What goes round comes round. A tile of two cities.

 

It was good to hear the Barmy Army's trumpeter at the Gabba this time though his tunes seemed to have had a boots and saddles effect on Mitchell Johnson. I had my binoculars with me on the Sunday of the 1st Ashes Test at Brisbane back in November 2010. The Gestapoesque Australian Gabba Ground Authorities (Gaggas) overlooked them in their searches. Probably because of the massive queues they were causing. Four year's previously they had almost prevented us from seeing Harmison's opening gambit.

I'd been looking at the cracks in the pitch along with the likes of Shane Warne. There wasn't a lot of on field activity as the Aussie Children were not playing their equivalent of Kwik Cricket. Could be that they were at sledging class. Even Duncan Fletcher was having to find his own entertainment on his lap top. Perhaps he was airbrushing out the events of the morning by pushing Strauss' hook over the boundary and moving Bell's bat a little so that he got an edge onto his pad.

The ground staff who seemed to be under pressure were pointing out the cracks to a couple of policemen who were peering. Maybe they were thinking they had come across a place where they could stash the trumpets, bugles and other instruments of mass destruction that they had removed from the fans. Michael Atherton was standing by the stumps at our end. His pockets seemed to be bulging. Despite the lack of instruments The Barmies started up the theme tune from 'The Great Escape'.

Athers put his hands in his pockets, and with trousers slightly raised he strutted off down the pitch following the lines of the cracks. You don't think so surely! I know he has form but I thought that he was filling in for the absentee little Aussie cricketers, not filling in the cracks.

The bloke on the gate who missed my binoculars didn't miss the ice bricks in my cold bag. I'd read about the Gaggas not allowing in backpacks. That morning's Lady Gagga told me that I was very fortunate as my eskie, as they call them Down Under was 'only just small enough'. Obviously the Aussie children were not so lucky. I watched our two Cs, Collingwood and Cook enter the arena. They were only just behind the eleven Aussie Cs (Colonials) who were cheered on by the twenty odd Aussie B's who shared the stadium with us Brits' or PBs as they lovingly call us.

The security people at the Adelaide Oval were more human. They still searched your bags but they didn't look on us as potential violent thugs. On the Sunday Lunchtime of the 2006 Test Match I'd been to the market up the road to buy some pressies. I'd bought a fired tile that depicted Ponting getting out at Brisbane. As I offered my bag for the search, the guy came across the tile. 'What's that, mate?' he asked. 'That's something that I will look at longingly and savour', I replied. 'That's Ponting getting out.' Take a good look', he said, 'You won't see that again'.

Unlike The Gabba who were taking things away, outside the Oval they were giving out free thongs (Flip flops in Up Above lingo) with a bottle opener attached to the sole. I packed them away carefully in case I made it a hat-trick of Gabba Tests . If the 2013 Gaggas tried to ban them I'd planned to say it was for my carpal tunnel syndrome.

Bowling Adelaide Pies and Bouncers

Just one day left to download the Kindle edition of French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners from Amazon for the price of a pie. If you are not going to do that you'd better read my admission on hurting batsmen now.


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 five 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.

I've also bowled a few pies as well in my time but none of them compared to the Adelaide Floating pie(pictured). If you are over there look out for them and have a g'day.

England are in trouble

More bad news is that we are not there this time. Will the next away Ashes be in four or five year's time?

Some good news for you is that French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners will be down loadable from Amazon for halfish price for a week from Friday. If you find that you become an insomniac after staying up all night watching the cricket start reading it and you'll soon doze off.

Beach cricket on Moreton island, taking the tram to Glen Elg, those floating pies - not to mention the memories below.

Sighhhhhh.

It is Light and Fitting-End of : John (Chapter 2)

It was a bit too yellow for a flash of lightning, and besides it came from within. There was a bang but it was not thunderous. I was a bit charged up with one thing and another at the time and though I didn't sit Usain bolt upright I did get out of the armchair pdq in case I spontaneously combusted.

Despite no longer being an armchair detective I worked out with Poirotesque stealth that it must have been one of the two kitchen fluorescent lights(Picture 1) that we had ordered on line after weeks of web soul destroying social search engineering. Which one though? The one nearest to the noisy fridge freezer which was reassuringly continuing to buzz? No it was the once already replaced one that had been delivered like Basil and proved to be as was the ex-parrot in his previous life.

