22/04/2016 § 1 Comment
Ambitions. We all had them, didn’t we? Mine was for my name to appear in Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack.
To achieve this, until a couple of years ago, I would have had to do one of three things: qualify as a first-class cricketer (really very unlikely); invent a time machine (slightly more plausible) and make sure I appeared for my school or university (and indeed to have gone to a university); or change my name by deed poll to David Ivon Gower.
Then a wonderful thing happened. They started a writing competition. All I had to do was enter it and I’d get my name in print in the hallowed tome as one of the plucky losers. Never mind thoughts of winning the thing – just send in 500 words of cricket-based crap and immortality would be mine.
So I did.
Needless to say, neither last year nor this did I win. But if you look very carefully through the 1600 pages or so of the Great Book you will find irrefutable proof that I have finally made it as ‘someone who has something vaguely to do with cricket.’
I share below my two losing efforts – first the 2015 one, then this year’s vintage. Someone’s got to read them, after all. (Don’t worry – it needn’t actually be you)
Amidst the hullabaloo surrounding the impending 150th Slog™ Globe-O-Champ, it’s easy to forget that there was a time when the world’s most popular sport was just a twinkle in its inventor’s eye. So what did bat-and-ball fans do for entertainment in those dark and distant days?
Once, there was another game. Now a footnote in sporting history, it was by today’s standards preposterously cumbersome, and its popular appeal was limited. But without it Slog™ wouldn’t exist. Let us give thanks to Cricket.
Nowadays Cricket would be proscribed as an Anti-Sport. Played outdoors, lasting up to five days, adjudicated by humans, and involving two teams of eleven – half of whom spent long periods completely inactive – it seems now, a century after the last international match, like the invention of a drug-crazed madman. Hardly anybody played it; the regulations took impenetrability to extremes usually reserved for near-earth planning regulations; entire matches were played without a winner. If you approached SportFed with such a proposal today, you’d be arrested.
“Compared to Slog™,” explains Tallulah Badminton, Sport Archivist at Beaconsfield University, “Cricket was complex, arcane and bewildering. For example, Hurlage™ duties were delegated to people called ‘bowlers’. These poor creatures ran to a predetermined point, delivered the ball, then trudged back to their mark. Run, deliver, trudge, repeat. Each process took at least thirty seconds. Compare that with the Hurlatron 5000™ with its delivery of fifty balls a minute, and the mind boggles at Cricket’s inefficiency. Then there were ‘fielders’, who emulated the lowliest FetchDrone™, yet were nonetheless part of the team and also participated as ‘batsmen’ (the Cricket term for Sloggers™). Furthermore, the scoring system was archaic. There were no AutoHitZones™ – instead, the ‘batsmen’ sprinted twenty yards to register a ‘run’. Four hundred was considered a high score. And as well as impenetrable GamePlay, Cricket boasted a ridiculous vocabulary – how do you decipher expressions like ‘she murdled a groogly to smiley mid-out’?”
Despite its many faults, Cricket enjoyed the devotion of a significant, if localised, pocket of followers. But the rapid rise and global domination of Slog™ left its sister sport gasping for breath. So where did it all go wrong?
“Politics, partly,” says Badminton. “Cricket ate itself in an orgy of greed and power struggles. But it was also a victim of its own complexity. People just didn’t understand it. The short form, T20, fell between two stools – too banal for Cricket fans, too complex for Sloggists™. And in the great Slog™ nations – America, China, Belgium – there was no cricket culture, so Slog™, pleasingly simple and addictive, spread like wildfire, and Cricket died a quiet death. The last international game was between Slog™ minnows England and Australia.” (England won by an innings and 498 runs, whatever that means.)
Today, with Cricket long dead, only the committed historian knows of its existence and the link between the two games. But they are based on a shared attribute: hitting the bejeezus out of a ball with a wooden stick. With recent signs of unrest in the Slog™ community, perhaps cricket is due a revival. Groogly, anyone?
The Best (and Worst) Cricket Films of 2015
This forgotten masterpiece languished in the archives for decades, and might have been lost forever but for the tireless work of cricket historian Lysander Trenchfoot, who found it, remastered it, and persuaded the BBC to release it on DVD. Originally broadcast as part of the Play for Today series, with a screenplay by Harold Pinter, it tells the enthralling story behind a single dot ball in a run-of-the-mill County Championship match between Derbyshire and Somerset at Burton-on-Trent in May 1978. Richard Beckinsale is on superb form as Mike Hendrick – his performance reminds us of what a loss he was to British acting (and, if the glimpses of him in action are any guide, seam bowling) – while Leonard Rossiter as Colin ‘The Demon of Frome’ Dredge is never anything less than avidly watchable. Bristling with tension, dry wit and Pinter’s trademark pauses, Dot Ball is a reminder of one of the eternal truths of cricket, and indeed life: that lurking behind seemingly unremarkable events can lie hidden stories of friendship, bravery and yeomanlike fast-medium seam bowling.
