Bats

 'YOU'VE DONE WHAT?'

The carefully arranged daffodils (see earlier post) shook in their vase as the locked caps
of Mrs FB's expostulation disturbed the air around them.  Fantasy Bob could never describe his life partner as indelicate, but finding an alternative word to describe the spraying of toast crumbs stretched his limited vocabulary.  But he thought it advisable not to observe as much.

Breakfast had been proceeding uneventfully.  There were no signs of danger as FB calmly spread blueberries over his muesli.  In retrospect, as with the birdsong preceding the artillery barrages at the Somme, the tranquillity was misleading.  But it lured FB into a fatal pronouncement.  Just as Mrs FB brought the coffee cup to her lips, he quietly admitted that he had bought a new bat. 

As FB, unobtrusively as possible in the circumstances, removed the shrapnel of toast and raspberry jam from the surface of his muesli, she proceeded,

'Whatever for?'

FB was sure this question was rhetorical - her long years of cohabitation with him should have left little doubt in her mind about the purposes to which a cricket bat is put.   She continued,

'This house is full of cricket bats.'

FB felt that some form of apologia was required.  He explained that his trusty Gray Nicolls, which had served him well for several years, had revealed a significant crack on his previous evening's visit to pre-season practice.  Inspection of its ancestors also confirmed that none of them was fit for active service.

 It was an emotional account.  The demise of a favourite cricket bat requires to be treated with solemnity and respect. A period of mourning is necessary.  But grief was not for Mrs FB.

'You're not really going to play are you?  You can barely run these days.'

FB had to acknowledge that his fight back from injury was a slow process; a quick single might present a challenge.  However he pointed out that, according to the literature accompanying his new purchase, the need for running would be avoided since with this new bat he would be 'striking the ball with confidence to the boundary.'

Mrs FB was unkind enough to suggest that a more likely reason for not needing to run would be his inability to lay a bat on anything, particularly the straight ones.

'Anyway,' she said, betraying her underlying concern that FB's purchase might have diminished his jewellery purchase fund by an uncomfortable amount, 'how much did this geegaw set you back?'

Sotto voce FB confessed.

Mrs FB's eyebrows rose. 

'Based on your recent performances that could be about £50 per run.'

Exactly, thought FB to himself, a bargain.

Line and Length of Duty

The AC-12 Cricket Club meet in the pavilion after their latest match. Skipper Ted Hastings is unhappy and wants to know what went wrong.

Ted:       Mother of God – can you explain to me what happened out there?

Steve:    Guv, there was clear evidence of OCG.

Ted:       Organised Crime Group?

Kate:      No, boss, an Offie Chucking Googlies.

Steve:     Yes, guv, it was a ARU

Ted:        Surely not an Armed Response Unit?

Steve:     No, Arm Really Unstraight.

Ted:        Give Me Strength. There’s only one thing I’m interested in and that is catching bent arms. What did the umpire do?

Steve:     UCO

Ted:        He was undercover?

Steve:     No, Umpire Copped Out – he didn’t call it.

Ted:        So what was your tactical response? Did you call for back up?

Kate:      Yes guv. Put our star bat up the order. Told him SOCG. 

Ted:        Serious and Organised Crime Group?

Kate:      No guv – See Off the Chuckie Guy.

Ted:        Now that is good thinking DI Arnott. Didn’t you say he was the CHIS?

Steve:     Yes, guv.

Ted:        The Covert Human Intelligence Source?

Steve:     No, Guv. He Couldn’t Hit It off the Square.

Kate:      Boss, he DPS’d

Ted:        Directorate of Professional Standards?

Kate:      Afraid not, boss, Didn’t Play Straight.

Steve:     It was clearly NCS.

Ted:        National Crime Squad?

Steve:     Not a Cricket Shot.

Ted:        Now we’re getting to the truth – now we’re sucking on diesel.

Kate:      Yes, Guv that’s what we thought when we tasted the tea.

        At this point the opposition skipper enters.

Ted:        I think you should sit down fella, or I will handcuff you to that desk.

Skip:      Calm down Ted – we had a good match out there.

    Your team took things all the way.

Ted:       My officers conduct themselves to the letter of the law, sir. The letter!

Skip:      Maybe, but we weren’t sure that calling for a Tactical Firearms Unit

               was the appropriate response when our opening bat got his fifty.

Ted:       What are you talking about? It wasn’t a Tactical Firearms Unit.

    I said Tighten the Fielding Up. 

Skip:      Ah yes, pity you grassed that nick off him.

Ted:       Catching criminals is tough enough but catching slip chances......

    God give me strength.

Steve:    That batter was MIT.

Ted:       Major Incident Team?

Steve:    Middling It.

Skip:      Still - pity that after tea it was CID.

Ted:       Don’t tell me...

Kate:     ...yes, guv, Chucking It Down.

Steve:    Yes, we had to come off.  After that it was NCPA.

Ted:       No Cause for Police Action?

Kate:     No Cricket Played Again.

A Vaccine Passport?

'Give us back our freedom,' screams the tabloid press.  Government Ministers promise that hairdressers will open.  Non-essential shopping will soon be possible. The pubs will be not far behind.  Holidays are becoming a possibility. 

There is animated discussion about the utility and ethics of vaccine passports.  Fantasy Bob has mixed feelings about the passport concept.  But he thinks there is one situation in which it might be essential. 