Though a shadow of my former self I resolved to investigate and establish probable cause. To increase the lumens of the darkened room I set up a bog standard lamp. As it had a low voltage bulb I went off to watch the last episode of series 1 of 'The Wire' that I had series recorded to give the bulb a chance to shine.

Simples. I'd cracked it. One of the 36w 4 pin Utubes was looking blackened. I'd blown it. A trip to the electrical wholesaler was all that would be required. "Warm or Cold?" was the question, as if it were a plumber's. "We've only got cold but I can order you warm." Like the bog standard lamp's low voltage bulb "It'll take a couple of days." I couldn't make up my mind. I dithered but I was determined not to say that I was blowing hot or cold over it. "I'll go for cold." If the fridge freezer expresses any concern I'll come back and order warm.' I thought.

"Are there any other lights?" "There's another one of these". "Do you want another cold one to match it?" I was warming to it now. "No thanks. If there's one of each I can see which one the missus prefers." He made the very kind offer of doing a swap for no extra charge and so dissuading me from suggesting to put it in cold-store if it got the cold shoulder from the missus.

In went the replacement Utube. I turned on the switch. Let there be light, except there wasn't any, only from the other one, so it couldn't be the fuse or the trip switch down below in the cellar. It had to be the electronic ballast.(Picture 2). Being a member of 'Which' I sent off a bog standard e-mail complaining about it being 'unfit for purpose'. I got an acknowledgement saying that a member of their lighting team would get back to me. That didn't happen. I tried to shame them on Twitter but like the light itself-still no contact.

Despite the problems I was having with the ballast I tried to keep on an even keel. Rather than proceeding through the social media I decided to go face to face with a human. Back to the electrical wholesaler. I showed him the pictures that I had taken of the light and its parts. I was told that they could only order the part if it became part of a £750 order they would need to send off and that might take a time to accumulate. I made a mental note to check my third party fire and theft insurance. I was beginning to understand why the Big Six were doing High Fives over Energy prices. I was certainly and rapidly losing my cool.

Seeing the life blood draining from me the young bloke behind the counter in the electrical wholesaler shop wrote me out a note on a slip of paper. "Go to this address" he said. "They are specialists and you can get what you need off the shelf". "Tell them that John sent you. They'll look after you". It may have been a slip of a thing but to me it was like one of those shiny silver space blankets that they give out to runners at the end of marathons to help them recover as they warm down.

He may only have been a slip of a thing but to me he was like one of those volunteers who hand out those silver space blankets to runners at the end of marathons to help them recover as they warm down. I hope young John's a paid apprentice and not one of those interned volunteers doing work experience to be left on the shelf eventually. The plumber's mait turned out to be another gem. I showed him John's note. He went out back and got me an electronic ballast that was not the same as the one in the picture as that wasn't in existence any more but was the equivalent.

He explained that the wiring would be different. He showed me the differences. I wrote them on the magnified photo. (Picture 3)According to what I wrote down in descending ascending order 123456 becomes 351264. John's mate obviously had the same ability to gauge facial blood drain as John.

With an approach that most Customer Services would kill for he said "If you are worried about wiring it when you get home take down the whole light fitting, bring it here and we'll wire it up for you". So different to the 'If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen effing brigade I had encountered by their absence on the internet.

He gave me an invoice and I paid the £15 in cash. It is in dispute whether it was me or my good lady wife who picked up the paperwork. What was not in dispute was that we had not actually picked up the electronic ballast. A phone call received through muffled sounds of amusement confirmed that it had been left on the counter. No need for a 'Which' complaining e-mail here as the customer is not always right and is sometimes as in this case an arse.

Having established that I would not have been chosen by Bletchley Park as a code breaker and without the replacement part itself, I turned off the circuit breaker in the cellar and removed the fitting as advised. I released the three input wires and the screws attaching it to the ceiling without the air becoming any bluer in the kitchen. I didn't even react when the lady who is able to stir those parts which others fail to reach suggested sticking picture 2 to the ceiling to avoid any confusion when it came to replacing it.

