Once again, the Ashes are upon us and we are burning with anticipation. It will be a battle royal, we hope, riddled with fast bowling, electric catches and in the middle, tons of runs!
England are led by Strauss, a batsman of classical style, who has conducted himself with aplomb and will orchestrate the campaign. Let us hope he waltzes into form from the off, and resists any overtures from Asian bookmakers.
Amongst his armoury he has the potentially potent weapons of Broad and Anderson, not to mention the revived Monty "Frying" Panesar, who will be hoping for more turn than a turban at Sydney.
The extraordinary offer by VB - to buy every adult Aussie a beer if they win the Ashes, will earn them plaudits amongst the average, moronic Strayans, but the intelligencia will both be mindful that this is more likely a comment on their chances being slight.
Unlike the great Australian Elevens of the past, there is the look of a group of players, rathert than a team, about this lot, and when they finally select the side from the preliminary squad of 917, I suspect there will be few who cause a tremor in the England dressing room.
Clarke, who is a shoe in for the number 4 spot, will be told to "Hush, puppy" if he gets above himself.
Ponting will be worried about the collapse of his business empire in the UK, and wondering if he will be able to still do a contra with Center Parcs this year.
The English have encountered a good number of Australian Hussies in their time, but Michael of that ilk is unlikely to fill them with dread (or the urge to buy him 8 Bacardis and shag him stupid)
The bowlers too look weak.
5 tests may be too much for Bollinger who is expected to run out of fizz and will probably fake an injury, howling with sham pain.
The heavily tatooed Johnson will also probably need to go to the Doctor at some stage.
As fo the wicketkeeper, most people have had enough of his endless sledging.
But what of the English?
We can expect to see Trott amongst the runs, the now well-seasoned Cook is always a recipe for disaster, but he will be hoping to roast his detractors with century after century and KP, if he rediscovers his form, could go nuts. If Bell gives himself enough rope, her may finally confirm the ringing endorsements which have always praised his potential.
Broad will shoulder the burden of stock strike bowler, Finn will be fishing for the outside edge and then Swann will ensure the Australian's goose is cooked.
So on paper, this Ashes series looks done and dusted. Arise Sir Andrew, and Rocky Ponting will doubtless be sacrificed at the Fosters Cathedral in Melbourne.
But this is Australia, the self procalimed lucky country, and you never know!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sports Results (upcoming)
The decider that will be played between England and Pakistan tomorrow morning was won by England, who triumphed by 1 wicket after the final over bowled by Mustapha Bung went for 29 runs, mostly in no balls.
The match was overshadowed by the news that, just before the toss, Ladbrokes had dramatically cut the odds on Paul Collingwood hitting a six off Umar Gul on the 4th ball of the 7th over, clearing long leg and being caught in the crowd by a heavily bearded man in a blue shirt with his left hand, after a series of heavy bets.
A number of Sky Sports commentators were then caught on camera muttering into the cellphones and taking the 3-1 that had been freely available about such an eventuality, and it went to post at 6-4 on.
Pakistan, who won the toss, posted a relatively innocent looking 233-8 off their allocated overs, and when Strauss and Davies came out to bat, a good match appeared likely.
Quickie Mohammed Aamercheet opened the bowling, curiously electing to forgo his usual left arm pace for some innocuous right hand leg breaks, and a grateful Andrew Strauss duly posted 36 off the first over.
England then lost 6 wickets off the next over, before the surprisingly recalled Andrew Flintoff struck a rapid fire 100 off the next 5 overs, facing every ball bowled in the process.
Flintoff, who had publicly backed himself at 250-1 for a recall for this game, was seen handing over what appeared to be some photographs to Geoff Miller, chairman of selectors, just before the game.
On reaching his century, Flintoff then called for a quick single, raced to where he had hit the ball, and displaying the sort of agility reminiscent of his glory days, turned and threw down his own wicket to be run out for 100.
England need 28 off the final over, and as 17 of them came on no balls courtesy of Bung, the target was actually achieved with 9 balls to spare.
Andrew Flintoff was named Paddy Power Man of the Match for his heroics with the bat.
For those wishing to watch the game live it takes place tomorrow morning at 11.00am.
The match was overshadowed by the news that, just before the toss, Ladbrokes had dramatically cut the odds on Paul Collingwood hitting a six off Umar Gul on the 4th ball of the 7th over, clearing long leg and being caught in the crowd by a heavily bearded man in a blue shirt with his left hand, after a series of heavy bets.
A number of Sky Sports commentators were then caught on camera muttering into the cellphones and taking the 3-1 that had been freely available about such an eventuality, and it went to post at 6-4 on.
Pakistan, who won the toss, posted a relatively innocent looking 233-8 off their allocated overs, and when Strauss and Davies came out to bat, a good match appeared likely.
Quickie Mohammed Aamercheet opened the bowling, curiously electing to forgo his usual left arm pace for some innocuous right hand leg breaks, and a grateful Andrew Strauss duly posted 36 off the first over.
England then lost 6 wickets off the next over, before the surprisingly recalled Andrew Flintoff struck a rapid fire 100 off the next 5 overs, facing every ball bowled in the process.
Flintoff, who had publicly backed himself at 250-1 for a recall for this game, was seen handing over what appeared to be some photographs to Geoff Miller, chairman of selectors, just before the game.
On reaching his century, Flintoff then called for a quick single, raced to where he had hit the ball, and displaying the sort of agility reminiscent of his glory days, turned and threw down his own wicket to be run out for 100.
England need 28 off the final over, and as 17 of them came on no balls courtesy of Bung, the target was actually achieved with 9 balls to spare.
Andrew Flintoff was named Paddy Power Man of the Match for his heroics with the bat.
For those wishing to watch the game live it takes place tomorrow morning at 11.00am.
Monday, April 12, 2010
On a Masterly performance
How very appropriate. A gentleman won one of the most important events of his chosen sport. He did so in the face of enormous personal adversity, by showing grit, true grit.
Hi victory was characterised by brilliance, daring, humility and grace. The man he beat shared these sentiments and characteristics throughout.
Somewhere down the field was the player, a snarling, bitter and ungracious loser who's promise to conduct himself like a gentleman lasted 2 rounds, before he reverted to type. Perhaps it is this inability to control himself that has kept his wife from returning.
If ever anything will serve to remind Woods of what he has forsaken, it will be that hug between the brave Mickelson and the far braver Mrs Mickelson on the 18th green - a moment of romance in sport, and sporting romance of the kind that will keep us watching top class international sporting action late into the night, and late into our lives.
