A Short Story

This is a short story about aliens and Michael Bendell.

Michael (never 'Mike') Bendell is a swimmer. Not a professional swimmer, it's not his job to swim, and although you could argue he's been paid to swim before, that was for charity so doesn't count.

Michael is swimming. He was swimming some time before, and he's swimming now. But between the "then" and the "now" something happened. Either Micheal had one of those existential moments when he was somehow outside his own body and had time to consider his own being from a distance, or he was abducted by aliens, experimented on (why else would they do it?) and placed back in the water without realising what had happened. Between strokes (he was doing the 'front crawl' - he'd often lay on his back and just drift, but today's swim had an indeterminate time pressure, so the fastest of strokes it was), fractions of a second after the out-of-body experience, he was back in the real world. Swimming not as quick as he used to, but maintaining a very respectable pace for a man of 43 years, nine months and thirteen days. His age was/is not important to the aliens.

When we hear stories of alien abductions they're usually from remote areas of the planet. The collection of stories montaged during 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind' are typical: deserts, people who probably worship the sun or similar, not Reading town centre or 500 yards out in The Thames estuary near Leigh-On-Sea. Thing is, Aliens look down on The Earth and most of it is water. They calculate that whatever inhabits The Earth is likely to be in the blue bits, not on the green and brown bits. It's just maths. So the vast majority of alien abductions have been fish and sea mammals. Whales and dolphins usually, although they tried great plankton shoals too (in case the shoal was one great organism, which of course it is). These abductions have to date been so lacking in worthwhile information, that the aliens had all but given up. Fish and sea mammals are great, don't get them wrong, but they're better to eat than to talk to.

Imagine the aliens' joy at stumbling across Michael Bendell 500 yards out in The Thames estuary near Leigh-On-Sea. He wasn't a fish, he seemed to actually realise what was happening to him, and was happy to tell all about the invention of the wheel, the internal combustion engine, and computers. His insides were much the same as the sea mammals, except some small but vital differences in breathing apparatus. On the whole a very worthwhile catch: quick, and informative. They dropped him back exactly where they'd found him, and of course erased any memory he'd had of the abduction. Textbook. Luckily he was immediately conscious enough to continue swimming, rather than drown.

The news today is full of stories of raw sewage being pumped into our seas and rivers because the current government aren't very good. Sad to think that this short-sighted approach to waste disposal will stop people like Michael Bendell from swimming in our natural waters, and prevent aliens from picking him out of the water to experiment on him. Perhaps the aliens will think we enjoy swimming in our own waste, turn their noses up (they have several noses) and decide to try a more civilised planet. It makes you think.

Trevor Chappell's Butterfly Effect

 First, The Butterfly Effect. From Wiki...

"In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state."

Also...

"In The Vocation of Man (1800), Johann Gottlieb Fichte says 'you could not remove a single grain of sand from its place without thereby ... changing something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole'."

And...

"The idea that the death of one butterfly could eventually have a far-reaching ripple effect on subsequent historical events made its earliest known appearance in 'A Sound of Thunder', a 1952 short story by Ray Bradbury. 'A Sound of Thunder' features time travel."

Go back in time, accidentally tread on a butterfly, travel back, everything you understood before could now be different.

Now, Trevor Chappell. From Wiki...

"Trevor Martin Chappell (born 12 October 1952) is a former Australian cricketer, a member of the South Australian Chappell family which excelled at cricket. He played three tests and 20 One-Day Internationals for Australia. He won the Sheffield Shield with New South Wales twice, and scored a century for Australia against India in the 1983 World Cup." 

"His career was overshadowed, however, by an incident in 1981 when he bowled underarm to New Zealand cricketer Brian McKechnie to stop the batsman hitting a six."

"On 1st February 1981, Australia played New Zealand in a ODI, the third in the best-of-five final, 1980-81 World Series Cup, at the Melbourne Cricket Ground.

