I found this among my emails the other day. If ever I needed even more motivation for heading off again, then this is it.

The photo was taken, courtesy of Erica (Thank you!) four weeks ago today on the bonny banks of the Basin Reserve. A warm day in Wellington; England were very handily placed on Day Two of the Test Match, despite the departure of both over-night centurions Cleggy & Trotty in the morning session. We’d just returned from playing on the outfield, as New Zealand cricket protocol encourages, over the course of the Lunch Break. KP was beginning to get stuck in to the Black Caps attack. We thought we’d do likewise.

We’d decided beforehand to mark Friday lunch with a picnic. We’d all signed up to contribute various items to the meal. Charlie provided the picnic blanket (a spare sheet from his hostel if memory serves) and three cheeses, Jackie contributed the highlight of any cricket picnic, the pretentious foodstuff, in this case some kumara & pumpkin seed hummus as well as the olives and a quiche, Lucky Paul brought the French stick and Chups, Keith got the pizza (not pictured), Greg Tredwell added some robust local red wine he’d managed to sneak in and I, naturally, sorted out the pork pies and an additional quiche following a quick, hungover sortie into the local supermarket fifteen minutes prior to the start of play.

It was, as the photo captures perfectly, a marvellous occasion. Another of the highlights of my time away and of my third visit to one of my favourite ever cities.

Reading this blog post and not completely sold on Test cricket yet? Get involved!

April, let’s face it, is the ultimate sporting month. If it were a woman, it would be Isa Guha. If it were a pie, steak and cheese. A band, The Jam. Let’s be honest, it’s got the lot.

Saturday saw my favourite sporting day of the year, the Grand National. We’ve had the Boat Race already too. The County Championship started yesterday (Elstow begin their season on the 27th, thanks for asking. See you all there. http://www.elstowcc.co.uk/fixtures/ ) Still to come are the FA Cup and Heineken Cup Semi-Finals. It’s the business end of the season at Goldington Road too (Kenilworth Road and its hapless occupants, in contrast, seemingly stopped trading about mid-February) while the Premier League Darts bandwagon continues to roll triumphantly from city to city. They’ll be shuffling happily into their seats at The Crucible before long too. On Sunday 21st April it’s the London Marathon when the roads of our nation’s capital are full to bursting with great athletes and greater causes.

Then there’s tonight. Several thousand miles away. On the Azalea lined fairways of Augusta. Vistas so polished, drama so compelling, spectators so comically attired and ample, it could only be The Masters.

I love golf. I always squirm in embarrassment when I’m asked if I play it. As mentioned here previously, nothing, nothing opens the overspilling compartment in my head coarsely marked ‘Self Hate’ like a round of golf. So to prevent myself from turning, permanently, into a gibbering wreck I tend to steer clear of anything that involves picking up my clubs.

I’ll contentedly watch it all day though. Yesterday’s Par Three competition made for interesting viewing. Watching the wonderful Messrs Palmer, Player and Nicklaus (Possibly the best triumvirate since the aforementioned band earlier?) enchant the crowds amid the spring sunshine was in stark contrast to the uncomfortable live interviews given by today’s heroes, the pride of N’orn Iron, with their respective partners on their bags.

Tonight, though, the real stuff begins. Expect to see one of our guys start really well only to have a shocker come Saturday. Await the first idiotic ‘inthehoooole’ shout from one of the half-witted locals. Count on someone from outside the predicted pack come good too. You will tear your hair out at the amount of ad breaks. You will coo in appreciation at the utterly superlative craftsmanship of the course’s greenskeepers and groundsmen. You will speak aloud ungenerous, cussed oaths when Lee Westwood misses a sitter.

The Masters helps make golf the sport it is. It helps make April the month it is. Put your feet up and enjoy.

I’m back in the management game. After years shirking away from fantasy league based games and following some careless prompting, via email, from Greg Tredwell earlier I found myself on the Telegraph’s Fantasy Cricket webpage filing through the names and values of the hundreds of county cricketers on the game’s database. I can’t explain what caused my sudden about-turn.

