Cricket! Where did it start for me?

I was driving in to work listening to ‘Tailenders’ the rather splendid podcast from the BBC and it reminded me of nothing less than an old JM96* editorial meeting. Lots of genial banter, gentle teasing, obscure reminiscences and overall a genuine love and affection for the game we love – cricket! 

Admittedly this edition of ‘Tailenders’ wasn’t broadcast from the heart of Soho in the corner of Marshall St’s finest pub ‘The Old Coffee House’ and none of the team were (seemingly) downing Holsten Pils like it was going out fashion. But the overall essence was very familiar. 

They were talking on the opening day of the English County Championship season and sharing their excitement at the forthcoming competition. And I was transported back to my own initial introduction to the game, which fired a passion that still burns brightly deep within me. 

It was a Sunday and, in those days, BBC2 would show live broadcasts of the John Player League. The JPL was a 40 over competition with bowling restrictions (8 overs max per bowler and a reduced run up). It was played during the middle of a County Championship fixture and was initially seen as a bit of a hit & giggle affair. However, the thing it had in its favour was that unlike the County Championship it was shown on TV. 

I still remember the moment when the beauty of cricket became apparent. I’d been playing in the garden (football) and came in for a break and found my mum watching a game on the TV. I vaguely knew what cricket was (not least because my Grandad was an avid Surrey supporter) but hadn’t seen it before. 

Cut to Sophia Gardens… the Black & White OB team had set up in Cardiff and were covering a Glamorgan home game (v Somerset, I think – note to self, check Wisden). There was a very stylish man nudging, clipping & stroking the virtually impossible to see ball to all parts of the ground. This man, it transpired was Majid Khan. I was captivated by his mix of elegance, guile and occasional brutality. Compared to the other batsmen who came and went, he just seemed elevated, as though on a higher plane. 

No sooner had the innings finished and I was out into the garage (apparently, we had an old bat there – My Grandad had obviously planted it there for just such an occurrence). My poor Mum then had to serve up an hour’s worth of (what I would later learn to describe as gentle dibby-dobby medium pace) deliveries. I was hooked… 

Over the coming days and weeks of the summer holiday, I devoured every bit of televised cricket I could find, even started reading the newspaper (a big leap in my education apparently) and of course I spent the remaining time learning to bowl and bat courtesy of a Tony Greig cricket skills book.  

I started to learn about the various county teams and whilst Majid Khan was my first hero, Sussex were my team (as they still unequivocally are). Whilst I still liked football, I started to put cricket higher in my affections. 

Little did I know that I would end up playing this bloody game for over 50 years. Nor did I know how frustrating, disappointing, depressing, exhausting, costly (both wealth – Ashes trips don’t pay for themselves nor do Gray Nicolls Scoops - and health – this back, these knees and these crooked fingers) this game would turn out to be. Nor did I realise how wonderful, exhilarating and astonishing this ludicrous sport could be. 

Of course, we are not defined by one single thing we do but the six I hit so far over the midwicket boundary in my last ever knock comes pretty close. It was and I make no apologies, stylish, elegant and brutal – almost as if it had come from the bat of Majid Khan himself! 
And on that immodest note, I can say – the cricket is back and Summer is here! 

If you fancy more of this stuff follow The Jardine Report

English Psychedelic Whimsy #1

Looking out of the back bedroom, 
        beyond the orchard, 
beyond the stream, 
beyond sleep…
A brief glimpse of a fairground - kaleidoscope eyes, 
the world looks better from a candyfloss tree…
as toffee apples slide down the helter-skelter ride
whilst the magpie swoops from the edge of a hedge
a caterpillar train creeps in and out the drains 
and the butterfly leaves float away on the breeze
the gentle soothing feel of grass growing through toes 
an ancient Wurlitzer plays a requiem for the lost Bossa-Nova beat
worn brakes of summer shudder to a halt in a slip road
dead dog hot-dog stands do unfathomable business
fresh tarmac masks the stench of midweek excess
showground elves on a cigarette break, burn holes in the sky
and gold cascades from heaven… 
in a sugar-soaked trance, the liquid light show evocation begins
a flamingo stand’s aloof by the giant teapot 
while poltergeists chatter round the back of the haunted house
the ghost train rumbles round the track (ah-hoo)
delicate little proto-zombies stagger/lurch right/left
numbed goldfish dizzy with the dash swim head-on crash
the tarot fraud hides the truth behind polka dot headscarf
and the freshman in a scarlet tunic disappears in the shifting crowd            
and...

    all the while 
a young child
in the bad room
keeps staring
at the moon
keeps talking 
to the moon
“Where does the rest of you go?”
“Where does the rest of you go?”
“Where does the rest of you go?”
 
The rocking horse in the corner of the cold room, watches the child talking to the moon and says nothing. A Spider waits on the grandfather clock…

…The clock strikes thirteen.

What is it about being English?

What is about being English that sends people (of wherever), in to such a tailspin? Whether it is mealy-mouthed class traitor Lee “3 parties” Anderson and his warped view of that there London/England. Or it is Suella Braverman & Liz Truss and their even more jaundiced perspective of our country, so infected that they find themselves siding with the likes of right-wing boot-boy Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (aka Tommy Robinson (aka Tommy Dick Fingers)). Even the current PM Sunak, talks about our values and inclusivity at the same time as warping non-dom tax regulations to benefit his own family, whilst bemoaning the ‘mob rule’ that he mistakenly believes is spreading all over the country. 