I drove back to where John's mate worked ensuring this time that I had the fitting itself and not the picture of it. He listened sympathetically to my tale that such lapses of memory were becoming commonplace with me. "It'll take about ten minutes." He came back after a quarter of an hour with a bubble wrapped package. "It's all wired up. It's been tested and I've replaced some of the plastic sleeves that had become brittle and extended some of the wiring to accommodate the different part."

"How much do I owe you? "Nothing. It's okay." I fumbled for a five pound note. "Have a beer on me. You've saved me a lot of hassle." Absolutely not, thank you. It's our pleasure." I peeled off picture 1 that the missus had stuck up with Blu tack and with her support replaced and rewired the light.

So there is a sort of happy ending despite there now being a cold end and a warm end to our kitchen. When the kitchen light switch is thrown the 'old' light comes on right on the 'B' of the Bang which sounded the death knell for the 'new' one a full second sooner. I'll live with it. It may well be that the latter now has a nervous starter after its recent experiences.

Former PM John Major's silver tongue has been in action recently in the same vein as Harold Macmillan's comments about selling off the family silver and Edward Heath's Silver Cloud plating of the Iron Lady. Though perhaps more silver guilt than shades of grey, my take on what he had to say is the importance of not preventing the many John Minors of this country from aspiring to boldly go beyond the giving out of silver space blankets by removing the silver spoons from the mouths of the chosen few.

Pleased? I was Choughed to bits with this plaice.

From Kennack Sands (Picture 2, 1893; Picture 3, 2013) to Cadgwith armed with Ruan Minor's Leggy's pasties the good lady wife and myself accompanied by Tess the Bichon Frise set off in search of Redlegs.

The Outlaw Josey Wales went on a similar quest in the film of the same name, though he had half a side of bacon and ten pounds of beef jerky as there was no Poltesco (Picture 1) Express store round the corner for him. The Pony Express by this time had ceased operations because of the Union dispute during which he had been on picket duty for part of the time.

Could the two masted schooner being overtaken by steam power in 1893 be a ghostly Hispaniola carrying a Jim rather than a Granny Hawkins? More likely Fred Massey recorded it in watercolour as it suffered the same fate as the Fighting Temeraire half a century or so before.

If you think that's a load of diddlysquat or you feel the need for other references to Josey Wales, download 'French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners' for just over a fiver from Amazon. A Black spot on you and your Fourbears if you haven't already done so.No Black spot for Tess as unlike Josey Wales I don't take to gobbing chewy tobacco at dogs.

As you can see from the 21st Century Schizoid man pictures despite it being mid-October we were having a bit of an Indian Summer and there was no need for Long Johns. In tracking down his redlegs Josey met a Comanche a Cherokee and a Navajo. In tracking down our 'king crimsonlegs we only saw Crows. The lovely lady wife was sure that this part of the Lizard was a likely spot, but I had my reservations.

So why was I chuffed to bits? Because I caught my first fish at Kennack Sands that very evening with the beach rod that my family had bought me for Christmas. It was a small plaice, maybe a dab so it went back in. But as has been said a fish is a fish. The rig? A 2 hook flapper. The bait? A bit of the plaice that we had bought the day before at Porthleven. I can't remember any cannibalism in The Outlaw Josey Wales or in Treasure Island but I can remember tucking into a Kynance Blonde from the Cornish Chough Brewery a bit further down the Lizard. Tasty? I reckon so.

"Jamie: You can't get 'em all, Josie(sic).
Josey Wales: That's a fact.
Jamie: How come you're doing this, then?
Josey Wales: Because I ain't got nothin' better to do.
"
The Outlaw Josey Wales - 1976

"Aaarrrggghhh Jim lad"

Treasure Island - 1950

"Hic"

Sea Acres, Kennack Sands - 2013

Potato heads having a ball on UTuber in Old Blighty

I try to be organized with the labeling when I plant the seed potatoes. An old codger which I am now one once told me 'The eyes have it'. He didn't need to tell me a second time. My granddad used to say 'A wet bird never flies at night'. I didn't understand that either. It was with some very unparliamentary language that I dug up the not so tubby tubers (See picture ) watching a robin redbreast tuck in to the rapidly disappearing one way or the other in the wrong place at the wrong time worms.