With one ball of the final over remaining, New Zealand required a six to tie. Australian captain Greg Chappell instructed his bowler (and younger brother) Trevor Chappell, to deliver the last ball underarm, along the ground. Trevor Chappell did so, forcing McKechnie to play the ball defensively, meaning Australia won. This action, although legal at the time, was nevertheless widely perceived as being wholly against the traditional spirit of cricketing fair play."

Okay. If you could travel back in time (and space) to 1st February 1981 and persuade Trevor Chappell not to bowl underarm, what would the Butterfly Effect of that action be?

I think you could persuade Trevor Chappell not to bowl underarm because a) I don't think he wanted to do it, b) his captain was also his brother - so he could plead to him on a different level to other teammates, c) his teammates (especially Rod Marsh the experienced wicket keeper) also didn't want him to do it, and d) the worst that could have happened had he bowled a normal delivery was McKechnie hitting a six for a tie.

"The outrage caused by the incident eventually led to an official amendment to the international laws of cricket to prevent it from occurring again."

This is the legacy of the incident, the underarm delivery wasn't against the laws of the game, but those laws were subsequently changed so it wouldn't happen again. If we assume Trevor Chappell ignores his brother and bowls a standard delivery, McKechnie hits it for one, two, three, four but not six, and Australia win, the world carries on turning regardless. However, underarm bowling remains legal to this day (*evil chuckle*).

How many more games of cricket take place before another captain thinks bowling underarm is the only option? It could happen tomorrow. It could decide an Ashes test series. It could decide a World Cup Final between India and Pakistan. 

P.S. Only the 'Mankad' has come close to causing the same controversy as Trevor Chappell's action...

"Mulvantrai Himmatlal 'Vinoo' Mankad (12 April 1917 – 21 August 1978) was an Indian cricketer who appeared in 44 Test matches for India between 1946 and 1959. He was best known for his world record setting opening partnership of 413 runs with Pankaj Roy in 1956, a record that stood for 52 years, and for running out a batsman "backing up" at the non-striker's end. Mankading in cricket is named after him."

My Last Assembly

Hello.

Following a tweet from journalist Andrew Male, which lamented having to sing 'Lily The Pink' by The Scaffold at school assembly, I've been thinking about my last school assembly...

First of all, we sang 'Ghost Town' by The Specials (they used to be The Special AKA but decided they should also be known as The Specials because it's easier to say, so "The Specials, also known as 'The Special AKA" is a great joke, and it's what everyone sees when they Google the band), and we sang it bloody well, but that's not the best bit of my final assembly.

I was in "the sixth form" - for any youngsters reading, this was where you got your 'A' Levels for college/university or dossed for anything up to two years to avoid going to work. I was somewhere in the middle: I took Art and English Literature with a view to dossing for two years to avoid going to work. I could've painted the same thing I did for Art 'O' Level and probably passed the 'A' Level hours after completing the 'O' Level exam. This isn't a boast, it's an illustration (no pun intended, nor taken) of how silly exams can be. I still had to do at least a year of life drawing (mostly still, any "models" were fully-clothed attention-seekers from other classes) before being allowed to sit the 'A' Level exam. So I was there a year.

(Back to the assembly bit: sixth formers sat in the balcony, not for them the mosh pit of twelve-year-olds where anything goes, oh no. The fact we had the best view might be important later.)

But what, I pretend to hear, about English Literature? Funny you should ask. My teacher was brilliant, and we were supposed to read loads of really great books, but my laziness was so manifest and evident that Mrs C (I'll save her blushes [if she's still alive]) eventually asked if I'd "rather sit in the corner with a cup of tea and some hot buttered toast?" I would've. 

Anyway, the Art 'A' Level was a piece of piss, and I didn't need English Literature 'A' Level to get into a technical college that did OND/HND courses. So there. (Note: lots of my friends went away to The North to do degree courses [even longer periods of laziness?], but I had a dog I'd have missed terribly, and mum & dad started to see through the 'period of laziness' scam.)

Alright, the assembly...

What I didn't know was that my final assembly coincided with the retirement of our headmaster (I'll call him 'Mr H' to save his blushes [he must be dead]). Mr H, going against every stereotype of a mid-to-late-last-century headmaster you may (or may not) have heard, was a lovely man. Thing is, he wore a wig. 