Of course, these rather dim-witted politicians ostensibly talk about Britain, when they are only talking to their English constituents. So much so, that I fully expect Ireland to untie & unite within the next 20 years and Scotland to return a Yes vote for independence (assuming that Keir Starmer’s continued plod towards power remains so relentlessly uninspiring). Leaving slack Ol’England floundering in the wake of its own self-importance.

 

The truth of the matter is: Nobody likes us and we pretend we don’t care, but we bloody well should. The English (and don’t forget I am one – have you seen the blog title?) do have an over-inflated sense of self-importance built on the shifting sands of history. The whole sun never sets on the Empire malarkey has long since evaporated and quite frankly the reparations for crimes committed in the name of the Union Flag have still to be tallied up. 

 

Before launching into one, I should address the British v English thing. I genuinely only know of (or at least recall) a few people who truly identify as British (and they are virtually all arch-royalists or from non-aligned immigrant families), I have never met an Irishman (well maybe a couple of Mega-Oranj Prods), Welshman or Scot (Prods again?!) who declare themselves as British first. Even when corralled together in some hotchpotch sporting allegiance or two (The Lions/Olympics), being a Brit is rarely ever mentioned…

 

But the purpose of this piece is not to rehash the old school leftist view of Britain as being a washed-up colonial construct (even though it is #smileywhiteface). It is more about trying to embrace the reality of being a 21^st Century Englishman and coming to terms with what that actually means.

 

I’m very aware that some of my writing illuminates an England that exists more in old photographs, unsent postcards, the distant embrace of young love, the scratched grooves of long deleted LP’s and discredited movies. My England, the one I inhabit from this distance is sinister, haunted, beautiful, idyllic, pissed, broken, vicious and only 24 hours away. 

 

My England smells of burnt toast, cut grass, creosote and ozone. My England is cold, wet, warm, windy, freezing and has a leaking roof. My England is shuffling in the queue at the post office, hanging out by the off-licence and still waiting for the number 11 bus. My England still thinks it is good at all sports, despite the evidence. 

You get the picture… I could go on forever (and I probably will elsewhere). But I’ll stop and try and keep focussed for the time being. What could the new English really become? The vague reference to Billy Bragg is very appropriate here because his book ‘The Progressive Patriot’ has led me to reappraise what being English could be. 

 

For those unfamiliar with his book, apart from being part autobiographical Bragg explores the impact of the Magna Cart, the People’s Charter, Civil War, the Second World War, the Miners’ Strike on the national consciousness. He also grapples with what it means to be a patriot in a country where (at the time he wrote the book) the BNP were running in General Elections. And now, given the invidious nature of the Savile Row besuited bigots (Anderson, Tyce, Farage etc.) the question is even more relevant. 

 

How can I be proud of my country when we continue to churn out a bunch of repugnant racists who are getting more and more airtime from their odious right-wing media paymasters? How can I be proud of my country when an increasing number of my fellow countrymen are seemingly hellbent on out-doing the mad dog MAGA mob of the US with the wildest of conspiracy theories.

 

It is a major challenge and one that I feel ill-equipped to confront head on. That being said, I’ll be jiggered if I’m simply going to stand back and hand over the country of my birth to those members of society whose crazed claims and warped world view makes us seem positively rabid. England isn’t as bad as everyone thinks… but it could well get worse. 

But how can we make it better, without more bloodshed, an armed uprising or hiding in a small hut somewhere in the Lake District. Firstly, we need to be honest with each other and perhaps more importantly with ourselves. For too long the myth has dominated the reality and we cannot head somewhere new if we don’t know where exactly we are heading from. A journey cannot end without there having been a start point! 

 

So, time for honesty. And that leads us to the second thing, we must confront the bullshit wherever and whenever we see it. For example, the neo-liberals who seem to have grasped the steering wheel profess to hate the nanny state. And yet, these bastards have got an uncanny way of trying to get involved in absolutely everybody else’s business: From who they sleep with to which pronoun they prefer, from where to go on holiday to which religion they can or indeed cannot follow. 

 

These charlatans must be tackled on their view of England… they relentlessly tout ‘our values’, ‘our way of life’ and ‘our traditions’ and yet they can never name a single thing that reflects these indistinct ideals. Be it poor old John Major and his “Britain will still be the country of long shadows on county (cricket) grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers and pools fillers”. Or Farage’s updated “Respect”, “Decency” and “not talking down our great country” schtick that doesn’t stop him from buggering off to the States every time Donald McDonald clicks his fake tan stained little pudgy fingers. 

 

Instead of their warped view, we should inspire each other to live up to a higher more honest set of social principles. In short, we should aim to live up to the mantra of several high-performance sporting teams and instil a simple ‘No Dickheads’ culture. 

 

Glib? Well, a little, what did you expect – new patriotic zeal on a stick. Valid? I think so. A starting place for a New England? Absolutely! In fact, following that theme and re-writing one of the most shameful tropes of the early 70’s ‘No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs’ (sadly often displayed on houses for rent). 

 

The New England mission statement should perhaps simply read as follows: 

·      No Racists

·      No Bigots

·      No Dickheads

 

... Oh and No Oxymorons!

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