I was expecting one or two maincrop bakers, 'Cara' but the robin's tune may not have been the only 'Melody' eminemanating from the potato patch, 'Charlotte'. My dad's favourite variety was 'Irish Blue'. I can't remember it being particularly tasty in my pasty but with its high resistance to blight and my dad coming from Cobh Co. Cork you can understand why it was his preferred variety.

If you look closely at the picture you can see a Blue Streak through some of the potatoes so they could be 'Rocket'.The seed company describes them as having a light blue touch which on paper makes me a chip off the old block.If you can't follow that, how am I supposed to convince you that a 15 pool ball had become wedged amongst the crop?

I spotted it while I was having a break.Though not destined for the pot it seemed to be free of wireworm and would go well with the cues I was growing in the greenhouse. It's a pity I'd hosed down the two score of potatoes before I took the photo as I could have put it on UTuber and not been out of pocket with the additional hits from all the potato heads to whom it would surely have appeeled with a knob of butter.

Next year I'll do exactly as it says on the tin quinze and try cooking one of Jamie Oliver's 15 minute meals with the results.

When I played cricket for Swanscombe and Greenhithe CC many moons ago, I represented the Cricket Club at a Main Club Committee meeting. It was during the winter. The meeting took place in one of the changing rooms which doubled up as a pool room. A large board placed on the pool table didn't quite make it a board meeting but with the best will in the world I was bored though I hoped I was giving the impression of passive interest.

I thought I'd chosen the safest seat with my back to the wall thus avoiding any pincer movement from the chairman and secretary from each end of the table when it came to the election of officers. As the agenda moved with excruciating sluggishness from item two to three out of twelve for some reason I pushed in the mechanism where the money goes for a game of pool. That familiar rumble of fifteen pool balls being released brought the direction of everyone's gaze towards my red face. 'Not boring you Mike?' said the treasurer whose 50p it was in the slot. It was game over for me.

I didn't go to another meeting. They didn't have a vote but I was blackballed.

Two twoselby? Quo Vadis?

There's nothing like a puzzle, especially when in Rome. Where is this part of Nero's Aqueduct as depicted in Piranesi's etching which we have above our fireplace? (Picture 1).

Is this it? Just down the via from the San Giovanni in Laterno which is the cathedral of the diocese of Rome. You know across the piazza from the Scala Santa where pilgrims go up the how many? steps on their knees. (Picture 2 and it's not 39)


The eagle eyed amongst you would have despite the roadside chaos in both pictures spotted the differences.(I make it ten). You will need more than a bogof standard GoldenEye Roman Eagle from Frescos to confirm our view that it could be in picture 3. In fact even if you have razor sharp eyesight you'll be decimated trying to find out.

Behind the wire lies the Villa Wolkonsky which houses the British Ambassador to Italy. He must have been about Her Majesty's service when we called. His man on the door who looked more of a Disparilavoro than a Giacomo Legame wouldn't give us a look in saying that it was for his eyes only.

You could see why there was so much traffic chaos rumbling past the aqueduct as there was no evidence of the speeding CCTV cameras they use in Rome as shown in picture 4.

Look out you thousands of pilgrims in Rome next April when the two late popes are going to be proclaimed saints. As with present day popes the pickpocketers work in twos except that like the desecrated pilgrims there will be hundreds of them. If you get on the Metro and somebody does some starjumps in front of you, grab your bag before they do.

According to the Italian investigating officer the pickpocketers graduate from a college where top students can remove a denarius from a handbag full of razor blades uncut. Like our graduates they spend years paying back the blood money.

There is no truth in the rumour that the missing razor blades from the wire in picture 3 were removed on a visit to the Ambassador's residence by Michael Gove with a view that there should be a more updated and hands on approach to the study of Ancient Rome in our schools. I think.

.

Q. My favourite Italian ice cream? A. Desiccated coconut.

Q. Two twoselby? (Pronounce as for Nicholas Nickleby) A. Four

Cricket - It's a Money Old Game.

Our Shrimpers XI pay in about £30 a game to our club.Like my bowling we disappear to all areas of Kent and usually provide a decent opposition against weak to medium weak sides. We honour all our fixtures and have even been known to provide a couple of players to top up the opposition to ensure a game. Our annual subs are a lot more than many of our oppos have to pay though kindly and reasonably our club is accepting of the fact that some of our irregular regulars are available for so few games that they pay the concessionary rate which is half the subs of our league playing fellow players or colleagues.