When I rolled up as a 12-year-old I knew nothing of periwigs, syrups, rugs, hair-hats and the like. Because Mr H was such a great bloke, and hardly any of us got close to him, it was only when I made the sixth form that I was observant enough to offer a "hang on..." or a "is that...?" The first time the piece-in-the-room was openly discussed was a week before the final assembly, when Mr S (another absolutely top bloke: taught Maths, was so loved that I can only remember him raising his voice above Library Whisper once. "Why is there talking?" he said, and not a sound was heard ever again) announced the news that Mr H was leaving. 

Someone much braver/stupider/ than me offered: "Ha, is he going to take his wig off?"

Simon and/or Garfunkel would've been proud of the sound of silence that followed. Mr S stood up (another first), and we knew this would be big. I'll paraphrase Mr S's following speech because a) I didn't have a Dictaphone (they still make them!), and b) memory is a very strange thing: you may think you remember what happened in 1981, but you're probably remembering what your brain told you the last time you tried to remember what happened in 1981 (It's a bit like Chinese Whispers)...

"You'll all agree, I'm sure, that Mr H has been a brilliant headmaster for this school. Hands up anyone who thinks otherwise... (nothing, of course) ... yes, he wears a wig." 

*actual gasps* (even from RS, the questioner [and there were two RSs in the room, lawyers.])

"But consider this: why would a man wear a wig? Yes, your mums and dads might suggest it's vanity - 'he wants to look younger than he is' - but what if there's another reason. What, for instance, if his head is unsightly."

Fucking hell. Those words still ring today. I still haven't been able to watch 'The Elephant Man' all the way through: he was potentially unsightly.

*cut to the assembly*

We sang our songs, we signed our little notebooks, vowing to keep in touch (*looks to camera*), and finally Mr H rocks up to give his final address. Again I'll paraphrase for brevity, and the Chinese Whispers memory thing... 

"Good luck everyone!"

*REMOVES WIG, WAVES IT ABOUT*

*prolonged cheers*

Lovely stuff.

Spotify: Robot or Philosophy?

 Hello.

I started doing a thing on Twitter this year called ‘#1of365in22’. I did a similar thing in 2016, which was simply a way of having something to do on Twitter except trolling Piers Morgan. That in turn was inspired by John Aizlewood (renowned music journalist and all-round brilliant egg), who does his ‘A Song A Day For A Year’.

The difference this time is there’s a philosophical element to it. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Let me explain.

Here’s the system (and you’ve got to have a system): I choose an artist on Spotify, I wait for ‘[that artist] Artist’ to appear, and I press ‘Play’.

The idea is that the resulting track is either the average or mean track by that artist. This could be the only philosophical question here: which of the two is it?

To be the mean track, I think everyone pressing ‘Play’, anywhere in the world would have to get the same result.

To be the average track (which is what I’m expecting to be a more obtainable result), everyone pressing ‘Play’ gets a different result but the track isn’t that artist’s biggest hit.

I assumed that any artist chosen needed a large catalogue to increase the ‘sample’, to avoid any “one-hit wonders”.

So for instance, if I press ‘Play’ for New Order (who have a sizeable back catalogue, but for a casual Spotifier might only be known for ‘Blue Monday’) and ‘Blue Monday’ is the first result, the experiment (and it is an experiment) is over.

I haven’t done New Order yet. The ones I’ve done so far have not brought up the ‘Blue Monday constant/variable’: they’ve kinda been album tracks that are still strong, or surprising tracks I hadn’t heard before. (Talking of sample sizes, I’m not a big sample myself as many of the artists I’ll choose will be unfamiliar to me despite their renown. This is a sort of disclaimer I suppose.)

A second element of jeopardy was added: once I knew the track I Googled said track, and the first YouTube result for that track would be the one I posted to Twitter. (The first time this skewed things was for AC/DC: ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’ came up on Spotify; a song recorded when the deceased Bon Scott was lead singer. The first YouTube result was a live version of the song recorded much later, when Brian Johnson had taken over.)