Cricketers are quietly taking comfort from the fact that it looks increasingly likely that there will be something more of a season than last year.   The First Class season is already underway which explains the sudden drop in temperature.  The County Championship is now confined to the only parts of the year not dominated by pink and white ball action and is shortly to be re-designated as an official winter sport (and might seek entry to the Winter Olympics as a result). 

Outdoor practice for clubs has already resumed, and junior leg spinners at Fantasy Bob's club have been relishing an easy victim with the return of his iconic figure to action as he casts injury, age and general ineptitude behind him. 

So who is considering the role that vaccine passports play in cricket this season?  Should a batsman show it before taking guard.  Surely not.  

In last year's truncated season, tea was proscribed.  It was deemed too dangerous.  Lots of breathing, mingling and touching things.  Players had to bring their own sustenance and chew it in socially distanced space around the boundary.  Unsatisfactory.

But this year?  Surely tea will be back?  

FB cares little for the pubs, inessential shopping or holidays abroad.  But he urges the Advisory Committees to get their act together on tea.  They must come to the right decision.  Empire biscuits depend on it.

And this is where a vaccine passport could prove its worth.  The advantages are obvious - the time honoured rituals of cricket tea could go ahead, and the unvaccinated scavengers of the junior section would be kept well away from the goodies.

Available only to holders of approved vaccine passports.

Milk

Sir Charles Walker MP (Fantasy Bob uses the term advisedly) may be attracting all kinds of brickbats from social media commentators for his declaration last night that he would henceforth carry with him a pint of milk as a protest.  FB was unsure what Sir C wanted to protest, but that is beside the issue.

Because lower league skippers, including FB, will not be amongst the detractors.  They recognise how following Sir Charles' example would save the agonies they go through many times during the cricket season.  

The first innings has been completed.  The tea table groans with the assembled provender - the home baking from the juniors' mothers putting to shame the student member's contribution of out of date Wotsits and dog biscuits. 

The tea pot has been filled.  All is set. Then comes a tentative inquiry, 'Where's the milk, skip?'

Skip's blood runs cold. 

Packing for a match is a lengthy task best commenced at the crack of dawn when the mind is clear.  The memory test is exacting.  His own kit must be assembled - many skippers will simplify this challenge by not opening the kit bag from one week till the next - indeed many skippers mitigate all risk by simply leaving it in the car boot all season.  Occasionally even the most risk averse skipper's social conscience tells him that washing machines were invented for a reason.  It is on these occasions that an extra hour becomes necessary to reassemble his gear.  Both socks may have survived their encouter with the washing machine but in their unaccustomed cleanliness have mysteriously been assigned to random drawers throughout the house. The petulant early morning cry of, 'Where did you put my other sock?' is not the wake up call most likely to foster marital bliss.  An enquiry about the last known location of his jock-strap even less so.  

Then he must remember the scorebook, a pen, another pen should the first one disappear, and a third just in case;  the team sheet;  the league rules; the rain calculator.  Then keys, the ground keys, the pavilion keys, the scorebox keys, the tractor shed keys. It is always at this point that his car keys suddenly appear to have moved from the exact position he clearly remembers putting them last night.  Only further hazard with the marital relationship establishes that they have been put on the hook that they always hang on.

Then the sundry items of junior kit that were left behind last week.  For no self-respecting junior will leave a dressing room with all that he brought into it.  It is some kind of long forgotten genetic impulse to territory mark.  It is only scant relief that they use batting gloves or helmets, rather than methods adopted in the animal kingdom.

There may be sundry other items - books borrowed overdue for return; tickets for social evenings.  The list can be endless.  

By the time he has in-gathered (as the Scottish legal profession has it) everything, he is already late.  He rushes out the door, lucky to reach the ground in time.  So is it any wonder that he forgets the milk?

'Where's the milk, skip?'  The repeated inquiry breaks his reverie.

'Isn't there some in the fridge?' He suggests weakly.

He opens the door in hope.  He is saved!  At the back there is a half-full bottle.  He reaches for it - and notices the sell-by date suggests it has been there since the middle of last season. 

'Sorry, boys.'  The atmosphere turns sour.  Not as sour as last season's milk, admittedly, but sour nevertheless.

'Not again.  And I bet you haven't got that book I lent you two seasons ago'

Now, with Sir Charles' example, no lower league skipper will face this embarrassment again.  He will always have a pint of milk with him.  As a protest.  Against not having a pint of milk.

What a service to cricket.  Well done Sir Charles.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AuGWNshGM64

Put Out More Flags

 Sydney Cricket Ground 1914 - early adopter

Fantasy Bob understands the following guidance is being prepared for immediate issue to all cricket clubs in the United Kingdom. 

• The Union Flag is the symbol of the nation which brought cricket to the world.  It is clear that without the Union Flag cricket would never have been invented. Cricket clubs therefore need to get real and follow this guidance in the coming season

• Where cricket clubs only have one flagpole, the Union Flag should be flown every day.

• Where cricket clubs have more than one flagpole, and two flags are being flown, the Union Flag must always be flown in the superior position which is either:
• the highest flagpole, or
• the flagpole nearest where tea is likely to served

• It may be possible to fly more than one flag on the same flagpole if there is enough space. If so, the Union Flag should always fly on top (‘in the superior position’).

• Cricket club flagpoles should not remain empty.  

• Where other flags are flown they should be such as to promote cricketers’ pride (see below).

• On no occasion, even when winning a league or cup title should non-flag items be flown. Particularly not articles of clothing. Far less articles that are recognisably underwear such as the skipper’s jock-strap. 