The Masters, much maligned by those who do not understand it (fans), rarely fails to produce great sporting drama - it stands alongside events such as the National or the Darts at Lakeside as pure sporting theatre in which all the actors are Giulgud.
Today we witnessed both a right result, and the right result. Bayete Phil, a true legend.
Hi victory was characterised by brilliance, daring, humility and grace. The man he beat shared these sentiments and characteristics throughout.
Somewhere down the field was the player, a snarling, bitter and ungracious loser who's promise to conduct himself like a gentleman lasted 2 rounds, before he reverted to type. Perhaps it is this inability to control himself that has kept his wife from returning.
If ever anything will serve to remind Woods of what he has forsaken, it will be that hug between the brave Mickelson and the far braver Mrs Mickelson on the 18th green - a moment of romance in sport, and sporting romance of the kind that will keep us watching top class international sporting action late into the night, and late into our lives.
The Masters, much maligned by those who do not understand it (fans), rarely fails to produce great sporting drama - it stands alongside events such as the National or the Darts at Lakeside as pure sporting theatre in which all the actors are Giulgud.
Today we witnessed both a right result, and the right result. Bayete Phil, a true legend.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
On the Masters - part 1
The below copy has come from a colleague of mine who runs a golf manufacture busines.....
A friend of mine was in Augusta today, and had a long conversation with Mr Waters, who is 80, and owns Bonaventure Golf. This store is fantastic, and has been in existence for 40 yrs. He owns all his inventory, has NO receivables, and yes, he does business with us.
Some of his customers during the 3 weeks of the Masters.....one week prior, the actual week, and one week after, include, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Johnnie Miller, Tom Watson, Angel cabrerra, Camillo Villegas, Sergio Garcia....get the message.
Well here is the kicker.
Tiger has been in Augusta since this past Sunday.
Monday shot 74
Tuesday shot 75
Wednesday said he wanted to play like it was the Masters...shot 72-77. 36 holes.
The caddies were saying, as he hit every shot there were 10 golf carts surrounding him, with 2 armed guards in each cart.
Where the ball was expected to land, be that the fairway off the tee, or the green, an additional 5 golf carts, with 2 armed guards in each were waiting.
On holes that border Augusta National, an additional 6 golf carts were positioned on the fence side of the hole. 2 guards, both armed.
All this with NO ONE ON THE COURSE!!!!!!!!!!
Augusta Police have called in extra security for the 7 days of the Tournament.
All the vacant houses that had not been rented have been snapped up by Puliitzer Prizewinning Organisations like TMZ, The National Enquirer, etc etc. The Caddies that are walking the course are saying.......60-40 he wont make the cut. 95-5 say he cannot win Drives not too accurate, and short game not up to par.
Putting....not even close.
It makes for interesting reading - as will the interview with Woods - should he condescend to give one, if he fails to make the cut.
The thrill of anticipation is in the air!
A friend of mine was in Augusta today, and had a long conversation with Mr Waters, who is 80, and owns Bonaventure Golf. This store is fantastic, and has been in existence for 40 yrs. He owns all his inventory, has NO receivables, and yes, he does business with us.
Some of his customers during the 3 weeks of the Masters.....one week prior, the actual week, and one week after, include, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Johnnie Miller, Tom Watson, Angel cabrerra, Camillo Villegas, Sergio Garcia....get the message.
Well here is the kicker.
Tiger has been in Augusta since this past Sunday.
Monday shot 74
Tuesday shot 75
Wednesday said he wanted to play like it was the Masters...shot 72-77. 36 holes.
The caddies were saying, as he hit every shot there were 10 golf carts surrounding him, with 2 armed guards in each cart.
Where the ball was expected to land, be that the fairway off the tee, or the green, an additional 5 golf carts, with 2 armed guards in each were waiting.
On holes that border Augusta National, an additional 6 golf carts were positioned on the fence side of the hole. 2 guards, both armed.
All this with NO ONE ON THE COURSE!!!!!!!!!!
Augusta Police have called in extra security for the 7 days of the Tournament.
All the vacant houses that had not been rented have been snapped up by Puliitzer Prizewinning Organisations like TMZ, The National Enquirer, etc etc. The Caddies that are walking the course are saying.......60-40 he wont make the cut. 95-5 say he cannot win Drives not too accurate, and short game not up to par.
Putting....not even close.
It makes for interesting reading - as will the interview with Woods - should he condescend to give one, if he fails to make the cut.
The thrill of anticipation is in the air!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
On a dark and despairing future
That glorious monument to open, attacking rugby, the 6 Nations, draws to a close this weekend.
What an extraordinary tournament it has been. England playing dull, forward dominated rugby, Wales showing skills aplenty and ticker in absentium. The Jocks, dour and downtrodden, plucking defeat from the jaws of victory. Who'd have thought it?
Contrast it, if you will, with the Super-Duper 14, a showcase for the modern world, where tries are scored by the hundred, tackles (spearing excepted) are forbidden, and each starting 15 has an average of 1.3 criminal convictions per man - St Dan Carter excepted.
Each hemisphere pours scorn on the other, siting their game as all that is wrong with rugby in the modern era. Worryingly, it may be that both are right.
Since turning professional, rugby has struggled, both with it's identity, and it's bank balance. The hemispheres have become polar opposite in their attempt to find a solution.
Critics of the south will point to the fact that sevens is a game best played by seven a side, whilst in the depths of Dunedin and the warrens of the Waikato, sturdy, ruddy faced farmers will point out that they prefer mud wrestling when the combatants are naked and nubile ladies, not 30 big, ugly men.
The answer, of course, is that rugby should have never turned professional - it should have remained a jolly, amateur game played by Ex public schoolboys, doctors, policemen and clergy-in-training. But these are far off hills to which we can never come again.
The game is in a terrible state. No two matches are played under the same rules, all referees are blind incompetents, stadia are half full, and Wales greatest try scorer has outed himself as a screaming knobgoblin.
Passes are all forward, scrum feeds more crooked than MPs expenses, a little bit of "argy bargy" gets reported to the Scuffers, and rugby jerseys now resemble the sort of thing you'd expect to see in a Village People video.
Of the 80 minutes nominally played, a good half is wasted in resetting scrums, the field is constantly populated by waiters bearing trays of isotonic sports supplements, and all the players can talk about in their insightful post match interviews is "composure". Bah! Composure is best left to Beethoven, Mozart and other highly questionable mittel Europa types.