So the cost to our club for us to play is the cost of a ball which we always provide being a wandering side with no return white rabbit. After the game our captain (Picture 2) collects in match fees of £7 for full members, £8 for concessionaires, £5 colts and unemployed. We offer a family ticket as this eases selection problems. We don't charge anything for last minute call-ups and we don't expect fasting colleagues during Ramadan to pay.

The 'no return' was only a white hairline lie as we do play one side both home and away. Our tea costs coincide. £40. Do we all do it? The lady who makes our one tea charges £70. We get £40 from our opponents so that leaves £30 for us to find. The rest gets paid into the club via our treasurer at Selection.Some clubs charge us £45 and that we absorb. My son did say that the team they played last week asked for £50 but they were going to be promoted so perhaps are preparing for life in the higher echelons.

I wasn't around for the game or its organisation a couple of weeks ago. A family wedding in North Wales.I did selection by text and posted the team sheet for the Saturday's game to our captain on the Wednesday with all the contact nos. together with the post code of the ground, meeting time, who was going direct, etc.,etc.

I saw him the following week. 'Did you get the team sheet?' I inquired. 'What team sheet? He replied. 'I posted you one. Didn't you get it? 'No, but it didn't matter as I've done one for the committee. 'I didn't have a ball so I had to buy one off the opposition for £10. Tea was £45 and two of the colts who were last minute replacements didn't pay.' 'Fair enough' I said. 'So that's £56 in and £55 out. Here's the quid for the committee.' He guffawed.

I duly paid in the said amount much to the amusement of the treasurer. The following weekend on the night before our subsequently rained off return match making me whiter than white as far as porky pies are concerned the captain told me that he had now got the team sheet. I had to go and get it.' He told me. 'I had to pick it up from the post office and I was made to pay £1.50.' 'What for?'I asked. 'For a handling charge.' He explained. Not that was really an explanation as the envelope, he told me, did have a first class stamp on it. I can't remember the envelope being particularly large. It fitted into the post box easily enough.

Until yesterday I wasn't in favour of privatising the Queen's Head, but now I'm having 2nd thoughts unless of course like the team on the up and up the Post Office is gently warning me of things to come. All this talk of Balls and Handling will remind you of part of the conversation recorded in French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners that my wife and I had a few years back when we stopped at one of those Aires and Graces on a French motorway en route to Spain:-

Her: Park over there. I want to use the toilet. You can listen to the cricket.
Him: I need to use the gents too.
Her: I hate those hole in the ground loos.
Him: I only spent a centime. I had a numero deux on the ferry. Damn it we’ve lost a wicket. I’ll have to add ‘urinals’ to the number of ways of getting out.
Her: Why urinals?
Him: ‘Handled ball’ is already there.

Our treasurer is a good guy but I'm not sure how he's going to react in the first selection meeting of next season as we are the only side with remaining fixtures this year when I ask for our £1.50 back. He might think I'm taking the p**^. As I said 'It's a money old game.

The Shrimpers retained some of the traditional fixtures against the Banks in South London for a number of years. The facilities were fantastic. Worth every penny.The super showers were a bonus.
Even the game against this particular bank side was played in monsoon conditions. To get a good length you needed local knowledge of the tides. Putting sawdust down helped to assess the speed of the liquid pitch. It was like a Turner’s painting rather than a turner’s pitch. Even Handel would have had difficulty in calling the tune. We lost the toss and the coin. Our skipper reckoned their captain (Picture 1)had pocketed it. It wasn’t him who should have been upset; it was me that had lent him the pound coin.


It was a low scoring match. I got wickets so did my mate, now our captain, though I didn’t feel anything but cold. We only had to get ninety. Neither captain would agree to abandon the match. Our batting dissolved in the wet. My mate was number 10 and I soon joined him. We had 87, he was 10 not out. He walked towards me as I came in.’ It’s easy here.’ He said ‘We only need 4 runs and we’ve got ages.’ The previous pair had crossed so I was down the non strikers end.

The first ball my mate tickled around the corner straight to the fine leg who was up to save the one. ‘Yes!’ I bellowed setting off through the swamp. In the absence of high technology I was given out only a foot short despite my despairing aquaplaning dive. They ran off celebrating. I picked myself up and plodded off with my mate making sure that the mud that I picked up stuck, and that my name was Mudd in the changing room.