Daffodils

Fantasy Bob is of an age that it was considered part of his education in primary school to learn by heart  William Wordsworth's The Daffodils.  He got no traction on his suggestion that learning the art of the forward defence would serve him better on his journey through life.  But from time to time the poem comes into his mind, word perfect after all these years.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Mrs FB likes nothing better than a few bunches of daffodils fluttering and dancing around the house.  She is cheered by a bright flash of yellow in every room.  She and Wordsworth would have got on like a house on fire.  

Fantasy Bob has therefore been conscientiously feeding her habit in recent weeks bringing hosts of golden daffodils home with every trip out.  He was therefore disturbed to see reports of difficulties in harvesting the daffodil crops because of the Brexit induced shortage of labour.  Millions of blooms may be tossing their heads only to be left to rot in the fields.  Not quite the sprightly dance the poet had in mind. 

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

FB is suddenly anxious.  It would be bad news for him if a shortage of supply caused him difficulty meeting Mrs FB's needs.  For there is a delicate balance of emotions in the household at this time of year.  As the winter recedes and the evenings lengthen, FB's thoughts begin to turn to the coming cricket season.   

It is not always clear that Mrs FB shares FB's keen anticipation.  She looks up briefly from her careful arrangement of FB's most recent offering.

'You're not thinking of playing again are you?   Didn't you say your ankle was crocked....or was it your shoulder....or your elbow....or your back.'

FB was on the point of suggesting that her apparent inability to remember precisely the location of his injuries suggested a lack of due attention to his problems on her part.  But discretion overtook him.  He bit his tongue.  Another injury, but not one that would affect significantly his bowling action.

Mrs FB returned her concentration to sorting the blooms.  She stood back to admire the display.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

He took a risk and attempted a response.

'Yes, but maybe I can play round them.'

Mrs FB's gaze turned slowly from daffodil to husband, evidently her less preferred view.

'The only way you could do that is by standing stock still.'

FB didn't acknowledge that she had neatly summarised his approach to fielding.  He had yet to confess to his better half that for a number of years his contribution to the team was largely decorative.  It was a source of disappointment that his claims to have innovated the specialist role of non-bowling non-batting barely-fielding tosser (in the sense of one who tosses prior to a match, in case any readers were pursuing other interpretations) have yet to be acknowledged by Wisden.

The lockdown has meant that FB has been spared the annual cruelty of indoor nets.  But as the pandemic recedes the powers-that-be are daily more confident that serious cricketing activity can begin soon.  It is time for FB to look his kit out.  Even in the specialist role on which FB now prides himself a prodigious spread of kit is essential.

It has been a source of amazement to FB for many years that no matter where in the house he neatly stacks his bag, she successfully seeks it out for the sole purpose of tripping over it.  It is a skill not given to everyone.

'Well, if you must,' she said. 'But Don't Leave Your Kit All Over The Place As You Always Do.'  She spoke audible capitals, leaving a pause between each word to ensure that FB could understand the full meaning of each word.

He had no choice but to go for the jugular.

'The daffs look nice.'

Having thus sweetened her, he promises to do better this year.  She sighs.  She has heard similar promises before.  She sighs again and resumes her flower arranging, perhaps trimming the stems with a more vigour than before.

It is at times like this that a conciliatory bunch of daffodils can ease the emotional tension.   The threat to security of supply is therefore serious.  It risks disturbing the smooth preparation that FB makes for the start of the season.

Had this been acknowledged by those in vacant or pensive mood at an earlier stage in the Brexit debate the result might well have been different.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Roadmap

There has been much chat in the public press about roadmaps.  It would seem that escape from the constraints of the pandemic cannot be accomplished without a roadmap.  Or several.  The recovery of economic health also needs a roadmap.  There are road maps to the digital future, the carbon free future, to every longed for future.

For the lower league cricketer with a long memory, such as Fantasy Bob, all this roadmap talk is chilling.  It awakes long repressed memories, leaving them sleepless and exhausted.  Younger cricketers may depend on SATNAV to do their dirty work for them.  They therefore have little conception of the horrors of the roadmap.  But in the pre-digital age, cricketers travelling to unfamiliar away grounds had to take their chances with roadmaps. Many fixtures did not happen or had to be truncated because players spent the better part of the afternoon aimlessly roaming the country side in search of the promised land.  By comparison the Israelites had it easy.  What yesterday's lower league cricketer would not have given for a pillar of fire to guide them through the wilderness.  (Seam bowlers in the side would also have been happy with a pillar of cloud).

Occasionally the unfortunate travellers might press the AA Book into service.  Not that it was a great help.  FB understands that the first printed map of Scotland was prepared in Italy (where else) by Paolo Forlani in the mid-16th Century.  As can be seen from the reproduction above, it signally fails to identify any cricket ground. Perhaps this is not remarkable, the Italian interest in the game in those days being minimal, but it seems to have a set a trend for subsequent map-makers.  And the AA Book, whatever other improvements it might have made since the 1500s, did not see fit to correct Forlani's basic oversight.  Cricket grounds simply are not marked.

Even the most keen-eyed junior player, designated navigator for the day by virtue of having gained the map-reading badge in the Cubs, would be flummoxed.  Many a skipper has found to his cost that the award of that badge was no assurance that its owner had even the vaguest idea in which direction lay North, far less a basic appreciation of right versus left.

