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