Sod the result I thought as I joined my mate in the shower. He wasn’t foaming anymore, so I offered him my shampoo with peppermint kick. ‘Cor!’ he shrieked ‘This is a bit tasty as the peppermint kicked in.’ you’re not putting more on surely? He said as he misinterpreted my motives in me turning my arse towards the direct flow from the showerhead to ease the pain I was feeling. The stuff was in a set of toiletries I had been forced to bid for in a ‘Promises Auction’ at school. The woman who had made up the lot ‘With you in mind.’ had a red hot ass herself which she was obviously keen to share. A different sort of tasty.

I noticed their captain who led the charge off the paddy field without any handshakes heading towards the shower. He looked the sort who would have no compulsion about nicking somebody else’s shampoo. He was a banker after all.‘We’ll leave this here then’, I said to my mate, who nodded as I put the bottle on the shelf. The shout wasn’t blood curdling but it sufficed. I wasn’t the only one to aquaplane that day but it was a different sort of crease he was reaching for. At the time I was reaching for his whites to get my pound coin back. ‘Quid pro quo’ Clarice.

Va va Fee-Fi-Faux pas Froome

Beware all English Gentlemen if watching Le Tour de France. Let me explain. Before the Breakaways, the Yellow Jersey, the Haribo Vert one and the Peloton come les freebies. It was the same when it went through Gravesend in 2007. Water, biscuits, hats, Madeleines etc. French all sorts in fact, the ones that the kids ask you to bring back. La lies le problem.

Being a cricketer and being accompanied by two very competitive ladies, one a netball coach the other a county badminton player (in their time) (Deuxieme picture) it was very difficult not to miss out. Not wishing to appear gauche I became aware that the mademoiselle on my right (Premier picture) was not gathering much at all thanks to my ability to take catches in the deep, the badminton lady's deft use of my landing net and the goal defence actions of my good lady wife intercepting everything that was on its way to any of the French Line up.

Two wrist bands whizzed past her en route to the landing net. Like every first slip I thought the first one was mine, made a lunge and palmed it onto the grass. Before the young lady could make a move our goal defence in one movement swooped, scooped and tossed the package into our rapidly filling keep net as if she were the goal shooter she always wanted to be.

I detected disappointment though not petulance as shown by some of the French Press with Froome's dominance. I passed the wrapper with the wristband inside to her. She took it with a nod but said nothing. She didn't need to. She wouldn't know the difference between a leg glance and an off drive but she'd have tasted the spirit in which cricket should be played to add to the entente of the cordial she was drinking and we were feeling since taking the shuttle sous La Manche or The English Channel as it should be called.

Her grandparents sitting behind her looked knowingly in my direction, though only fleetingly as their eyes and mine changed both their respective directions of gaze and focus as what appeared to be a sachet of butter like the sort you get on the ferry to go on your toast flew by. It was red and black like the wacky racing car from whence it came.

I don't know if it was Mutley or Penelope Pitstop but something whispered in my shell-like to say not to give this particular freebie to the girl. Maybe it was the vibes from the competitive ladies, maybe it was the sense of fair play with nothing given or nothing taken, except for wristbands. Play hard but play fair. Whatever it was that stiffened my resolve I give thanks to it.

It was only in the static caravan the following day that the cache was investigated. The turn your hand to anything ladies were cooking. We were having those delicious French sausages that you buy in France, mixed with the cochonon freebies. No artificial ingredients, no preservatives. Or so we thought. (See picture 2).

It turned out that the butter satchet that I almost gave to the mademoiselle contained a condom. Being our usual responsible mature selves we laughed like french drains as the badminton player inflated it and waved it over the goal defence's head. I couldn't resist. 'What flavour is it?' I asked. 'Cheese and Onion.' echoed the Cheeky Girls to peals of laughter. No I am not going to explain.

Waxwinging Lyrical on Aerial Display

He folded the Sunday Times Margaret Thatcher Commemorative Edition into a roll, beatified head in plain view. Perhaps more Boudica than Joan of Ark but never Boadicea whatever she thought of herself. Having secured it with red tape, he opened the front loading DEFRA approved wood burning stove and manoeuvred the computer mouse so that it hovered just below the still picture of Glenda Jackson.