Cricketers therefore had to resort to other guides.  Too often this took the form of a scribbled set of instructions from the club secretary transcribed from his telephone call with the opposition skipper.  That the call took place in the pub late the previous evening brought a sense of mystery, if not adventure, to the interpretation of these instructions.  

For unfamiliar venues that were relatively local, there would be a list of abbreviated street names.  If you understood Cam R to be Campbell Road, rather than Cameron Road or even Cambridge Row, then you were flying.  If not, a long tour of the city's less familiar nooks was in prospect.

These instructions were often embellished with obiter dicta.  Some of these - for example 'beside pub', 'after church' - could actually be helpful, providing you had guessed correctly on Cam R. 

But 'turn at Jimmy's house' might be excellent, if you knew who Jimmy was, where he lived and which way to turn when his house hove into view, but less so in other circumstances.  Similarly, 'Get to the big ASDA and then take the short cut' teased with its spurious accuracy. Other instructions could suffer from an uncertainty which suggested that the background noise in the pub had swollen to unhelpful levels during dictation.  It is hard otherwise to understand instructions such as '3rd or 4th right or maybe left'.  Always these instructions were handed over to the travelling skipper with the suggestion that, 'It's easy - you'll know it when you're there.'  

For new locations further afield, there was less local knowledge to help narrow the target area.  Understanding road numbers seemed beyond the Cub Scout navigation syllabus and brought additional risk.  Trunk roads could generally be relied on - assuming the young navigator had the travellers heading toward the correct compass point.  But minor roads could be challenging.  'B83something' on the scribbled instructions was no great help.  

Backseat drivers who felt their claim that the road sign that had just been sped past was unjustly ignored could sour the trip.

'Why didn't you tell me before we passed it?' hissed the frustrated driver.  To which, 'I thought you knew where we were going,' was not deemed a particularly helpful response.

A forthright exchange of views would inevitably follow.  As a result of which squabble neither back nor front seat driver would notice the handmade sign 'To the Cricket Ground' on the next turn off.  Being good club men neither would bear a grudge, although adjustments to the batting order could affect the passengers of this car more than others.

Instructions were always complemented with the suggestion, 'If you get lost, just ask.'  It is hard to underestimate the hazard attached to following that instruction.  

FB remembers once pulling up at a petrol station after failing to locate the desired ground.  Getting out of the car, he asked the attendant,

'Can you tell me the quickest way to the cricket ground?' 

 'Are you walking or going by car?'

 'By car.' 

'Quite right, that is the quickest way.'

It is a wonder any away fixtures ever happened.  Cricketers must hope that the map shown below is more helpful.

Cancel Culture

Fantasy Bob has been reading much in the media about cancel culture.  If he understands correctly it is the intention of the UK Government to cancel cancel culture.  This move has been criticised as a perpetuation of a divisive culture war.  Critics also say that it a tactical distraction from all manner of difficulties to which the Government would prefer no attention to be drawn.  Presumably this refers to the sorry performance of English batsman during the second test at Chennai.  But not exclusively.

FB shares those concerns.  Furthermore from the point of view of the lower league cricketer, FB has to say that the Government has got it wholly wrong.  In the lower leagues there is not enough cancel culture.  

Lower league cricketers are compelled to turn up at the appointed hour, even as the heavens pour down; even as the clouds darken further; even as the playing surface disappears under the deluge.  They will stand in a bedraggled group at the boundary.  They will utter the immortal phrase, 'We'll just give it another half-hour.'  

The half hour having passed, they will look up again and repeat the mantra, 'We'll just give it another half-hour.'  As if the rain gods in whatever dry fastness of an Olympus they inhabit these days are likely to respond.  

Players used to look at the clouds seeking with their naked weather eye a lighter patch amid the all embracing greyness.  Now, they consult all manner of weather radar to monitor the minute movements of weather fronts and pepper the audience with spurious meteorological exactitude.  'It'll be down to 90% probability of rain in 30 minutes.'  An excited murmur will pass through the group.  This is hugely significant.  For the lower league cricketer that 10% is notably nearer certainty than the 90%.  

'We can take tea early.'  The juniors distracted so far by and endless series of one-hand-one-bounce perk up.  The true believers consider this another another invocation which is bound to appease the rain gods.  For classical mythology tells us that they do not disfavour mortals whose bellies are filled with egg and cress sandwiches and Mr Kipling's Cherry Bakewells.

'It's down to 85% now.'  Optimism spreads through the company.  'We could reduce the overs.'  At this point, as the evening nears, all hope of common sense is lost.

Not that there was very much at the outset.  For the common sense response would have been to look out the window many hours ago, feign disappointment and cancel.  

And that's the problem - notwithstanding the enthusiastic baying of Government supporters, there is, quite simply, not enough cancel culture.  

Headbands

Fantasy Bob found much to agonise about during England's demolition by India in the Second Test at Chennai.  He was at times beside himself with despair.  Not at the quality of the pitch, which seemed tranquil compared to some of the surfaces lower league players have to contend with.  Nor the questionable nature of some the umpiring decisions - never an issue for a lower league player.  Nor the death wish apparent in English batsmen's attachment to the sweep shot - which just proves the wisdom of FB's career long aversion to the shot. 

A rational mind could deal with all these difficulties.  But even the most advanced thinker would have difficulty at the resurgence of one of the scourges of the first lockdown - Test cricketers wearing head-bands.  Why, oh why? Fantasy Bob has to assume it was a fashion statement since it served no ostensible other purpose - except in the case of Rory Burns, who needs all the help he can get in hiding his haircut.  Leaving Burns aside, as the selectors are likely to do soon, it was when sensible men like Joe Root also affected this fashion item that all hope seemed lost.  