Streakers have been outlawed, high tackles effectively endorsed - we don't want big hits, we want big tits. Bring back Erica Roe, I say.
In short, rugby union is in a mess.Sadly, and NOSF says this with a heavy heart, there is a solution at hand. It's currently played by the whippet-buggering burgers of Burnly, the roo-rooting Brads from Queensland, and a motley assortment of heavily tattooed Polynesians masquerading as New Zealanders.
I speak of course, of none other than rugby league. And it is the future of the Union game.
What an extraordinary tournament it has been. England playing dull, forward dominated rugby, Wales showing skills aplenty and ticker in absentium. The Jocks, dour and downtrodden, plucking defeat from the jaws of victory. Who'd have thought it?
Contrast it, if you will, with the Super-Duper 14, a showcase for the modern world, where tries are scored by the hundred, tackles (spearing excepted) are forbidden, and each starting 15 has an average of 1.3 criminal convictions per man - St Dan Carter excepted.
Each hemisphere pours scorn on the other, siting their game as all that is wrong with rugby in the modern era. Worryingly, it may be that both are right.
Since turning professional, rugby has struggled, both with it's identity, and it's bank balance. The hemispheres have become polar opposite in their attempt to find a solution.
Critics of the south will point to the fact that sevens is a game best played by seven a side, whilst in the depths of Dunedin and the warrens of the Waikato, sturdy, ruddy faced farmers will point out that they prefer mud wrestling when the combatants are naked and nubile ladies, not 30 big, ugly men.
The answer, of course, is that rugby should have never turned professional - it should have remained a jolly, amateur game played by Ex public schoolboys, doctors, policemen and clergy-in-training. But these are far off hills to which we can never come again.
The game is in a terrible state. No two matches are played under the same rules, all referees are blind incompetents, stadia are half full, and Wales greatest try scorer has outed himself as a screaming knobgoblin.
Passes are all forward, scrum feeds more crooked than MPs expenses, a little bit of "argy bargy" gets reported to the Scuffers, and rugby jerseys now resemble the sort of thing you'd expect to see in a Village People video.
Of the 80 minutes nominally played, a good half is wasted in resetting scrums, the field is constantly populated by waiters bearing trays of isotonic sports supplements, and all the players can talk about in their insightful post match interviews is "composure". Bah! Composure is best left to Beethoven, Mozart and other highly questionable mittel Europa types.
Streakers have been outlawed, high tackles effectively endorsed - we don't want big hits, we want big tits. Bring back Erica Roe, I say.
In short, rugby union is in a mess.Sadly, and NOSF says this with a heavy heart, there is a solution at hand. It's currently played by the whippet-buggering burgers of Burnly, the roo-rooting Brads from Queensland, and a motley assortment of heavily tattooed Polynesians masquerading as New Zealanders.
I speak of course, of none other than rugby league. And it is the future of the Union game.
On the comeback
Like an over pampered rock star, waiting until the audience have screamed themselves hoarse begging for more, Tiger Woods has finally announced he is back for an encore.
Or could it be that, fearing he was about to slip entirely below the radar, his advisers have forced him into a return for golf?
It is news which provokes more questions than it answers:
Will bully boy, the universally loved Steve "3 wise monkeys" Williams be on the bag? And how will he cope with the inevitable drunken heckling of his boss that is so typical of the lively Augusta crowd?
Will anyone within a hundred mile radius be able to get a cocktail, as thousands of pneumatic, blond and highly intelligent waitresses descend on the hallowed turf of Augusta and scream "get in my hole" every time Tiger gets his hands on the shaft of his driver?
Most importantly of all, will he win?
NOSf hopes not. No man should be bigger than the game itself, and a facile victory would instantly return Woods to the bad tempered, arrogant man he has been since he first (dis)graced our screens in the Masters. I for one have had quite enough of that sullen, spoilt demeanour.
Woods is a man to be admired for his results, but precious little else. So let's hope big Phil can beat him down the stretch. That would be poetic justice indeed.
Or could it be that, fearing he was about to slip entirely below the radar, his advisers have forced him into a return for golf?
It is news which provokes more questions than it answers:
Will bully boy, the universally loved Steve "3 wise monkeys" Williams be on the bag? And how will he cope with the inevitable drunken heckling of his boss that is so typical of the lively Augusta crowd?
Will anyone within a hundred mile radius be able to get a cocktail, as thousands of pneumatic, blond and highly intelligent waitresses descend on the hallowed turf of Augusta and scream "get in my hole" every time Tiger gets his hands on the shaft of his driver?
Most importantly of all, will he win?
NOSf hopes not. No man should be bigger than the game itself, and a facile victory would instantly return Woods to the bad tempered, arrogant man he has been since he first (dis)graced our screens in the Masters. I for one have had quite enough of that sullen, spoilt demeanour.
Woods is a man to be admired for his results, but precious little else. So let's hope big Phil can beat him down the stretch. That would be poetic justice indeed.
Friday, February 19, 2010
On the greatest show on earth
If the sincerity of the Tiger Woods show was reflective of his own personal stance, then his promise to reform probably lasted as long as it took him to bump into the rather nice blond production girl lurking just behind the mysterious blue curtain through which he exited.
Unless of course it was Woods himself who was lurking behind the curtain, waiting calls for an encore, accompanied by some mad cheering, stamping and screams of "we love you Tiger"
If indeed it was Tiger? Or perhaps Will Smith, reprising his role as Bagger Vance?
Woods 14 minutes can be summed up as follows:
"Sorry I got caught. Leave me alone. I am the real victim here. I'm not coming back unless you promise to leave me alone. Oh, and by the way, to those rats at Accenture, and the humble mortals pros who dared criticise me, sod you"
Most interesting, perhaps, was the body language of the Nike rep, who was distinctly cold on him. Of note, too, was the absence of self proclaimed best friend and brutish minder Steve Williams, who carries Tiger's bag, although not his baggage.
Like America, Woods finds it hard to believe there are those who do not actually like him. His absolute lack of humility, his extraordinary absence of genuine regret, his unmitigated arrogance in the way he has chosen to reintroduce himself to the world is breathtaking. Whoever directed that sorry little show deserves an Oscar. Best scriptwriter, though, will be going elsewhere.