He placed what he considered to be the Dead C's scroll on the right side of the stove next to a toilet roll inner stuffed with Rupert Murdoch's article in the oft rumoured soon to be merged paper from the preceding Wednesday. Though concerned about the further contamination of the environment by Heavy Metals he reasoned that the toxic effect of his actions would be minimalistic compared to theirs.

Using a trick he had practised at length in his youth he struck the England's Glory match against his Levis 501 Blue Jeans 100% Cotton Denim Straight Leg - 32 X 30 ensuring the ensuing draught didn't douse the flame.

With the cardboard alight he closed the door and replaced the guard. He left clicked the mouse, unbuttoned his flies and dropped the jeans to the floor. He hadn't directed such warmth onto his bare ass like this since setting light to his Personal Development File on his retirement from teaching some half a dozen or so years ago.

Contribution to Gravesend CC AGM

Never mind the 2012 Played 16 Lost 8 Drew 5 Won 3, It's 2013 that we are looking forward to.
The 5ths' fixtures for the 2013 season fill every Saturday from the 20th April to the 28th September from Petts Wood to Bredgar.
Don't confuse Petts Wood CC with Petts Wood Tudor CC. In the days before Quantitative Easing when we were Gravesend 4ths rather than the 5ths no matter which one of the two clubs we were playing, we always seemed to go to the wrong ground.

Not a problem for 2013 as our 'Pick-me-I'm-a-CRB checked driver' have Sat Navs and the Colts all have maps on their apps on their Smart Phones. So according to the PlayCricket website Petts Wood CC play at The Willett Recreation Ground BR5 1PE and Petts Wood Tudor CC play at the Willett Recreation Ground BR5 1PE.

On the last day of the season we go to Bredgar, home of The Bredgar & Wormshill Light Railway where there are walks in the woods, picnic areas, and plenty of places to just sit and watch the trains go by, which is almost as interesting as watching Gravesend 5ths bat.
Fear not any first teamers dropped for next season as I'm sure one of their carriages has a bar. I'll check with Michael Portillo.

Gravesend Saturday 5ths are known as a wandering, ball supplying sociable side ranging from weak through to medium/weak depending on how many ringers we can hide from the higher sides at what has been called 'Selection'.

Without the presence of our esteemed Club Captain this 'Selection of 11' could well have become more controversial than 'Selection at 11' and would have taken longer to achieve than Charles Darwin took to research his book on Natural Selection.
As I'm sure you know its full title was 'On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life' which today of course is the basis of The Posh Boy's Party Manifesto.

As I said we used to be the 4ths but when Gravesend CC introduced a fourth Saturday league side we became the 5ths. The 4ths sported the name of 'Gravesend Shrimpers' celebrating Gravesend's historical links to the Shrimping industry.
On becoming the 5ths some regular players and club officials met in a Gravesend Ale House with regard to whether the name 'Gravesend Shrimpers' should be retained.

One of those regulars who had taken a particular liking to the 'Gravesend Shrimpers' on tap at the pub suggested that I approach the Brewery to enquire whether there was any chance of them sponsoring the 5ths. The slogan was to be 'Gravesend Shrimpers sponsored by Gravesend Shrimpers'. The matter was not pursued.

Other names were put forward for consideration. Having gone down the Saturday hierarchical ladder 'Gravesend Whelkers' was one of them, Pat's Prawns, Mike's Molluscs, Brendan's Barnacles and Lak's Lobsters were other suggestions.

Mike's Mussels was rejected on the grounds that he didn't have any and the 'Clammy Crustaceans' (Pictured)was turned down as being too near the truth. One of the guys who plays for our Wednesday XI asked if they could become the 'Wednesday Winkles'.

'Gravesend Grasses' was another. This stemmed from the fact that the Bat & Ball Ground was formerly a market garden specialising in growing asparagus. Indeed it was grown so extensively in the area that asparagus was known as 'Gravesend Grass'.
Despite the name coming from our esteemed Chairman and Prison Visitor it was put on the back burner after he was threatened by four prison inmates who used to play for one of the Bank sides because of their misunderstanding of the name 'Gravesend Grasses'.