FB was therefore relieved that the First Test at Chennai suggested that the ICC managed a clamp down to outlaw the ridiculous garb since he saw no evidence of it.  But his tranquillity was seriously disturbed when as he went to open the bowling on Saturday, Stuart Broad removed his sunhat to reveal a return to the worst excesses of the lockdown.  Of course it had to be Stuart Broad, but that is another matter.

FB acknowledges that some time ago big time cricketers such as Desmond Haynes and Dennis Lillee were headband devotees.  He never understood why - at least they were towelling and might have served some sweat related purpose.  But even so headbands have never convinced in cricket. And the item worn by Broad appears to a hankie folded up and tied at the back of his head.  It is not even a sporting type of headband.  

There are serious headband wearers in many walks of life.  Rugby players, tennis players and even musicians, though concert pianists have yet to find them of use.   But FB will go to the grave firm in his view that the headband is not for cricket.  And if Stuart Broad were here he'd tell him so.

Authority

The AGM of Handforth CC was proceeding peacefully.  The President called the Convenor of the Teas Committee to report.   Immediately a rumble of dissent in the background was heard.

- Since when did we have a Teas Committee?  And if we do have one, who's the Convenor anyway?

- I am.

- No you're not - you're the President of the Club.

- Well, I declare that I am the Convenor of the Tea Committee.

- You can't do that.  I've done the teas for years.

Other voices are raised.

- Yes, Bill's done the teas for years.

 A calmer voice tries to restore order.

- There is no way of stopping him from calling himself Convenor.  Please refer to me as Britney Spears from now on.

A moment of silence follows. More voices are raised, louder than before.  The first voice speaks again, angrier than before.

- Read the Standing Orders - read them and understand them. They don't say anything about a Teas Committee.

- Precisely.  That is why I am the Convenor.

Voices are raised again. 

- As Convenor, I move we do something about the sausage rolls.    

- Why?  I've been bringing them for years, you've never complained before.

- We didn't have a Tea Convenor before. 

- What's it got to do with you Britney Spears?

The background noise is becoming louder.

- I move we have quiche instead, and  Jackie here's got some ideas.

- Red onion, Broccoli, Goat Cheese...

           The noise becomes lounder still.   

           Some words can be picked out of the hubbub.

           - Outrageous! You must be joking! No, no, NOOOO!

           - What's wrong ?

An angry voice bellows.

- You have no asparagus here, Jackie Weaver, no asparagus at all....

Meeting falls into disorder and goes viral via Twitter and YouTube.  

Sweep

Tomorrow will see Joe Root become the 15th cricketer to play 100 Tests for England.   Fantasy Bob sends Joe his warmest congratulations.  This is just what Joe has been waiting for and will make all the difference to his performance.  

Equally good news is that locked down cricket fan will be able to see the match on Channel 4 as live cricket comes back to free to air TV.  It is the natural order of things.  If only other areas in these fraught times could also revert to how things should be in similar fashion.

Remarkably all 15 players to have reached this milestone have done so during FB's life time.  This is either a measure of FB's longevity or an indication that these years have seen an acceleration in the number of Tests played.  Or perhaps both.

The first player to reach the ton was Colin Cowdrey.  He did so in the 3rd Ashes Test of the 1968 season, played at Birmingham.  He scored a century - his only significant score in the series in a drawn match.  The series was also drawn, meanign Australia retained the Ashes.

Eight other players have scored 100 in their 100th Test.  These include one other English batsman - Alex Stewart, who did it against West Indies at Manchester in 2000.  It would be fitting if Root could become the third Englishman to do so.  He is in a rich vein of form so he has a great chance.  If he does so it is likely that he will sweep his way there.  FB read recently that in the last 18 months Root has scored 300 runs from the sweep for once out.   In the two recent Tests in Sri Lanka, Root scored 134 of his 426 runs with his sweep  more runs  than any other English batsman except Jonny Bairstow managed in total.

This is the kind of statistic that boggles FB's mind.  For he has thought hard about the sweep.  He has it from the philosophic, the socio-economic, the aesthetic, even the political point of view.  There may be nothing he does not know about the shot.  Other than how on earth to play it.   There have been rare occasions when his natural exuberance has overcome his characteristic common sense and he has attempted the shot.  There was no happy ending.  Bat and ball remained distant strangers.  FB invariably ended up in a tangled heap on the crease.  To score one run from the shot therefore seems unlikely - to score 300 is simply unnatural.

So all in all this is what Sweep really means to FB:

Rosebud

The plot of Orson Welles' great movie Citizen Kane revolves on one of the most famous sledges in history.  Cricketers' ears may prick up.  In vain; this is not a sledge of the 'Why are you so fat?' - 'Cos every time I sleep with your wife she gives me a biscuit.' variety.  

Welles did go on to feature in the title role in The Third Man, the only movie ever to have been named after a fielding position.  Cricketers may start the film in high expectation.  They look forward to arty shots of Welles' patrolling the boundary, of his flat throw putting the batter who has unwisely gone for the second run under pressure.  But they will be disappointed.  There is no cricketing action, just lots of running about in sewers.   All in all, Welles is a bit of a tease from the cricketing point of view.