The Greatest Game
When stand-up comedian, journalist and film-maker Jasper Quench found a pile of his old cricket scorebooks in the attic, he had what he describes as ‘a low-voltage halogen bulb moment’. The result is this film, a charming oddity that has ‘cult hit’ written all over it. Quench, like so many children of the 1970s, was an avid player of Owzthat!, and has recreated, in stop motion animation, a hypothetical match in which he scored an undefeated triple hundred and took fourteen wickets for ‘My Freinds’ (sic) against ‘1976 West Indies’. The animation is beautifully realised, and Quench has added his own commentary, delivered tongue firmly in cheek and with alarmingly realistic impersonations of the commentators of the day. His Peter West, in particular, is so accurate you can almost smell the pipe smoke. By turns hilarious, bathetic and preposterous (there is a sequence in which he takes Michael Holding for 24 off an over), this strangely touching film will resonate with anyone who has ever indulged in sporting fantasy.
The first example of that rare genre ‘comedy cricket caper’ since the ghastly 1970s flop ‘Fingers Up!’, this might on the face of it seem to be a step too far in the wrong direction. But stick with it. At its heart is a gem of a performance from Maggie Smith as put-upon cricket widow Felicity Strange, who embarks on a ‘Thelma & Louise’-style adventure with neighbour Glenda Nosworthy (Brenda Blethyn), leading to a tense showdown at a Royal London One-Day Cup Quarter Final at Chelmsford. Watch out for a telling cameo from Graham Gooch as a jobsworth car park attendant.
You Miss, I Hit
Set at the height of the Cold War, this implausible thriller tries to find links between the nearly contemporaneous events of the Cuban Missile Crisis and England’s Ashes tour of 1962-3.
Johnny Depp plays Mitchell Johnson. Five words to make your blood run cold. Predictably awful.
24/12/2015 § 4 Comments
There are those who are born to dabble, and those who are not.
Firmly in the latter category sat my father, who died 28 years ago today. (28 years – bloody hell. 28 years before that the shower scene in Psycho was filmed; 28 years before that, give or take, Al Capone was sent to prison; and 28 years before that the Wright brothers made the first powered flight. Mortality maths is a mug’s game.)
My dad, quite simply, devoted his life to playing the violin extremely well, an endeavour in which he was, to cut a long story short, successful. Here he is playing Mozart.
It takes a lot of time and effort (as well as natural talent, of course, but that’s another, and lengthy story) to do anything that well. It leaves little time for dabbling, and while my father took an interest in many, many things, music and the violin were firmly front and centre from a very early age. And they stayed there.
My own approach has been much more dabblesome. My lack of concentration was a byword among my long-suffering teachers, who often ooh look a blue tit.
Sorry, where was I?
Oh yes. Concentration.
Mr Guilford, charged with cramming Ancient Greek into my terminally unreceptive head, summed it up in one of his reports on my ‘progress’: “I must confess I am baffled. Regardless of cajoling or threats, he refuses to do any work whatsoever.”
He may have understated his case a little.
Mr Guilford died a few years ago, his life no doubt shortened by the stress induced by memories of my inability to understand the aorist tense.
Despite this five-year period of academic inertia, I eventually found something I could do (music – well duh) and made my stuttering way forwards in that world, first at the back of the orchestra and then at the front. If all continues to go well I’ll be in the dress circle by the time I reach retirement age.
It’s at this point that I hijack my own blogpost to blow a tiny toot on a miniature trumpet.
One of my main areas of dabblage has been the threading together of words on screen and page for the entertainment of myself and occasionally others. There have been times when I think “Ooh this is fun. Perhaps I should have made a go of it”, but then I read articles about how little writers earn (even less than musicians, if you can imagine such a thing) and am, on the whole, glad to remain a dabbler.
My problem is that I’m a serial project-starter. I have an idea, write a chunk of it, then get distracted or get to a difficult bit or realise that the project is utter drivel from beginning to end, and it gets abandoned.
But this doesn’t stop me from imagining that one day I will produce That Difficult Second Book. (That Easy First Book remains available here.)
Luckily comedy sketches and short stories are brief enough to break free of this Escher-like process of continually unfulfilled expectations and emerge blinking into the sunlight more or less fully formed. They mostly don’t travel any further than my hard drive, but I derive satisfaction from having completed a job to the best of my ability, like when you do the washing-up and put everything away in cupboards on the same day.
Occasionally my confidence builds up a bit of momentum and impels me to submit something to the scrutiny of others – competitions and such like. My approach to these is not so much one of hope vs expectation – it’s more like certainty vs certainty. I send it off and move on. But just this once something I wrote has got through all the obstacles and has emerged more or less victorious. It’s a sketch, it’s called Meeting God, and it will be presented to an unsuspecting and insomniac public in the last episode of The Show What You Wrote on Radio 4 on December 29th at 11pm.
Have a listen. Or don’t. Up to you.
My dad liked comedy. I remember seeing him laugh so much that he fell, QUITE LITERALLY, off his chair and into the aisle when we went to see Billy Connolly a move, incidentally, replicated almost step-by-step by my son at John Finnemore’s Souvenir Cabin earlier this year – and not surprisingly, for JF is the master of sketch comedy.
