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English Cricket
Hello sports fans! Hot news from the files of leather and willow; big trouble in little bone china at the Lords Tea Rooms! Just as an Australian team looks to be at its weakest in a quarter of a century our brave blazered boys have taken careful aim and shot themselves in both feet*.
Hoorah! cry the Eton Rifles. Huzzah! scream the FT-weilding, monacled moustaches as the ECB sack the England coach and their blue-eyed Springbok KP (Nuts) resigns the captaincy in one balmy sub-zero afternoon. You couldn't make it up, people; the Sheileroos will be sobbing into their Tooheys on the streets of Wogga Wogga tonight. Trust the poms to light a match when there's a gas leak! They couldn't find their bums with both hands, bless 'em.
Coachless, skipperless, clueless and couldn't-care-less - English cricket rides a new crest of myrth and mayhem this evening. Wither the doubters? For shame, feckless fools, this sport's not dying on it's ass it's just taking a monstrous detour into the celebrity-swill of Big Bother and Strictly Come Bungling. Ah, I remember when Twenty20 referred to hindsight; perfect vision! Bring back Micheal Vaughan! they cried . . . no, not the Barmy Army (even those addled sots can spot a runless no-hoper from the blurry boundary) - the Aussie hacks, plum noses shining in the floodlights, desperate to keep the laughter rolling as the Home of Cricket becomes the Theatre of Devine Comedy.
SP, you gotta get into this game old son; it's a hoot!
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Feckless Hack
[SIZE="1"]* apologies to Tom Fordyce at the Beeb from whom I borrowed that gem[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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