He would do well to observe PT Barnum's famous maxim that you cannot fool all of the people all of the time - right now he thinks he may still be doing so - a sad state of affairs indeed.
Unless of course it was Woods himself who was lurking behind the curtain, waiting calls for an encore, accompanied by some mad cheering, stamping and screams of "we love you Tiger"
If indeed it was Tiger? Or perhaps Will Smith, reprising his role as Bagger Vance?
Woods 14 minutes can be summed up as follows:
"Sorry I got caught. Leave me alone. I am the real victim here. I'm not coming back unless you promise to leave me alone. Oh, and by the way, to those rats at Accenture, and the humble mortals pros who dared criticise me, sod you"
Most interesting, perhaps, was the body language of the Nike rep, who was distinctly cold on him. Of note, too, was the absence of self proclaimed best friend and brutish minder Steve Williams, who carries Tiger's bag, although not his baggage.
Like America, Woods finds it hard to believe there are those who do not actually like him. His absolute lack of humility, his extraordinary absence of genuine regret, his unmitigated arrogance in the way he has chosen to reintroduce himself to the world is breathtaking. Whoever directed that sorry little show deserves an Oscar. Best scriptwriter, though, will be going elsewhere.
He would do well to observe PT Barnum's famous maxim that you cannot fool all of the people all of the time - right now he thinks he may still be doing so - a sad state of affairs indeed.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
On a big pussy
Not since the Bolshoi Ballet produced Swan Lake for Vladimir Ilyich has the world seen such careful and precise orchestration.
The timing of the Tiger Woods comeback conference is acute. Yes, during the Accenture Matchplay, as a deliberate snub to a fleeing sponsor. No, not during actual hours of play, so he can't really be accused of demonstrating people would rather watch him than other golfers. But the threat is implicit.
It is also condoned, nay, endorsed by Tim Finchem, and that should be a real concern. Tiger seems to have the Indian sign over the PGA - yes, he boosts their revenues, but like any one man band, you must plan for succession if you are to avoid dependency.
Further evidence that Tiger will not tolerate insubordination came very quickly today. No sooner had he announced his conference than his fellow pros turned on him.
3 leading players broke ranks and dared to criticise Woods; within hours they were all eliminated from the Accenture Matchplay - Messrs Els, Ogilvy and McIlroy. Such is the extent and power of the mystic influence Woods exerts over the world of professional golf. Call it coincidence if you like, but.....
NOSF has not been invited to be part of Woods cosy chat; I did request an invite, and submitted a list of thoughtful and insightful questions I would like to ask.
For the record, here they are:
1. Tiger, do you feel that listening to the phrase "get in the hole" ad nauseam on the golf course has in some way influenced your behaviour?
2. Mr Woods, have you had a shag since you wife left you, and if so, how many?
3. Is it true KY have approached you to endorse their products next year?
4. The Swedes are normally quite open minded about sex. Is it true that Elin's anger was mainly because she was not invited to join in?
5. Several of your alleged lovers have said you are hung like a Hippo - the same brand of clubs as used by Ian Woosnam. Are they a potential sponsor?
6. I don't get laid as much as I used to; have you got any handy tips?
In around 12 hours, Tiger many well have answered these questions and more. But I am betting we get a token apology, a return date to golf, a few crocodile tears and a terse now sod off and leave me alone to win some more majors.
And that's what will happen. Because Tigers really are a protected species.
The timing of the Tiger Woods comeback conference is acute. Yes, during the Accenture Matchplay, as a deliberate snub to a fleeing sponsor. No, not during actual hours of play, so he can't really be accused of demonstrating people would rather watch him than other golfers. But the threat is implicit.
It is also condoned, nay, endorsed by Tim Finchem, and that should be a real concern. Tiger seems to have the Indian sign over the PGA - yes, he boosts their revenues, but like any one man band, you must plan for succession if you are to avoid dependency.
Further evidence that Tiger will not tolerate insubordination came very quickly today. No sooner had he announced his conference than his fellow pros turned on him.
3 leading players broke ranks and dared to criticise Woods; within hours they were all eliminated from the Accenture Matchplay - Messrs Els, Ogilvy and McIlroy. Such is the extent and power of the mystic influence Woods exerts over the world of professional golf. Call it coincidence if you like, but.....
NOSF has not been invited to be part of Woods cosy chat; I did request an invite, and submitted a list of thoughtful and insightful questions I would like to ask.
For the record, here they are:
1. Tiger, do you feel that listening to the phrase "get in the hole" ad nauseam on the golf course has in some way influenced your behaviour?
2. Mr Woods, have you had a shag since you wife left you, and if so, how many?
3. Is it true KY have approached you to endorse their products next year?
4. The Swedes are normally quite open minded about sex. Is it true that Elin's anger was mainly because she was not invited to join in?
5. Several of your alleged lovers have said you are hung like a Hippo - the same brand of clubs as used by Ian Woosnam. Are they a potential sponsor?
6. I don't get laid as much as I used to; have you got any handy tips?
In around 12 hours, Tiger many well have answered these questions and more. But I am betting we get a token apology, a return date to golf, a few crocodile tears and a terse now sod off and leave me alone to win some more majors.
And that's what will happen. Because Tigers really are a protected species.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
On the great escape
There is an old Yemeni saying that every man has one chance to escape perdition in his life.
That chance may well have been used simultaneously by 22 Welshmen and 3 coaches on Saturday, when Wales, by the narrowest of margins, managed to squeak past a braver, better organised and ultimately hungrier Scottish side.
In fact, it was the greatest escape ever. It couldn't have been greater if Gatland had brought on Gordon Jackson and Richard Attenborough to shore up the pack, and Steve McQueen to inject some pace into the backline.
It is hard to give Wales credit. The Scots were down to thirteen, the winning try came about 2 weeks after time was up, most of the Scots were already in the showers getting ready for a few beers, and even nominal defence coach Sean Edwards had the sort of look on his face at the final whistle that reminded one of OJ on hearing his verdict.
To say "we'll take the win, however it comes", rang about as true as if those same sentiments had been offered by the England cricket team after squeaking home by 2 runs in the final over against the Rotherwick 3rdXI.
It should have been a Scottish defeat on the scale of Bannockburn, but instead it was nearly Culloden.Or should that be the other way around? Who cares.
On that showing, even the Wops will fancy their chances against Wales, and as for the French, well, they'll be smoking Gallois a week on Friday.
