Who will rid me of this turbulant lawyer?

The ICC has stepped in to prohibit cricket clips of the World Cup being available online via YouTube. Andrew Miller skewers this incredible piece of stupidity here. I’m just left gasping at how ICC’s powerbrokers have managed to get themselves so ‘out of touch’ that they thought this was a good idea.

Short of actually prohibiting broadcasting of the games, they could not have made a worse decision. Imagine an attempt by ICC to prohibit cricket blogs or newspaper coverage or forums and you have an idea of how stupid this is. Does Malcolm Speed know how to turn on his PC?

Funny names

I’m a bit of a fan of funny names and general wordplayage, so it was with great and splendid delight that I finally got round to buying 12th Man (mentioned the other day, actually). In it, Tony Greig, Bill Lawry, Richie Benaud and friends commentate on various games…with some ridiculous, always hilarious and often massively rude names. It’s utter bloody brilliance, and I’d urge you to buy it immediately. I haven’t laughed so much in ages! Then again, I do love purile humour (“And he’s gone for a slash just outside off stump…you really can’t be allowed to do that, the puddle…” etc)

The less rude ones include Kartis Arminhalf, Ramatunga DownaThroata, Wayne King, Hugh Jarse, Brendan Kangaroopoo and Cock Sarker. Not to mention the Sri Lankan spinner, SmellabitofaRatna, and the Indian opener Sunil Haveascar. Oh and IwannaUse Yadunny and Mekarsa Bitrusty, those two splendid middle-order Australians. Who can forget Ilarva Cornishpasty and Snake Sharma too?

Anyway, time for some fun. Let’s draw up a list of alternative names, the ruder and funnier the better. I’ll start it off with two very fine England prospects; Piston Broke and Mebats Snappedinalf.

I remember once…

I was just making a comment about cricket at my school, and it reminded me of an occasion when I was batting (which never lasted long). A very tall, Asian bloke was hurling balls down impossibly quickly and me, the star number 9 bat, was expected to survive this onslought and see if we could get a draw. Out I strode, with my Dad vigourously shadow-batting on the boundary, trying to tell me to get my head over the ball and keep my hands low. I was just planning on sighting the ball, nevermind making contact. The first ball cut back like a vipor and hit me just above the family jewels.

“SHIT that was close – if this hurts, imagine if it hits me a few inches lower…but, where’s my box?” And I dropped my bat mid-pitch and sprinted to the changing rooms to find it! It’s always stayed with me (the story, that is) because when I got back, everyone thought I’d just given up: retired scared! I marched back, dignity and jewels safely err…locked up, only to find we’d been bowled out.

And the moral of this story is? Yes, exactly that.