Shame on me I know but I have not read Gravesend CC's Constitution lately. I suspect that because there was a quorum at the pub the name of 'Gravesend Grasses' like the Barmy Army's Leader's name might need to be changed by Deed Poll. Hence the name lingers.
The Gravesend Shrimpers drinkers also asked for a tour to be arranged. With tours potentially expensive and difficult to include the colts who constitute a quarter of the side it hasn't yet happened.

Dungeness may provide the solution. It is not a million miles away from Gravesend, and as you can see Gravesend Grasses / Shrimpers already have fixtures against Wittersham and Stone-in-Oxney which are near neighbours to Dungeness. Hence any players who cannot or do not want to stay away for a night can return to Gravesend after the match as per normal and not be too late for bed or to join the 1st team in the Somerset Arms.

For those players wishing to make a weekend of it, accommodation is available with the abundance of caravan sites in the area, allowing many of the third team an opportunity to stay with their relatives. For those batsmen in the fourths, at Dungeness you can continue to fish outside the off stump and flounder at the wicket with the occasional dab. There is a Lighthouse that any ringers we get from the 2nds can leg up if they feel the need for a pre-match warm-up.If as is probable the fishermen do not catch any fish a fish & chip supper will be available at The Pilot Inn who are providing the opposition.

I have done some research. Besides Fish Dungeness is famed for its unique flora and fauna including the Sea Kale with its intoxicating blue green foliage. In a Guardian article in March 2004 Sea kale is described as 'a beautiful plant, changing dramatically through the seasons; the shoots are said to taste better than asparagus but the plants are very long lived and accumulate stray radiation.'

What then could be better? Gravesend Grasses is a team that also changes dramatically through the season and does contain some of the longest lived members of Gravesend Cricket Club. We would probably be better suited to play Dungeness B rather than Dungeness A if their A team can't get a side together because of any sickness due to any stray radiation missed by the Sea Kale.

I'm not so sure about Dungeness Sea Kale tasting better than Gravesend Grass. There's the challenge then. Dungeness Sea Kales v Gravesend Grasses to take place on Saturday June 1st. The losing side will have to ceremoniously eat the opposition at the end of the game. The Gravesend Grasses will bring a ball and plenty of asparagus as we don't expect to be eating Sea Kale. I look for your support.

TTFN CMJ of TMS

Listening to TMS which for so long meant listening to CMJ has been a pleasure. Whether in the back garden or on the Continent CMJ on TMS has been a constant more reminiscent of a Goliath than a David.

For decades I've tuned in to CMJ on Long Wave and was inspired to write a book recording my efforts to keep up with the Cricket between Shipping Forecasts while on holiday in France and Spain.'French and Spanish Cricket for Beginners' may not be everyone's cup of tea and toast with its irreverential flavour and curate's egg variability in taste, but it stemmed from my appreciation of CMJ et al.

I can't think of many radio programmes that act as the perfect backdrop to driving close to Sheer Khan cliffs with breathtaking views, through signal stealing gorges and wicket taking tunnels where the lovely lady riding shotgun is roused from her slumbers by shouts of 'Short' or 'Yorker. Bowls him'.

What other broadcast can have its transmission impeded by her Continentally interfered travelling companion of fellow Long Suffering Waves to have 'Here Comes Pollock' misinterpreted as 'Here comes Bollocks' explained to my eternal shame as 'It's just an introduction to A View from the Boundary'?

I know it's not the end of TMS but as with the passing of John Arlott and Brian Johnston you do begin to worry that another important brick in that boundary wall has gone, and we all know that boundaries can lead to disputes between the closest of neighbours. The polarisation of views can blind reasonable people into actions unbecoming of them freezing out those who do not wish to take part in or listen to a Radio 5 style phone-in rant.

Simom Barnes said it all much better in 'The Times' on Wednesday. He knew that he was privileged to have known CMJ well and knew him to be one in a million. I feel privileged too to have had one of those 'million radios' from which classical bowling actions (pictured) were described so classically 'with a voice brimming with love'.

Though not the paper's Correspondent CMJ was nonetheless The Guardian of TMS. Aggers is there to hold the fort and long may he continue so that I can listen via whatever form of technology ticks the boxes that good old fashioned CMJ and Long Wave did for all those years.