Wales undeniably have some talented players, but until they change coach they are doomed. Keen students of the game will recall that Gatland also had an initially successful spell as coach of Ireland, but the Irish, too canny to be suckered, worked out he was there to ruin their chances in the World Cup and got rid of him. Recent evidence suggests he is playing a similar role in Wales - win a Grand Slam, make the job a sinecure until after the World Cup, then quietly but surely baffle the players with illogical selections, obscure gameplans, and ensure that come 2011, they are in disarray, paving the way for the All Blacks to finally win.
So fire the Kiwi Quisling, is the call from NOSF, bring back Ruddock (now Alfie and Henson are gone there's no-one in the dressing room who objects to a ban on make-up) and lets show the ABs that 15 good men from a small part of one island still have the wood on 15 blokes from lots and lots of islands when it really matters.
That chance may well have been used simultaneously by 22 Welshmen and 3 coaches on Saturday, when Wales, by the narrowest of margins, managed to squeak past a braver, better organised and ultimately hungrier Scottish side.
In fact, it was the greatest escape ever. It couldn't have been greater if Gatland had brought on Gordon Jackson and Richard Attenborough to shore up the pack, and Steve McQueen to inject some pace into the backline.
It is hard to give Wales credit. The Scots were down to thirteen, the winning try came about 2 weeks after time was up, most of the Scots were already in the showers getting ready for a few beers, and even nominal defence coach Sean Edwards had the sort of look on his face at the final whistle that reminded one of OJ on hearing his verdict.
To say "we'll take the win, however it comes", rang about as true as if those same sentiments had been offered by the England cricket team after squeaking home by 2 runs in the final over against the Rotherwick 3rdXI.
It should have been a Scottish defeat on the scale of Bannockburn, but instead it was nearly Culloden.Or should that be the other way around? Who cares.
On that showing, even the Wops will fancy their chances against Wales, and as for the French, well, they'll be smoking Gallois a week on Friday.
Wales undeniably have some talented players, but until they change coach they are doomed. Keen students of the game will recall that Gatland also had an initially successful spell as coach of Ireland, but the Irish, too canny to be suckered, worked out he was there to ruin their chances in the World Cup and got rid of him. Recent evidence suggests he is playing a similar role in Wales - win a Grand Slam, make the job a sinecure until after the World Cup, then quietly but surely baffle the players with illogical selections, obscure gameplans, and ensure that come 2011, they are in disarray, paving the way for the All Blacks to finally win.
So fire the Kiwi Quisling, is the call from NOSF, bring back Ruddock (now Alfie and Henson are gone there's no-one in the dressing room who objects to a ban on make-up) and lets show the ABs that 15 good men from a small part of one island still have the wood on 15 blokes from lots and lots of islands when it really matters.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
On the demise of Gatland
Gatland has one match to turn things around - that's the word out of the Welsh camp after a dismal display compounded some extraordinary selections for the English match. Howley will follow him regardless at the end of the season.
Leading the exodus from the Welsh camp this week will be Gareth Cooper, Andy Powell and Tom James. Welcome to the team Richie Rees, Jonathon Thomas and Lee Halfpenny.
Cruelly shorn of two thirds of the Worlds best front row (it's Ok, I laid in a stock of new understrides) just days before the game, and hampered by a halfback who is the slowest passer in the world of either hand, as well as a number six who really puts the blind, into blindside, it was always going to be a struggle.
Abject as England were, and believe me if MJ takes anything other than huge concerns away from this game then he is sadly deluded, the loss of 25% of the Jones boys for 5 minutes either side of half time was just a step too far.
Quite what possessed Alun-Wyn, or Alun EnglandWyn as he was apparently called by one team mate after the game, we can only wonder. Pulling out an M16 and spraying the man with bullets would have marginally subtler. His hitherto unblemished record will be as stained as a schoolboys sheet by this transgression.
Only Hook, through his sheer class, and Adam Jones, who is clearly still on the pies, stood out for Wales. Shane Williams had more chance of being caught in possession of heroin than the ball, and Lee Byrne's diffidence to get involved presumably stemmed from his concerns over whether he was the 17th or 18th welshman on the field.
For the Sais, Borthwick managed to keep his nose from getting cut, Care did enough to keep the far more able Youngs out of the squad, but the rest looked like the journeymen they are.
Perhaps the most interesting performance of the entire match came for Prince William, the second in line to the throne of England, who seemed rapturously, and unashamedly delighted whenever Wales scored. Surely he doesn't really think the Welsh recognise the title Prince of Wales?
So on we go, as the Hollies would say, and the road to the end of the championship may well indeed be a long and winding one.
Wales will be concerned, and rightly on this performance, about a resurgent and positive Scotland, whilst England have only a few days in which to enjoy their false dawn before being cast down into the depths of despair.
Leading the exodus from the Welsh camp this week will be Gareth Cooper, Andy Powell and Tom James. Welcome to the team Richie Rees, Jonathon Thomas and Lee Halfpenny.
Cruelly shorn of two thirds of the Worlds best front row (it's Ok, I laid in a stock of new understrides) just days before the game, and hampered by a halfback who is the slowest passer in the world of either hand, as well as a number six who really puts the blind, into blindside, it was always going to be a struggle.
Abject as England were, and believe me if MJ takes anything other than huge concerns away from this game then he is sadly deluded, the loss of 25% of the Jones boys for 5 minutes either side of half time was just a step too far.
Quite what possessed Alun-Wyn, or Alun EnglandWyn as he was apparently called by one team mate after the game, we can only wonder. Pulling out an M16 and spraying the man with bullets would have marginally subtler. His hitherto unblemished record will be as stained as a schoolboys sheet by this transgression.
Only Hook, through his sheer class, and Adam Jones, who is clearly still on the pies, stood out for Wales. Shane Williams had more chance of being caught in possession of heroin than the ball, and Lee Byrne's diffidence to get involved presumably stemmed from his concerns over whether he was the 17th or 18th welshman on the field.
For the Sais, Borthwick managed to keep his nose from getting cut, Care did enough to keep the far more able Youngs out of the squad, but the rest looked like the journeymen they are.
Perhaps the most interesting performance of the entire match came for Prince William, the second in line to the throne of England, who seemed rapturously, and unashamedly delighted whenever Wales scored. Surely he doesn't really think the Welsh recognise the title Prince of Wales?
So on we go, as the Hollies would say, and the road to the end of the championship may well indeed be a long and winding one.