As we “speak”, I’ve done 22 of these searches and had one interaction as a result. That one interaction was a comment on the artist I searched on January 1st: The Fall. Unfortunately for this blog, it had absolutely nothing to do with the experiment. Never mind. The Fall do however bring in an extra cubist fourth dimension to the experiment (as well as life itself)...

The Fall existed in a different world to us. They definitely exist beyond this experiment. The song that ‘Play’ called up on January 1st was ‘No Bulbs’ from their ‘The Wonderful and Frightening World of The Fall’ L.P. I think this is not only an “average/mean” track by The Fall, it may be an average/mean title too. Fans of The Fall love the titles as much as the music, it’s their fourth dimension. I’m digressing here, but if for instance ‘To Nk Roachment: Yarbles’ is the MOST The Fall title (please feel free to correct me The Fall fans, I know you can), and say ‘Lost In Music’ (a cover version I know, but throw me a bone here) is the dullest... ‘No Bulbs’ definitely (in my mind) sits in the middle. Why? Because in itself it’s not a particularly weird title by The Fall’s standards, but when you know Mark E Smith is going to rant on about having no BELTS in his “trash-mount” of a flat, before moving on to bulbs, it’s funnier (and The Fall are funny, apart from all the other fantastic things they were).

I said “are” and “were” above, because unless you saw every concert by The Fall, or you are a surviving molecule of Mark E Smith or his grandmother (bongos), there’s always more to learn.

So to conclude we have ‘Spotify Search’ + ‘YouTube Search’ (Where The Fall titles are variable Yarbles) for the math(s) fans. And I’m willing to admit this is simply someone (let’s face it me) wrestling with a robot (Spotify) because I can’t be bothered to upgrade to ‘Prime’ and lose the adverts.

No pressure, but if you join in on any day, I would love to hear your results.

Why I Can’t Wordle

Wordle is the current big thing. Your Twitter feed will be splattered with grids of squares, signifying that someone has guessed a five-letter word through a process of elimination. Twitter being Twitter, you’re almost as likely to see accounts claiming that they’ve muted the word “Wordle”, so players’ results don’t litter their precious timelines. 

I won’t Wordle, but I won’t hate Wordle. I’m not one of the second group mentioned above because I’m jealous Wordlers (for that must be their name) have found a wholesome way to exercise their minds, and share the experience with others. My problem is with puzzles, and to a lesser extent quizzes, in general.

Taking Wordle specifically, my brain refuses to enjoy trying to work out an answer that someone else already knows. The five-letter word already exists, and whether I can work it out or not is irrelevant. This, as you can imagine, makes all puzzles a problem...

Jigsaws: give me a 5,000-piece jigsaw of a Jackson Pollock and I’ll point to the picture on the box and tell you it’s already finished.

Crosswords: the same problem as Wordle, but multiplied. Someone has already put all the words in the grid; hell, they even give you the answers via a link or in the back of the book. What’s the point? Why not just save time and read the answers first? 

“You’re exercising your brain, and learning new words” is the answer, I know... but a) I’m no good at crosswords (don’t even mention cryptic ones), b) I prefer questions where there is no right answer, and c) the idea that the puzzle-setter is sitting somewhere giggling away at my incompetence makes me unhappy.

Quizzes: Only Connect. The Wall on Only Connect. Not only are there four groups of four random things to arrange, but while you watch the teams try and do it the three members of the team are shouting at each other and smashing buttons... *screams* ... and all along some smug git is rubbing their hands together because no one spotted the “red herrings”. And Lord of The Rings. There are always questions on Lord of The fucking Rings.

Hateful.

University Challenge: the only good thing about University Challenge is that none of the students are old enough to know the cool music you grew up with, so when they hear Sex Pistols or Ned’s Atomic Dustbin and look at each other nonplussed, it’s our turn to be smug.

Enjoy Wordle. 

'Line of Duty' Series 7 (as written by Paddy McAloon in 1984)

"An outlaw stand in a peasant land, in every face see Judas."