Nevertheless, despite the lack of cricketing interest, Fantasy Bob has watched and enjoyed Citizen Kane many times, and he did so once again the other night.    It was Mrs FB who pointed out,

'You're just like Kane.'

FB was perplexed.  He had never conceived of himself as an  populist who turned unprincipled despot.  He suggested that, particularly in contemporary circumstances, she might find better points of comparison.  

'No, not that,' she said.  'This sledge thing.'

FB saw what she was driving at.  Just as Charles Foster Kane's psychology was dominated by his childhood memory of his beloved sledge, Rosebud, so FB's most prized possession is his childhood sledge - the Davos Flyer, product of Grays of Cambridge no less.  

FB is uncertain of the exact date of its purchase but he painted it in racing colours inspired by the gold medal won in the 2-man bob-sleigh at the 1964 Winter Olympics in Innsbruck by the British team of Tony Nash and Robin Dixon.  

FB would follow in their footsteps, the lack of a local bobsleigh track notwithstanding.  His skilful manouvreing of the Davos Flyer down surrounding hills was surely all the proof the Olympic selectors needed.  Sadly, they never came.  

But FB never gave up hope.  There is still no local bob sleigh track - Edinburgh being as deficient in that department as FB's native Aberdeen.  But the Davos Flyer is still with FB.  It may be 50 years old, but things were made to last in the old days.  The cold snap recently has seen the Flyer come into its own, as FB, child again with the snowy world at this feet, has careered down adjacent slopes.  FB is sure he made the qualification time.  Perhaps the Olympic selectors will take note this time.

Fish

Fish and fisheries are in the news as the predictable consequences of Brexit have their impact.  Like Fantasy Bob striding out to bat, the fishing industry's expectations were high.  They were seduced on all sides by snake-oil salesmen and charlatans;  FB's hubris came only from the memory of actually getting a bit of bat on the occasional ball in the nets.  In either case what could go wrong?  Well, they ken noo.  And like FB, they are slumped in the corner of the pavilion ruefully unbuckling their pads.  Older, but in all probability no wiser.

It puts FB in mind of a summer long ago.  When he grew up in Aberdeen the fishing industry was perhaps the biggest employer and Aberdeen had claims to be the largest fishing port in the UK.  Seeing the rows of trawlers moored in the harbour was a very impressive sight as was the fish-market in full business.  The arrival of the oil business changed all that.

When he was a student, FB gained summer employment in one of the larger fish processing factories that at that time surrounded the harbour area.  He was as part of a squad which unloaded lorries, moved boxes of fish around the factory and loaded lorries again,  tasks that were just within FB's narrow skill set. Occasionally he got to put the fish through the yellow brine prior to smoking.  But driving the fork-lift truck was strictly out of the question.

In slacker periods between lorry deliveries, FB and the squad would play cricket.  Cricket, but not as you would know it.  A slat from a broken fish box served as a bat and the ball was a fish head.   Games were highly competitive and the quality of the sledging, as might be expected from a group of fish porters, of a consistently high standard.

Ah, the halcyon days.... over all too soon.  A downturn in the market caused the company to seek economies.  FB was shown the door.   To this day FB suspects the manager's decision was unduly influenced by seeing FB ungainly swing  across the line of an in-swinging cod head.  What might have been.  A promising career was strangled at birth.  FB had to seek other opportunities.  But if he had stuck in at the fish, he is sure he would have risen to the ranks of being allowed to drive the fork lift truck.

And now, as the photo of Peterhead Fish Market, the largest in Europe, shows facilities lie empty.  Alternative uses must be found for them.  

They look perfect for conversion to indoor nets.  As FB's batting companions in the fish house might have said, 'Fit aboot some siller for 'at, Boris?'

Jenners

Financial analysts are still working to determine the extent to which the imminent closure of Jenners, aka Edinburgh's flagship department store, can be attributable to its failure over the years to stock an acceptable range of cricket kit.  Or, indeed, any cricket kit at all.  

FB has a distant memory of there once being a small sports department in the basement of the prestigious building.  He is not sure that this is an accurate memory - nor is he confident that he has not made up the recollection that when he asked if they had any thigh pads, he was directed to ladies lingerie.  A pleasant enough experience, but ultimately unfruitful.  He explained to the assistant he needed protection against uneven bounce.  A request which was radically misunderstood. 

The failure to carry cricket kit seems to be a common feature of retail failure.  It is remarkable how many of the so called household names now in difficulty have simply ignored cricketers' needs. News is also current that Debenhams' Edinburgh store will also close.  FB is not surprised.  It was an insult to cricketers.  Once upon a time FB was hard pressed for time before the meet for an important away game.  He could not find his box anywhere.  He had no choice but to seek a replacement in Debenham's Princes Street store.   He searched the store high and low.  The only thing he could find that vaguely resembled the required item was an egg coddler.   His performance as the crease that day was even less memorable than usual.  But - silver linings - his poached eggs for breakfast next day were perfect.  

FB understands that Debenhams has been bought out by BooHoo - which does not seem to FB  a proper name for a shop.  He understands it not to be a noted cricket retailer.

The news about Jenners may not be as fatal as first suggested.  Subsequent reports say that the landlord, a Danish billionaire by name of Anders Povlsen is committed to maintaining it as a retail space.  So the opportunity for that up to the minute boutique Gray Nicholls franchise may not be lost.  That could be the master stroke which would restore the place to its previous glory.

