[Cricket, with the Lord of Byron]
Off Season
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The southern season has ended and most now turn their attention to the winter religion. Saturation coverage had led to jadedness, so it is probably timely. So, what have cricketers done for us lately? If memory serves me correct, Australia have dominated at home with tourists Sri Lanka and South Africa coming and going as underdogs. Still, the dead rubber was avoided at the end. After winning the Ashes, many England fans wanted to see their team play in Pakistan very badly. They got their wish. India also lost there amidst labyrinthine talk of subcontinental pitch doctors. |
The usual gangsters carry on in Zimbabwe, cricket has become the number two sport in Nepal, and Myanmar is to join the ICC. Japan, Chile, Russia, Taiwan, Mexico and South Korea are also making pleasing cricketing progress. One development in Australia this summer has been the Talking Boonie, a toy that speaks. Harold Park, committed vulgarian, boulevardier and part-time bon vivant has vowed to get his hands on this comic device. |
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Turkmenbashi
I heard recently that Test Cricketer of the Year, Shane Warne, is to be canonised despite being very undead. Jesuitical scholars have been studying the precedent of the great Turkmenbashi (father of all Turkmen).
Guru fans will be familiar with the work of the President (for life) of Turkmenistan. His musings are scripture (The Book of the Soul) and he has renamed bread and the days of the week after his family. Car radios have been banned for being unnecessary. His magnificent, huge golden statue rotates so that it always faces the sun. It has been modestly proposed that a similar, but even better statue of Shane be erected outside the MCG cathedral.
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Not since Arthur Coningham (adultery, beach shed, priest, asylum) has a Test cricketer's private life captured the pubic imagination as much as Warne’s has. Most are sensibly bewitched, but some have dared to mock the great prophet through the medium of scurrilous cartoons. This has caused outrage in certain circles with some defenders of the faith carrying on like pork chops and demanding vengeance. Warney simply calmly takes it in his strides.
The Warne memorabilia industry is also doing very nicely thank you I hear, with his urine and semen going through the roof on eBay.
Beware of Pity
At this point, the Lord lapses into conversation with Harold Park.
H: G’day China
L: Tone it down; we don’t want everyone to hear. How’s tricks?
H: A touch of gout.
L: Is that the king’s disease?
H: No, that’s scrofula.
L: Enough said.
H: Anyway, I got that Talking Boonie for you, and the narrow toilet paper
L [whispering aside]: I really can’t abide waste.
L: You know how one is prone to come over all weary in the morning?
H: Death warmed up.
L: Well, cricketers feel that way too, but can they just take a sickie? Test the theory that going outside is overrated?
H: Can they heck?
L: Quite so. So, after Roy had enjoyed a nice night on the turps the other month, he fronted up to play against minnows, regardless of his pain. H: Who? L: Roy is Andrew Symonds; he’s the definitive Australian all rounder. That’s him there. H: I see. So, were they pleased? |
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L: Were they heck? They dropped him, publicly humiliated him and then stole his rightful one-day player of the year award.
H: Just because he’d had a drop? They’re probably students of Intelligent Design.
L: I wouldn’t be the least surprised.
H: Boonie’s probably spinning in his gravy.
H: Anyhow, here’s your Talking Boonie.
L: It looks like a Talking Boonie, but it says it’s a Talking Damir Dokic. H: Who’s he? L: Don’t you read the papers? He was made Australian of the Year just recently. H: Good-oh. Let’s see what he has to say. |
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D: It’s stinking hot in here. Where are my bloody sausages?
L: Tasty.
D: I want sausages, you bastards! It’s pushing 40.
H: He’s going potty.
L: Probably a hair in the gate.
H: Now what’s he doing?
L: Damir, your responses are supposed to be oral! How many fingers?
D: Oral.
Graven Image
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Now it’s time for more Shane Warne. Nobody calls him the greatest leg-spinner who never lived. There isn’t much one can add to what his portrait painter had to say, so I’ll simply hand over to Fanny Rush for the last words: “He has great colours in his face and those eyes are beautiful. The mouth in the portrait is the most beautiful mouth I have ever painted. We all fancy him. I'd be nuts if I didn't think he was gorgeous. I'd be odd. My girl friends were jealous, and my boyfriends were jealous. Everybody was jealous." The Lord of Byron has been fighting to suspend his disbelief. |