Superintendent Hastings is the "stubborn beast", the "whiskey priest" but definately (sic) not 'H'. He's officially retired from AC-12, but because of his financial difficulties still has a "job" at Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories. He's actually still in charge of AC-12, but working undercover. He's hiding from the captains who've made his position at AC-12 HQ impossible to carry out in public view. Who can he trust? Still with the threat of prison for earlier misconduct charges, the Chief Constable has a hold on Hastings. He wants Hastings to carry out one more job: find H's boss, 'GI'. 

"They ask for more than you bargained for and then they ask for more."

Hastings is convinced his new target is being controlled by the Russians. Having made contact with GI, Hastings has set up a meeting at Jodrell Bank, under the pretence of scientific findings (possibly space-related, who knows) being shared. Under his pseudonym 'Robert Fischer', he's already been to Moscow to win GI's trust. Now AC-12 are waiting for Hastings to arrive with GI. 

"When Bobby Fischer's plane touches the ground, he'll take those Russian boys and play them out of town."

Isaac Green, AKA 'Green Isaac', or GI, arrives with Hastings.

How did Hastings work out GI was H's boss? Well, when the dying DI Matthew 'Dot' Cottan was apparently spelling out "H" in morse code, he was simply counting "12345/12345" to suggest there were in fact five bent coppers ranking above Hastings. Hastings worked out that Isaac Green (nicknamed 'Green Isaac' because he bumbled his way through police college), somehow gained promotion to DCI only by selling old rope, and telling bad jokes. Corrupt, in short. 

The interview:

"Isaac Green, why did you defect to the Russians?"

"They're much more beguiling, than children at play. What was I going to say? I have limited talent, but impossible wealth. I had a schoolboy crush on Che Guevara. I had a choice: either face yourself or give it away. Don't start pretending you've feelings of anguish. You'd have done the same in my position."

"I'm no bent copper, sunshine! *fumes* ... GI, we know all about you sharing secrets with the Russians."

"Please stop talking of things you know nothing. The truth well will make you ill. We played you for fools, giving you rubbish in return for gold! So chew on the safest, the blandest of food. And avoid the specifics, that might ruin the mood."

"Isaac Green. 'Green Isaac'. GI: the letters either side of, and controlling 'H'. We've got you bang to rights, son."

"But we've also got you, Hastings. And your friends, your loved ones, your colleagues. Other lives stay neatly curtained, iron curtained you could say. Don't turn tearful, I'm not your seventh son. This star crossed lovers business, astrologeewhizzness. It doesn't scare me."

"You bastard, you leave my friends out of this. This is between you and me!"

"You better ask your wife about that. I like to think of my affair with her, and the subsequent effect on you, as my contribution to urban blues."

*Flashback to Ted and Roisin's last meeting; Hastings' last attempt to win her back.*

"Cruel is the gospel that sets us all free, then takes you away from me. We made vows, Roisin!"

"I became fed up that the days went from perfect to just okay, Ted.'

"So, these stardust memories fail to please? If you confuse this dinner dance with elegance, I'll take comfort from the guessing game aspect, that you are least where I expect. If you need to swan one-to-one, I suppose you don't need the pond. I'm a liberal guy Roisin, but what would I do? Don't call me possessive, but holy mother of God if he's smoochin' with you! The world should be free, but don't you go following suit. Our hearts are aligned, I couldn't be neutral, I couldn't be that way inclined! I'm going to be tougher than tough, and prouder than proud. I'll find him, and I'll put him away."

*Cut back to the interview.*

Hastings, looking down, close to tears: "Did you mean to humble me?'

"Don't expect so much of me, I'm just an also-ran. There's a mile between the way you see me, and the way I am. I couldn't bear to be special."

"So you did it unsuspectingly! Are you telling us you're not the highest ranking bent copper in the police force?!"

DI Arnott breaks his silence; to Hastings: "I'm not looking to disturb you, just a little to unnerve you. After that last unholy row (referring to the spinal injuries suffered in series 4) - I never, ever play basketball now. It joins the list of things I'll miss, like fencing foils and lovely girls I'll never kiss."