Was it the return of the LV County Championship this morning? Was it a winter away among the county diehards subliminally telling me I had to do more to support the cause in the face of this IPL nonsense? Was it some kind of hangover from picking my Elstow Fantasy Cricket Team the other day?** Or, was it the top prize of an Ashes trip to Brisbane and £5000 prize money that swung it?

I’ll be honest. It was the last option. As if I’ve even got a cat’s chance in hell of winning. Alright, I know this now.

But in that moment I was boarding the plane to Bris with some of the winnings sagely spent on an upgrade to Business Class. Fantasy football or cricket competitions for me are a bit like relationships, sadly. As soon as I’m bored I tend to lose interest very quickly. Expect to find me having denied all knowledge of this post in late May.

But, in that moment…

Half an hour and six quid later and I was done. My emotional return to the rollercoaster of fantasy cricket management was complete.

So, my team then, Chazzwazzers XI. Come and meet them.

Marcus Trescothick (Captain), Somerset. Cards ready? Let’s play Tresco Bingo…
“Premature retirement from the international game is a real plus for the county game.” “It’s a road at Taunton; he’s always good for runs there.” ” Excellent pair of hands at slip.” “Attacking style of play means he’s ideally suited to all formats.”
….House!!!

Varun Chopra, Warwickshire. Chopra’s runs were an important part of Warwickshire’s championship success last year. He always seems to start the season well too. In addition to this, if Chopra keeps scoring runs, in this, an Ashes summer, with few contenders for the role of genuine opening batsman, he must be in the international frame soon, surely?

Simon Katich, Lancashire. This looks like an ideal match. Ex-Aussie international in the autumn of his years seeks club down on their luck for mutually beneficial relationship. Katich should find the perceived drop in standards to his liking as he looks for a decent end to his career. Lancashire need his quality to get them back to the top tier.

Luke Wells, Sussex. The son of Alan, who was capped by England once. Then dropped. Well, it was the 1990s. And he didn’t play for Surrey. Greater things are hoped of young Luke who enjoyed a steady summer in 2012. This season will see Loughborough graduate Wells Jnr develop his cricketing education in the unforgiving world of Division One.

James Kettleborough, Northamptonshire. As the only Elstow CC representative to be playing in the County Championship, I couldn’t not pick one of Bedfordshire’s finest. Good luck to James in his full debut season at Northants. James played several matches for us indoors a year or so back.

He never made the team outdoors.

Mark Wallace, Glamorgan. It was a toss up between the wily Welsh wonder of the wickets or Tiny Tim Ambrose, another of the lynchpins of the victorious Bears team last season, for the wicket keeper spot. The Welshman won out though as I have a sneaky suspicion he will be to the fore in his side’s promotion bid again this year.

Paul Collingwood, Durham. Adroit, gritty, dependable, steadfast, unwavering, resolute, determined, unflappable, imperturbable, dogged; how long before ‘Collingwood’ officially enters the language as an alternative definition for ‘solidity’? Collingwood starts the season as captain having rescued his team halfway through 2012 doing what he does best, being persistently consistent with bat or ball.

Matthew Hoggard, Leicestershire. My cricketing hero. Enough said.

Gary Keedy, Surrey. Johnno Snr and Jnr rave about Keedy’s contribution to Lancashire cricket down the years. His move south was one of the more eyebrow-raising ones of the close season. Expect Keedy to whirl away un-fussily tying down an end while his more illustrious colleagues take all the headlines, in what could be a good year for the South London side.

Reece Topley, Essex. I’ve been reading and hearing great things about this beanpole left arm quick over the last few months. There are high expectations of nineteen year old Topley, son of former Essex bowler Don. Junior may better Senior’s achievements on the field but he’ll never wear a ‘tache in the same vein as his old man, who, back in the day looked every inch Norfolk’s answer to Magnum.

Jack Brooks, Yorkshire. Picture the scene. Pre-season. A tundra-like training ground on the Moors. Sir Geoffrey and one or two other granite-hewn members of the committee make a beeline for their new signing. “Come on lad. Those head bands. Let’s ‘ave ‘em. You won’t be needing such Southern bourgeoisie nonsense up here. Head bands indeed. Freddie Trueman never needed ‘em, neither will you. Now bloody man up, bowl bloody quick and get us some bloody wickets thar knows.”

