate reckoned that Butcher should be Marcus Trescothick's replacement. Experienced, used to the big time, good bat, helpful to Freddie. That sort of thing. Wouldn't it have been great if they had picked Mark B to replace Marcus T if only for the reason of making this piece more interesting or less dull depending on which side you shine your balls. Yes I've written a book but nobody wants to publish it. Publishers and agents don't want to know. With what you are reading now, I'm sure you can understand why. One said that the laddish and smart language made her feel uncomfortable. I'll try again when I will be officially allowed to go through those other turnstiles. There's no way I can be described as 'laddish' then. I wish I knew which bit was smart in the three sample chapters I sent her. I 've read those pages hundreds of times and I haven't seen anything remotely approaching that which can be described as 'smart'. Perhaps she meant 'smart-assed' but could not bring herself to say so as she was not enough of a ladette. I'm not bitter. I don't suppose she even likes cricket, and I'm not sure that I would like to share the terraces with her tomorrow even if she is an Oxford don. All hypothetical of course as by the sound of her she wouldn't be able to get her fat through the away turnstyles.
Not wanting to publish my book through this medium there are one or two things that I want to slip into the public's eye while cricket is under the lens. I'll see if I can cut and paste a relevant bit. Only I have to do 'control C' and 'Control V'. I can't get it out of my mind that a past school I was at was criticised in an Ofsed Inspection for too much 'cutting and sticking' See what you think.
'Some bloke confused me once over a googlie. It was at a lunchtime do at a colleague’s place. Most there were journalists, so I was lost for words. I left the missus who was enjoying their company to go inside to watch some cricket on the telly. For some reason the googlie came up. Probably because they were talking about spin. Knowing that it had been invented by a broadcaster’s dad B.J. Bosanquet, I asked this bloke who was also watching it, whether he had come across Reginald, the son. I’d actually been introduced to him years ago at a book signing. George Melly was also there, as was the author Margaret Drabble. I think it was her book. When we talked to her she said’ At last some real people.’ Perhaps she was being kind. Anyway this bloke got quite uppity. He was adamant that it was not B.J.B who had invented the googlie; it was the father of the bloke who had gone off with his wife. It had happened quite a few years ago but he was still sore about it. I didn’t know what to say. I asked him if he was sure about it as well as being sore about it. He said yes, and he was. He talked more about the matrimonial difficulty, rather than of the father in whom I was more interested. I had come in from the garden to get away from the gossip columnists, and I got all this. I did get his name but I’ve seen All the President’s Men and I’m not going to say anything until I see that teacher next term.'
I mean who was this bloke? The teacher couldn't work it out. Can anybody help? Derek Underwood has just said on Radio 5 that he is going to three tests. Will he know? We could have gone with the Barmy Army. My son thought we should have done. I couldn't bear the thought of someone playing a trumpet in my ear all day. I may change my mind. I'm OK one side as my son will be sitting there. What if some early retired grey haired boring old fart is sat next to me on the other side. I'd cry out for a bugle then. No. I agree with you. The chances of two in one place. What do you reckon? 24000 to 1. I'll lay you £1 in premium bonds.