Hastings: "Holy Christ on a bike son, will you get to the point?!"

"Sorry, sir. I left this case behind, on an overcrowded desk where the 'IN'-tray is higher than the 'OUT'- will ever be."

Hastings looks at his watch pointedly.

"Before the tea rooms fill with flirting couples..."

*everyone in the room looks around the Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories canteen, commandeered for the interview*

"Remember to call."

"Remember to call" is code for "URGENT EXIT REQUIRED". DI Arnott is in cahoots with GI, and there now follows a gunfight between seemingly allied "policemen" and Nuffield Radio Astronomy Laboratories "tea ladies". There's claret everywhere. Luckily for Hastings, DI Kate Fleming is disguised as one such "tea lady", and she's shit hot at shooting bent coppers. It was impossible to see through her disguise because a) she had let her hair grow down to her ankles (despite the fire risk) and b) she was in vertical stripes.

"Her husband works at Jodrell Bank, he's home late in the morning. Had he been a lawyer, he wouldn't work for pennies."

Roisin sits by Hastings' hospital bed. He might make it, but it's going to be a long, long road to recovery. She remembers their first days together... 

*Montage: Her parents tried but it's not much use. Her boyfriend left home, it was late summertime, life was good, they were young, but glory is purblind. She knows, and still loves the Superintendent of this hysterical town, he worked his way up from the dirt on the ground. Now everyone asks him questions, they consider they've a right to be told. People naturally wonder what it's all leading to...*

"Ted, can you hear me?"

Doctor: "It's way, way to early to talk to him. You can't call this heartbeat a man. But don't cry too soon, you might as well fall in love with the moon. For now, the anguish of love is long range."

"Are you telling me Death is neatly spruced for his honeymoon?"

"Find an answer while I leave the room. Perhaps I should learn to shut my mouth."

A year later...

Hastings to GI: "In the morning I go walking, it helps the hurting soften. I've seen a lot of places, 'cos I miss her very often. So long ago I buried something I should know... 

When they interviewed me about you GI, verse and chapter they unfurled. I used every technique, so their eyes don't fill with wonder when I speak. I loathe the stilted way they made me speak. Without recourse to lying, distortion or "cheating", they were making such a fool of me. Now, I worship the silence that sings like a bird, I long for the Moon as it looks from the Earth. Take one step, Green Isaac; one step away. The light is fading, it's making such a fool of thee, when you'd love to be someone."

*GI is led away*

Disclaimer: I haven't seen series 6, so if they all die in a freak gardening accident, I'm sorry.

I thought of putting all the lyrics from 'swoon' (yes, it's lower case on the sleeve) in italics, but it looked weird. If you don't know 'swoon' this might not make much sense. Buy 'swoon'.

PUBS (pubs)

Hello! I'm 55!

(That's how I started the last blog post, and I'm going with it again.)

This time, the fact that I'm 55 has had me thinking about pubs, and cricket. Cricket and pubs, if you'd prefer. Why I'm specifically thinking about pubs now is a) there's a vague rumour that they'll be opening again soon; b) I just got to the end of Mortimer & Whitehouse's 'Gone Fishing' book (which accompanies their lovely tv series), where they start talking about pubs, and c) the cricket season is nearly upon us, and pubs play a BIG part in that.

In 'Gone Fishing', Bob Mortimer recalls how he and Paul Whitehouse both start to think about "The Pub" around five o'clock. They've been fishing for hours and hours by now, and the promise of a few pints and a pie are looming large. Here's the rub though: get in the pub at five o'clock and all might not go well. They may not be serving pies yet. You fancy-dans in your London gastropubs might expect food "all day", but out in the sticks this is not always economically viable. No, best to wait until 7-7:30. By then the kitchen will be on full alert. Also, atmosphere. A country pub (I'm judging this by Norfolk standards, having lived there for a decade or so) will have a very specific clientele at five o'clock: the guy who was in at 11 and intends to stay all night, the guy who was in at 11 and can't remember his name, and the local postman. You need more than these guys for atmosphere, just ask Russ Abbot. 