But FB is not holding his breath. Mr Povlsen may not be a friend to cricketers. Apparently he is the second largest landowner in Scotland (first is the Duke of Buccleuch since you ask) with holdings of 890 square kilometres.  Shamefully, there is not one cricket pitch in that vast area.  The chance of the Gray Nicholls franchise may therefore be illusory.  Maybe BooHoo is the correct response after all.

To A Virus

Fantasy Bob has unearthed yet another of Robert Burns’ unacknowledged cricket poems.  

In this ode, the Bard is uncannily prescient of the COVID situation.

Ha! Whaur ye going ye crowlin’ virus

Your impudence begins tae tire us

We’re a’ locked doon as you require us

Plans are wreckit

Ye mak us even mair desirous

For some cricket

A year ago ye cam frae Wuhan

Did Johnson ken whit he was doin?

But cricketers feared the trouble brewin

Wi' good reason

His handshakes nearly brocht his ruin

An' junked the season

Last season’s play was much truncated

And barely started, terminated

Cricketers wi' meagre rations sated

Sang out in glee

Though COVID rules obliterated

Their cricket tea

This season’s prospects are in the balance

Will cricketers get to show their talents?

To Witty, Van Tam, Leitch and Vallance

Sic advisers

We mak our selfish observance

Gie us Pfizers!

The Kilmar-nicked Off Edition

 

The Collected Cricket Poems of Robert Burns (rhb, rmf)

As discovered by Fantasy Bob

Winter Night

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,

Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;

The crick’ter’s year is langsyne o’er

He whiles regrets

Then maun the frozen chiel endure

Thon winter nets

Like Odysseus in the Iliad

The coach doth call his myriad

Groaning seniors and keen young lads

No one forgets

To scour each press tae find their pads

For winter nets

In a drafty schoolhouse gym

Peers Fant’sy Bob through darkness dim

Saft muscles bruised on ilka limb

Face mortal threats

Whan junior quickies bowl at him

In winter nets

Has Fant’sy Bob lost a’ his reason

See him bowl he’ll na stop wheezin

See him bat ye’d think he’s bleezin

They're makin' bets

He'll hit it yet afore the season

At winter nets

Lord can ye hear oor lamentation

Cruel hibernal tribulation

Tholin' winter nets' privation

Nothing drearer

There’s but one sma' consolation

Summer’s nearer

ooOoo

The Gift Tae Gie Us

Oh thou! whatever title suit thee,

Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!

The Batsmen true can ne'er refute thee,

Thou Hellish sinner.

In the Devil's sway we'll put thee,

Reviled leg spinner.

When auld lang syne Benaud and Warnie,

Were clearly baith the chiels o' Hornie,

Made English batsmen grope forlornly,  

It turned sae vilely.

But there’s no mortal human born, he

Beats Bill O’Reilly.

An' noo despite his monstrous patter,

Could Fant'sy Bob be cried a batter?

Forbye he gies the ba' a clatter,

Wi' michty fleg, he

Finds his vain pretensions shatter,

Against a leggie.

Ye'd hae tae see it tae believe it,

He disnae ken tae play or leave it,

He'll aye end up just trying tae heave it,

Then mak' tae thump it,

Gie it the charge and so maun grieve it,

Oh Bob!  Thou'rt stumpit.

The coach says watch the ba's rotations,

Advice that gies Bob consternations,

An’ hours o' tortuous vexations,

Thru' sleepness night.

Hoo can Bob mak sic observations,

Battin' wi' e'e shut tight?

Leg spin - it's Satan's bowling action,

For darkness marks its malefaction,

Tormenting batters tae distraction,

Oor nerves are shoogly.

Then will the De'il sense petrifaction,

An' bowl the googly.

Oh wad some power the gift tae gie us,

Tae play leg spin as naethin' devious,

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

Stop melancholy.

And dream some day that ithers see us,

Bat just like Kohli.

 ooOoo

Robert Burns’ Rant on the ICC

Oor cricket is a cantie game

That’s played the warld o’er

Wi' honesty its middle name

An' lo'ed by rich and poor

Ye’d jalouse this game is o’er-seen

By council weel electit

But fegs, there's just the gang o' three

Sic a parcel o' rogues running cricket

The Test match was the skyrit jewel

Thy grandeur’s been dilutit

By coontless twenty over duels

True cricket is pollutit

A twa Test series' meagre meal

For ODIs restrictit

Bought and sold for T20 gold

Sic a parcel o' rogues running cricket

Associates graced the warld cup

And had the michty crying

It drove them on, it fired them up

The dream of qualifying

They won't be there next time around

The minnows are neglectit

A selfish pact has slammed the door

Sic a parcel o' rogues running cricket

Olympic Games could spread the sport

To a' the warld's nations

The powers-that-be maun gie support?

But spurned the invitation

Maun we thole sic arrant failure

Wi' IPL gold complicit?

England India Australia

Sic a parcel o' rogues ruining cricket

ooOoo

Address to an Umpire

O thou! whatever title suit thee,—

Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!

Thou art ne'er a thing o’ beauty

Nor yet inspiring

Thou maun do your cricketing duty

By Umpiring

In upper grades th’ umpire’s appointed

Wi' sponsors’ logos weel anointed

But in low’r leagues we’re disappointed

Thou'rt just a player

Thy knowledge of the laws disjointed

And peculiar

Whiles aifter tea thou felt like rest

But mercy be thou'rt cruelly pressed

The skipper says there's no chiel else

Prepared tae stand

The juniors couldna tak' the stress

But thou art the man

What could be simpler than to count six

It disnae need Higher Mathematics

But every over's full o' tricks

Tae complicate

No balls, dead balls, wides. Thy count is fix'd

By guestimate

The LB law's a real damnation

Each chiel has his interpretation

But can he gie an explanation

O' a decision

Withoot causing consternation

Or derision?