Wales will be concerned, and rightly on this performance, about a resurgent and positive Scotland, whilst England have only a few days in which to enjoy their false dawn before being cast down into the depths of despair.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
On domestic violence
South Wales Police have reported that domestic abuse complaints rise by up to 80% at 6 Nations time.
Well of course they would - after Gatland has let you down again with some dodgy selections, Powell has needlessly given away 7 penalties, England have won by 7 points and you're 9 cans of Brains Dark to the good, well it's clearly all the wife's fault, so why wouldn't you smack her round a bit?
It brings to mind the old saying: "What do you tell a woman with two black eyes? Nothing, she's been told twice already"
Picture the scene.....
Dai Jones is slumped on the couch (no sofas in Wales, and only the really smart set have settees). In front of him Dewi Morris (that damned traitor) is interviewing a victorious Steve Borthwick, whose rather annoying nose cut has flared up again. Wales, who lead 27-0 at half time, capitulated in the face of a Johnny Wilksinson drop goal onslaught in the second half to lose 30-27. In comes the wife.....
"Oh, has it finished, who won?" she says.
"The Sais", mutters Jones, who is struggling with Brains Dark and speech.
"Oh, didn't they play very well then? " she enquires gaily.
"It doesn't bloody matter if they play well when every bloody decision goes against them" growls Dai who is sinking deeper into the mire.
"Oh you always say that when they lose. I expect the English are just a better team"
"No they're not, they're bloody crap, and we are much better, but fate once again has conspired against us and thanks to a blind linesman we had a try disallowed in injury time as well"
"Oh calm down", she says, "are you going to be in a bad mood all weekend?"
At which point the good Mr Jones would indeed be remiss if he didn't stand up and give her the slap she so thoroughly deserved.
If women took more time to understand the 6 Nations, and what it means to their menfolk, then incidents of this kind could be avoided.
And if that's not possible, because you married some bra burning, hairy legged hockey fan, then suggest a trial separation for Feb and March each year.
Because it is about to start, and it is indeed serious business!
Well of course they would - after Gatland has let you down again with some dodgy selections, Powell has needlessly given away 7 penalties, England have won by 7 points and you're 9 cans of Brains Dark to the good, well it's clearly all the wife's fault, so why wouldn't you smack her round a bit?
It brings to mind the old saying: "What do you tell a woman with two black eyes? Nothing, she's been told twice already"
Picture the scene.....
Dai Jones is slumped on the couch (no sofas in Wales, and only the really smart set have settees). In front of him Dewi Morris (that damned traitor) is interviewing a victorious Steve Borthwick, whose rather annoying nose cut has flared up again. Wales, who lead 27-0 at half time, capitulated in the face of a Johnny Wilksinson drop goal onslaught in the second half to lose 30-27. In comes the wife.....
"Oh, has it finished, who won?" she says.
"The Sais", mutters Jones, who is struggling with Brains Dark and speech.
"Oh, didn't they play very well then? " she enquires gaily.
"It doesn't bloody matter if they play well when every bloody decision goes against them" growls Dai who is sinking deeper into the mire.
"Oh you always say that when they lose. I expect the English are just a better team"
"No they're not, they're bloody crap, and we are much better, but fate once again has conspired against us and thanks to a blind linesman we had a try disallowed in injury time as well"
"Oh calm down", she says, "are you going to be in a bad mood all weekend?"
At which point the good Mr Jones would indeed be remiss if he didn't stand up and give her the slap she so thoroughly deserved.
If women took more time to understand the 6 Nations, and what it means to their menfolk, then incidents of this kind could be avoided.
And if that's not possible, because you married some bra burning, hairy legged hockey fan, then suggest a trial separation for Feb and March each year.
Because it is about to start, and it is indeed serious business!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
On the 6 Nations decider
Right here in that little bastion that is forever Wales, namely 72 Fairview Crescent, Waiheke, the excitment is building., No, not the AC/DC concert tomorrow night, although that too promises much, but in fact the onset of the 6 Nations - and with it, the match of the greatest significance to either side, Wales versus England. Sure, Triple Crowns and Grand Slams are nice, but victory over the old foe, for either side, is what marks a good season from bad.
The enmity between the men of Cymru and the incomers, the Sais, goes back evermore in history, and is, I am delighted to say, as acute as ever.
This years' game has the added impetus given by the Lee Byrne controversy. So, ERC, it's OK for England to cheat at will, but not Wales? Thankfully justice has been done and we can expect to see Byrne trotting out with his team mates in the number 16 jersey shortly before the singing begins.
It should be a good match. Brian Moore has promised to observe 90 minutes silence in honour of Bill Mclaren, which should improve the commentary, and both teams have a point to prove, not least the English who in recent times have finally started to earn some the accolades they have been accused of over the years - boring, unimaginative, staid, pointless, well tryless anyway.
Team divot, sorry, pivot, Johmmy Wilko is primed to kick all day, just to prove that Matthew Tait is no good with the ball in hand, and up front 3 journeymen will compete with the best front row in the world.
Who would have thought it, Wales having the best front row in the world. I'll say it again, it has a nice ring to it. Wales having the best front row in the world. Whoops, time for a change of understrides.
It brings back memories of the great Poolers of the 70's; Charlie Faulkner, Graham Price and the other fellow, what was his name? Something to do with Germany? Ah yes, Bobby Windsor.
And now it's Jenkins, Jones and Rees - three finer Welshmen, and indeed Welsh names, you couldn't hope for. Uhoh, there goes another pair.
The genius of Ryan Jones at 8, the evergreen, well, ginger Williams at openside, and than a back line showing a dazzling array of talent, Lions to a man.....except! The one gaping hole is at scrum half. Cruelly shorn of Phillips, there is a chance to blood Richie Rees - the find of the year. But do you take a chance on Rees in such a vital game where the winner takes it all?
England have little to lose, except the game, which seems to becoming a habit of theirs. Wales, on the otherhand, notoriously slow starters, harbour hopes of the Championship.
It should be a battle royal. Cymru am byth!
The enmity between the men of Cymru and the incomers, the Sais, goes back evermore in history, and is, I am delighted to say, as acute as ever.
This years' game has the added impetus given by the Lee Byrne controversy. So, ERC, it's OK for England to cheat at will, but not Wales? Thankfully justice has been done and we can expect to see Byrne trotting out with his team mates in the number 16 jersey shortly before the singing begins.