(Aside: the local postman lives "The Best Life". Sure he has to get up early, but he's finished by 11:30, which coincides nicely with opening time. He can drink and pie himself stupid, safe in the knowledge that he'll be asleep by 8. Be more postie.)

So Bob & Paul kid themselves they're trying really hard to catch one more tench (insert fish of your own choice here; I didn't read the book to learn about fish or fishing, so it could be Flipper the friendly dolphin for all I know), but they're really thinking about that first pint. (Aside: Paul prefers wine, which kinda ruins everything.)

Which brings us on to cricket. 

It snowed today. Every cricketer will tell you they played in snow. The poor sods who actually do it for a living may well have been out there today. Mine was Central Park, Dagenham, Craven CC (dissolved after their treasurer ran off with the float), won by nine wickets, ran out my cousin Dave, I finished 54 not out. Craven weren't much cop then. Anyway, we went to Hornchurch to find a pub suitable for humans to interact afterwards. Let's not get too bogged down with where is and where is not a good place to drink after a cricket match (Dagenham, for a fucking start) (or Hornchurch, if you're being picky), but like Bob & Paul, it's definitely part of the day.

I started playing grown-up cricket at 17. I'd never been in a pub. Never ordered a pint. After my first game I was pissed after two pints, and went into the ladies for a pee because my cousin Dave pointed at the door and I was too pissed to read the sign on it. Fiona was in there; Fiona is Scottish, she simply said "och Edward, you'll be in the wrong toilet." We're still friends to this day. 

In fact, apart from all the ones who've died (and there's a depressingly large number of those), we're all still friends. We're still friends despite the dropped catches off my cousin Dave's bowling, despite taking my cousin Dave off after four overs because he keeps bowling bouncers when the ball is swinging like a top and we've got three slips and a gully, despite telling my cousin Dave he can't bat at three because he bowled 21 overs and it really is time to give someone else a chance... We really, really loved playing cricket together. And by and large, the pubs and clubhouses we went to afterwards were absolutely brilliant.

And that's why even at 55, knowing my eyes are shot, knowing my knees are shot, knowing I couldn't bat in a helmet because I never did, I'd love to have another go.

Memories of the post-match pub/clubhouse;

Gary. Gary would often be late for matches. Trouble with Gary was that he had no sense of time. Not just hours and minutes, but weeks and months. Gary turned up for a holiday a month early, only to be told his tickets weren't valid for another month. He had to break it to his wife that she had to go back to work and book the time off again a month later. Then he had to do the same himself. Gary loved the tea part of cricket the most. I remember Gary eating a gherkin from one hand and Mars bar from the other, after going through the usual sandwich/cake/tea cycle. He was the urban fox of teas. One week Gary went to the wrong ground. Thankfully the ground he went to was at least in the same county as the one we were playing at. He finally arrived at (yes, you've guessed it) tea time. And we'd already fielded. So Gary (honestly if you met him you'd love him, wish he was right here now, I'd hug the tardy bastard) managed a head start on the tea, didn't have to field at point (he was always wandering behind square, looking at the clouds, the trees ("GARY, IN FRONT OF SQUARE FFS!!"), and could waltz in at 4 or 5 to tonk the winning runs. Oh, and there's what Gary used to wear. Gary used to forget his spikes. Gary was convinced he should bowl regularly, but he had what even his dear old mum would describe as a "dodgy" action. He was quick, but if we chucked it we'd all be quick. Anyway, he only wore bowling boots, in the hope (against hope) that he'd be called upon. Every now and then, if we were playing teams who knew Gary since he was yay high, he'd get a bowl. Luckily, no one died. When he forgot his spikes (often), he'd wear his proper Sunday Best shoes to play cricket. Advantages: the ability to slide across the turf. Disadvantages: to Gary? None, actually. The best thing about Gary though, and the thing that will mark him down in the annals of cricketing history, is that before him no batsman had ever shouted "there's two there, his trousers have fallen down."

Okay, most of my memories of post-match pubs and clubhouses involve Gary. If I can remember anymore, I'll add them.