My dad, sadly, didn’t live long enough to know about my penchant for writerly dabblage. There are myriad reasons for wishing one’s departed loved ones could return for just a day or so. That sketch is reason enough for today – and, given the chance, I’d make Mr Guilford listen to it and all.
Happy Christmas one and all.
12/12/2015 § 3 Comments
About fifteen months ago The New Yorker published a poem by Clive James called ‘Japanese Maple’. It was, and is, a beautiful farewell to the world from a fine writer.
We were sad.
We waited for the inevitable news of his death.
After a while it occurred to me that “When is Clive James actually going to die?” might be an apposite, if not entirely tactful, question.
The same thought obviously struck James himself. He resurfaced this autumn (in my purview, at least – closer followers will no doubt have been tracking his every move), talking, in his admirably droll and self-deprecating way, about “the embarrassment of still being alive.”
Terminal illness hasn’t rendered him idle. The last couple of years have seen the publication of two volumes of verse, a translation of The Divine Comedy (the epic poem, not the band, who sound fine in the original language), a book of notes on poetry, and a volume of short essays.
More, then, than some people manage in a lifetime.
And now a weekly Guardian column, pithy, witty, wise and touching, more so for the underlying knowledge that each one might be the last.
Obviously the shadow of death affects people in different ways.
I remember first reading James. My parents thought he was the funniest writer around. In this, as in so much, they were right on the money.
I was fifteen or so. Disaffected. Lazy. The cause of parental perturbation and despair. But if anything redeemed me in their eyes it was that I read Clive James. A teenager capable of emerging from apparently permanent torpor to laugh himself sick at James’s thoughts on Mrs Thatcher’s tone (“she sounded like a cat sliding down a blackboard”), George Melly (“gave his usual impersonation of a man whose body, while he talks, is being slowly devoured by tiny fish”), and Billie Whitelaw (“plays Josephine with the effortless desperation of Arthur Rubinstein playing Chopsticks”) might not be so irredeemable as they’d thought.
I don’t think I got the serious points he was making in amongst the funny, or even that he was making serious points. I just loved the funny. And I recognised, even then, that he seemed to need fewer words than other people to say what he wanted.
He’s a poet, see. They’re good at that.
Clive James – Reports of my Death can be found here.
08/12/2015 § Leave a comment
The squirrel was nothing if not determined. Fearless, too.
Its task: get to the bird feeder. The principal impediment: an anti-squirrel baffle, a plastic dome affixed halfway up. It’s welcome to explore the inside of the baffle should it so wish, but finding a way onto the top of the dome so it can gorge itself on fat balls and sunflower seeds is a different matter.
It considered the options. Clamber onto the rosemary bush and jump up? No purchase. Climb up the inside of the baffle and somehow wangle its way round from there? No dice – even when clinging on to the pole with its back legs and trying to claw its way round with its front legs it couldn’t find a way to shift its weight round and up.
It reconsidered. Perhaps, just perhaps, it could jump from the table onto the baffle. We’d moved the table so it shouldn’t be able to do this, but as I say, the squirrel was nothing if not determined. It hopped up onto the table, squirrel-stylee.
We don’t like the squirrels. They bully their way into our garden, stealing the food we’ve put out for our favourite birds. Can’t they see that we want our feeder to be frequented by the cute things, not the vermin? Maybe they don’t realise they’re vermin. Vermin usually don’t. (By way of citation I give you Donald Trump.)
Not all squirrels, of course. On the Isle of Wight there are no grey squirrels. The red variety, their endangered cousins, are regarded as beautiful, shy and endearing. And so they are.
But the grey ones, widespread on the mainland, are bastards, an unwelcome predator, any admiration we might have for their ingenuity and daring completely outweighed by an instinctive distaste for their scavenging habits.
Funny how we’re so selective about which animals we care about. Fluffy, majestic, noble, cute, prone to doing amusing things on camera? Come on in! Squidgy, slimy, indefinably icky, perceived as vermin? Piss off.
Anyway, this squirrel.
It was with some pleasure that I saw this grey squirrel, this resourceful, plucky, verminous grey squirrel, take a running jump and attempt to leap the two metres and eight centimetres (I measured it) from table edge to baffle top, landing with a hefty thump on it and then sliding inexorably off it to the ground.
Undaunted, but ruefully clutching its chest, it took a moment to consider where it went wrong, then tried again.
The bastard clung on, and readied itself to tuck in to the finest fat balls the RSPB has to offer (they’re like crack for blue tits, these fat balls. Seriously.)
I charged out onto the terrace, clapping my hands and sending it charging back down the garden.
I then moved the table another twenty centimetres away from the feeder.
Five minutes later, the squirrel returned. And this happened.
This, I might add, was the first of several such attempts.
Full marks for trying.
05/12/2015 § Leave a comment
David Letterman is hunched over his laptop. He opens Excel. The sheet has three columns: ‘Rentals’, ‘Own Drums’ and ‘Notes’. He scrolls down, types ‘Foo Fighters’, enters a tick in the ‘Own Drums’ column, then types ‘will not sell’. He sits back, a contented smile on his face.
Thanks to Paul and Nathan for reminding me that this exists.