It should be a good match. Brian Moore has promised to observe 90 minutes silence in honour of Bill Mclaren, which should improve the commentary, and both teams have a point to prove, not least the English who in recent times have finally started to earn some the accolades they have been accused of over the years - boring, unimaginative, staid, pointless, well tryless anyway.
Team divot, sorry, pivot, Johmmy Wilko is primed to kick all day, just to prove that Matthew Tait is no good with the ball in hand, and up front 3 journeymen will compete with the best front row in the world.
Who would have thought it, Wales having the best front row in the world. I'll say it again, it has a nice ring to it. Wales having the best front row in the world. Whoops, time for a change of understrides.
It brings back memories of the great Poolers of the 70's; Charlie Faulkner, Graham Price and the other fellow, what was his name? Something to do with Germany? Ah yes, Bobby Windsor.
And now it's Jenkins, Jones and Rees - three finer Welshmen, and indeed Welsh names, you couldn't hope for. Uhoh, there goes another pair.
The genius of Ryan Jones at 8, the evergreen, well, ginger Williams at openside, and than a back line showing a dazzling array of talent, Lions to a man.....except! The one gaping hole is at scrum half. Cruelly shorn of Phillips, there is a chance to blood Richie Rees - the find of the year. But do you take a chance on Rees in such a vital game where the winner takes it all?
England have little to lose, except the game, which seems to becoming a habit of theirs. Wales, on the otherhand, notoriously slow starters, harbour hopes of the Championship.
It should be a battle royal. Cymru am byth!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
On our favourite Scot
Henmania? Who the f**k was Henman? It's Murraymania now, as the tangle haired, foul mouthed but won't-we-love-him-if-he-wins Scot brushed aside Nadal as if he was just another Spanish Armada.
That Nadal was practically in a wheelchair when he retired is of no relevance. The Mint had it won anyway. Such courage, such tenacity, such a shame he's so obnoxious.
But that's why Tiger Tim never cut the mustard when the chips were down. He was too nice, too worried if his girlfriend was watching him.
Little Andy couldn't give an airborne Donald about what people think, he just wants to win, and win he may well.
Only a bloke called Marian (shouldn't be too hard), and the Fed Express stand in his way. It's common knowledge that Swiss Rog is about to be exposed by the National Enquirer as Tiger Woods in a full body suit, which should distract him just enough for the Dunblane Lobber to sneak past him in 4 sets and claim the crown
If he does, the Wimbledon Committee will breathe a sigh of relief, and be able to abandon their plan to ban foreign nationals in 2011 in a effort to bolster the chances of a first British winner since Fred Pterodactyl in 778000 BC.
Of course, Brits holding both the Ashes and the Australian title at one time will only strengthen calls for Australia to ditch the monarchy once and for all, but who cares. Australians have never understood that the whole point of Australia was to get rid of them in the first place.
So Och Aye de Noo, It's a broad brich moon lich, and Cowdenbeath for the Cup.
Come on, let's here it. Murray, MUrray, MURray, MURRay, MURRAy, MURRAY
That Nadal was practically in a wheelchair when he retired is of no relevance. The Mint had it won anyway. Such courage, such tenacity, such a shame he's so obnoxious.
But that's why Tiger Tim never cut the mustard when the chips were down. He was too nice, too worried if his girlfriend was watching him.
Little Andy couldn't give an airborne Donald about what people think, he just wants to win, and win he may well.
Only a bloke called Marian (shouldn't be too hard), and the Fed Express stand in his way. It's common knowledge that Swiss Rog is about to be exposed by the National Enquirer as Tiger Woods in a full body suit, which should distract him just enough for the Dunblane Lobber to sneak past him in 4 sets and claim the crown
If he does, the Wimbledon Committee will breathe a sigh of relief, and be able to abandon their plan to ban foreign nationals in 2011 in a effort to bolster the chances of a first British winner since Fred Pterodactyl in 778000 BC.
Of course, Brits holding both the Ashes and the Australian title at one time will only strengthen calls for Australia to ditch the monarchy once and for all, but who cares. Australians have never understood that the whole point of Australia was to get rid of them in the first place.
So Och Aye de Noo, It's a broad brich moon lich, and Cowdenbeath for the Cup.
Come on, let's here it. Murray, MUrray, MURray, MURRay, MURRAy, MURRAY
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
On the passing of a legend
Rarely has a non player achieved such significance in any sport. Bill Mclaren, the commentator, was a true icon of the game of rugby. Although a useful player (he had a trial for Scotland in 47 before TB cut short his career), it was as a match caller that he truly hit the heights.
To listen to his soft Scottish burr, trotting out his quirky phrases and sharing with us a depth of knowledge and insight into the match unfolding was truly a thing of beauty. Humour, warmth and sympathy were his tools of trade.
In an era where commentators today are opinionated, ignorant and rarely add to the viewing experience, Mclaren is a legend of the days of yore.
Cynics might say he was lucky enough to work rugby’s golden period, when giants of the game such as Ripley, Duckham, Irvine, Blanco, Edwards, Oh, that fellow Edwards, et al delighted us with their grace, their trickery and their strength. Mclaren was perhaps merely the knife that spread their butter.
But for those who knew him, his effortless analysis, his never ending knowledge and top-of-the-head trivia were actually the product of unremitting hard work. His copy of the match programme would be covered from front to back in scrawled notes, the product of hours of research (in, it must be said, the pre interweb era) which enabled his flow of facts.
Unlike many modern commentators, he called the game he saw, avoiding bias, and praising both sides when appropriate. What he told us added to our experience, to the point that on any number of occasions, watching a match on TV became preferable to seeing it live.
As a pioneer of televised sports commentary, he was part of a golden era; Harry Carpenter, Dan Maskell, Peter Aliss, David Coleman, Murray Walker John Arlott and Peter O’Sullevan. But Bill was the king.
If ever a man deserved a knighthood, he did, and the 6000 members of the Facebook group “Knighthood for Bill Mclaren” will be doubly devastated that their efforts have gone unrewarded now that their hero has ascended to that great Hawick clubhouse in the sky.
During his final commentary, Wales v Scotland in 2002, the crowd sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow". And he was.
To listen to his soft Scottish burr, trotting out his quirky phrases and sharing with us a depth of knowledge and insight into the match unfolding was truly a thing of beauty. Humour, warmth and sympathy were his tools of trade.
In an era where commentators today are opinionated, ignorant and rarely add to the viewing experience, Mclaren is a legend of the days of yore.