'Not out,' we hear thee sagely cry

'It's missing leg; it's ower high;

The ball has hit the batsman's thigh;

No stump wad be hit;

An' onywye, the sun was in my eye

I didna see it

There's places in this noble land

Where billies deem LB's been banned

So have the years passed since the man

Has raised the finger

Though bowlers scream their fraught demand

The batters linger

A loud appeal for caught behind

Thou must be deef, thou must be blind

Could thou hear, nor see, nor call tae mind

A deviation?

Thon batter's no a walkin' kind

It's ruination

Fegs! Low'r league players we a' suffer

At the whims o' sic a duffer

But we shouldna tak the huff for

There's no reason

We'll get the smoother and the rougher

O'er the season

Ah umpires! Thou must be respectit

I pay thee tribute thou'rt so neglectit

It ill becomes those at the wicket

To yell and doobt thee

For there would be nae bonny cricket

Were we withoot thee

ooOoo

To A Doughty Groundsman

Fair fa’ your honest doughty face

Great chieftain o’ the groundsman race

In the middle tak your place

Mow, roll, repair

Your cheery greeting rings through space

GET AFF THE SQUARE

To mak a wicket taks for ever

But who respects your great endeavour?

These players should be mair clever

You can despair

You tell them oft but they never

GET AFF THE SQUARE

Ye tend the strip, ye gie it bounce

The players dinna help an ounce

But aifter play they preen and flounce

Fegs! Everywhere

Till ye maun doughtily pronounce

GET AFF THE SQUARE

In winter whan the sna is flyin’

Players in their beds are lyin’

Sair wi' cauld the puir lambs cryin’

We can compare

Ye toil through winter scarifyin'

THATCH AFF THE SQUARE

Some folk may tak ye for a bore

When ye drone on aboot the mower

And moan the hunnels mak ye sore

Why should they care?

But muckle grass? Ye’ll see them glower

GET AFF THE SQUARE

Ah! Doughty groundsmen are a special breed

An’ ilka club must meet their need

For tractor oil, loam and seed

Sic modest fare

It’s nae charity tae pay them heed

GET AFF THE SQUARE

ooOoo

Ae Fond Kiss

Ae big swing and then we sever

Oot first ball the same as ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll linger

Tho the umpire raised his finger,

Says it’s leg afore the wicket

Tho I’m telling ye I nicked it

And worse than that, this fact I beg

It pitched two feet outside of leg.

Oh umpire how ill ye've blundered

For I could have had a hundred

Faced one ball and the temptation

Led to unjust ruination

Had I never swung sae blindly

I might have seen the ball pitch kindly

Had I never tried to cart it

I would ne’er be broken hearted.

ooOoo

To A Strauss

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,

Oh, whit a panic's in thy breastie!

The test at Dubai ends o’er hastie

Thou'rt in a sochter

Noo Abu Dhabi won’t be tasty

       It micht be slaughter                                                 

For whiles thy bowlers a’ got passes

Thy fancy batters played like arses          

When one is oot, the rest collapses

They lookit wabbit

KP played like he had paral’sis

An' Bell’s a rabbit

We micht hae looked for some resilience

Frae those wha tak IPL’s millions

But what we got wis far frae brilliance

Exceptin' Prior

Micht Panesar mak unco diff’rence

To fecht fire wi' fire?

Thon Ajmal won’t be ony easier

Bowlin' his new fangled teesra

Bell could hae an unco seizure

Hoo can he pick it?

Watchin’ sic torture brings nae pleasure

Leg afore wicket

Ah Straussie thou art insecure

Ye’re staunin' deep in thick manure

The best laid schemes o’ Andy  Floo'er

Gang aft agley

When spinners bowl into the stoor

Ye’ve feet o' clay

 

ooOoo

For A’ That

Is there for honest poverty

That hings his bat, an’ a’ that

The gowden duck, we pass him by

We’ll nae be oot for a’ that

For a’ that, an’ a’ that

We’re aff the mark for a’ that

The scorer’s pit it in the book

A run’s a run for a’ that

For through the slips oor shot has flown

It’s crossed the rope for a’ that

The bowler’s radge, the fielders moan

A four’s a four an’ a’ that

For a’ that, an’ a’ that

A big top edge an’ a’ that

The honest bat should aye play straight

A run’s a run for a’ that

Ye see yon birkie Pietersen

Wha struts an’ stares an’ a’ that

A' the world reminds him when

He couldna score for a’ that

For a’ that, an’ a’ that

His reverse sweep and a’ that

Holin’ oot at deep third man

Is nae damn good for a’ that

Thon Cook can mak a double ton

No breakin’ sweat an’ a’ that

But Fant’sy Bob slaves o’er a run

They’re rarer chiels for a’ that

For a’ that an’ a’ that

He taks a swing an’ a’ that

Aff either edge he disnae mind

A run’s a run for a’ that

Then let us pray that come it mun

(As come it will for a’ that)

That Fant’sy Bob’ll score a ton

An bear the gree an’ a’ that

For a’ that an’ a’ that

It’s coming yet for a’ that

That man to man, the world o’er

Shall cricketers be for a’ that