Cynics might say he was lucky enough to work rugby’s golden period, when giants of the game such as Ripley, Duckham, Irvine, Blanco, Edwards, Oh, that fellow Edwards, et al delighted us with their grace, their trickery and their strength. Mclaren was perhaps merely the knife that spread their butter.
But for those who knew him, his effortless analysis, his never ending knowledge and top-of-the-head trivia were actually the product of unremitting hard work. His copy of the match programme would be covered from front to back in scrawled notes, the product of hours of research (in, it must be said, the pre interweb era) which enabled his flow of facts.
Unlike many modern commentators, he called the game he saw, avoiding bias, and praising both sides when appropriate. What he told us added to our experience, to the point that on any number of occasions, watching a match on TV became preferable to seeing it live.
As a pioneer of televised sports commentary, he was part of a golden era; Harry Carpenter, Dan Maskell, Peter Aliss, David Coleman, Murray Walker John Arlott and Peter O’Sullevan. But Bill was the king.
If ever a man deserved a knighthood, he did, and the 6000 members of the Facebook group “Knighthood for Bill Mclaren” will be doubly devastated that their efforts have gone unrewarded now that their hero has ascended to that great Hawick clubhouse in the sky.
During his final commentary, Wales v Scotland in 2002, the crowd sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow". And he was.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
On rumours and truth
For anyone who doubted the truth of the rumours exposed in my most recent post, of the foul and dastardly Operation Soutpiel, I have only 3 things to say:
AJ Strauss* c Amla b Steyn 0
IJL Trott lbw b Morkel 5
KP Pietersen c Parnell b Morkel 7
I shall now go into hiding lest some ghastly voortrekker hit squad comes seeking retribution for my having blown the operation open wide. Time to voetsak!
AJ Strauss* c Amla b Steyn 0
IJL Trott lbw b Morkel 5
KP Pietersen c Parnell b Morkel 7
I shall now go into hiding lest some ghastly voortrekker hit squad comes seeking retribution for my having blown the operation open wide. Time to voetsak!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
On Souties and sweeps
Rumours have reached N1SF, rumours so shocking that if true will shake the foundations of the cricket world to it's core, and result in a Tsunami so all encompassing that the game may never recover.
What are these rumours? Well, I'll tell you.
It is said that Dr Ali Bacher, the man who masterminded South Africa's transition from the cold war years of Apartheid to full reintegration in the global circuit, put in place a fiendishly devious scheme know as Operation Soutpiel.
Soutpiel involved the recruitment of the children of several fanatical white South Africans, children who displayed prodigious cricketing talent as youngsters, and sent them overseas to be embedded as deep sleepers in other countries, much like the Sonnenkinder of the Nazi Germany (although there is little if any compelling evidence that cricket formed any part of Hitlers plan for a fourth Reich).
Bacher's henchman, who recruited these children, was, so the story goes, an all too believable Hanse Cronje.
Amongst the members of the Soutpiel squad were, according to the rumours which have reached me, three boys by the names of Strauss, Pietersen and Trott. Their mission? To play their way into positions of trust in their adopted country and, when the spymasters in their homeland called, to throw away their wickets.
After watching the third test, this apparently far fetched rumour started to gain some traction with me. Strauss and Pietersen, who have little to prove at this level, had no problem gifting their wickets away.
Trott, who is new enough not to have internally resolved the "do I betray my country or average" question yet, seemed to struggle in the second innings, but presumably received some threatening text messages during the lunchbreak and capitulated when appearing set.
And so the rumour gains traction.
Like any sleeper, when activated, their cover is blown, and so the final test, the one SA need to win in order to square the series, will be a compelling event which could see the end of these three in English colours.
Much depends up on the SA X1 - if they cannot achieve superiority in their own right, then the hard word will descend on the Soutpiel three, and they may be forced to sacrifice their careers (although of course not their IPL contracts) by being dismissed cheaply.
This sort of chicanery can only add to the drama of the modern game. Will Strauss, the most convincing foreign English captain since the Nawab of Pataudi, face an inner struggle when called to account. Is Pietersen's ego so big that he will find it unavoidable to reply to questions about his technique with a big innings? And is Trott, the most recent addition to the side, little more than a hitman sent in to ensure these two betray the Brits, or else run them out mercilessly?
Drama indeed. And more than a little believable!
What are these rumours? Well, I'll tell you.
It is said that Dr Ali Bacher, the man who masterminded South Africa's transition from the cold war years of Apartheid to full reintegration in the global circuit, put in place a fiendishly devious scheme know as Operation Soutpiel.
Soutpiel involved the recruitment of the children of several fanatical white South Africans, children who displayed prodigious cricketing talent as youngsters, and sent them overseas to be embedded as deep sleepers in other countries, much like the Sonnenkinder of the Nazi Germany (although there is little if any compelling evidence that cricket formed any part of Hitlers plan for a fourth Reich).
Bacher's henchman, who recruited these children, was, so the story goes, an all too believable Hanse Cronje.
Amongst the members of the Soutpiel squad were, according to the rumours which have reached me, three boys by the names of Strauss, Pietersen and Trott. Their mission? To play their way into positions of trust in their adopted country and, when the spymasters in their homeland called, to throw away their wickets.
After watching the third test, this apparently far fetched rumour started to gain some traction with me. Strauss and Pietersen, who have little to prove at this level, had no problem gifting their wickets away.
Trott, who is new enough not to have internally resolved the "do I betray my country or average" question yet, seemed to struggle in the second innings, but presumably received some threatening text messages during the lunchbreak and capitulated when appearing set.
And so the rumour gains traction.
Like any sleeper, when activated, their cover is blown, and so the final test, the one SA need to win in order to square the series, will be a compelling event which could see the end of these three in English colours.
Much depends up on the SA X1 - if they cannot achieve superiority in their own right, then the hard word will descend on the Soutpiel three, and they may be forced to sacrifice their careers (although of course not their IPL contracts) by being dismissed cheaply.
This sort of chicanery can only add to the drama of the modern game. Will Strauss, the most convincing foreign English captain since the Nawab of Pataudi, face an inner struggle when called to account. Is Pietersen's ego so big that he will find it unavoidable to reply to questions about his technique with a big innings? And is Trott, the most recent addition to the side, little more than a hitman sent in to ensure these two betray the Brits, or else run them out mercilessly?
Drama indeed. And more than a little believable!
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