These fine eleven fellows, after a solid summer’s work, are my route to The Ashes. Hopefully.

And we all know what hope does.

Anyway, now come and join them. I’ve set up a league online. Simply follow the link below;

http://fantasycricket.telegraph.co.uk/?utm_source=tmg&utm_medium=sectionSponsor&utm_campaign=FantasyCricket

Choose your team, do the other bits then select the league name, ‘The League of Gentle Ben’ and pop in the PIN, 8036454. I look forward to welcoming you aboard with a meat pie, cup of Yorkshire Tea and as many jumpers as you could possibly need to get you through the English summer.

*Yes, it’s from a rave song or some other assault on the ears from several years ago. I went to Shades in Leighton Buzzard once. I was forced into it. This was probably playing. I hate myself for sufficiently dumbing down enough to allow this level of musical slurry to adorn the title of one of my blog posts.

**
http://elstowcc.easyfantasycricket.com/

Teams cost £6, enter by 27th April. Terrific cause. Thanks. Good on yer!

My nephew’s teething. Tooth number two is on its way through. Bless him. More sleepless nights for my brother and sister-in-law and a wee bit of discomfort for the wee lad himself. All part of life’s rich tapestry etc etc.

But imagine a world where no one had teeth. Where life really did suck. Literally.

Well, someone has, thankfully, and via a link courtesy of my mate James, you can have an insight into an extraordinary pearly-white free parallel universe.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/male-celebrities-with-no-teeth

Enlightening. To all parents of teething babies; bear with your grizzly bairns. Or future generations will all look like Shane McGowan. Even the girls.

And that is a scary thought.

N.B. I contemplated doing a post on Mrs Thatcher’s legacy and what her death reveals about us but then I thought,you know what, you’ve have probably had enough of that already.

DWC is a drafty wooden shed atop the blowy cliff face of life. You don’t come here to set up permanent refuge from the world around you but instead for brief shelter from the storm (as Bob Dylan may have put it).

As the dust settles on yesterday’s events, I may yet commit my Thatcher thoughts to post. In the mean time though, here’s some pictures of some cats in bread.

http://catsinbread.com/page/5/

(Again, thank you to James for the link.)

Twitter. Every time I uphold it as the virtuous harbinger of the free-thinking free world and the acceptable face of Social Media, some halfwit Youth Police Commissioner sullies the water and brings the whole mechanism into disrepute. As, in life, there are good and bad everywhere, so in Twitter, for every @prodnose bringing light and beautiful randomness into people’s lives there’s an @youthpcc doing the polar opposite.

My dad is judge and jury on most things. An excellent evaluator, he can usually be relied upon to sum things up in an instant. Usually, as I say, he’s correct. I think he first heard of Twitter when the whole KP brouhaha was kicking off last summer. ‘Bloomin’ thing,’ he grumped as the unseemly episode got sorrier by the day, ‘should ban it. What they messing about with that for anyway? They should be concentrating on scoring runs and taking wickets.’ A good point very well made, but that was it for him. There was no comeback for the little blue bird. In fact I think he made some further comment involving a twelve bore or something, such was his distaste.

It had been quiet on the Twitter scene, for the most part, in the news for a while. Then yesterday’s news happened. Just before Countryfile, Dad learned of the undoing of the country’s first Youth Police Commissioner. In the new job just a few days, her mucky fingers had been burned, courtesy of her potty mouth via her comments on Twitter. I don’t think he said much about Twitter this time only because he was more horrified that a delinquent Adele tribute act was earning an unsubstantiated salary for doing, well, probably not very much indeed and attracting a lot of unhelpful publicity for it as a result. But I know Twitter will be blamed next time he’s down the Lion.

Against such evidence, it can be hard to present a convincing argument for Twitter’s force for good to the cynics. There are a lot of morons saying very stupid, very terrible things on there.

I don’t follow any ‘popular entertainers’ or footballers as a result (unless they’re retired heroic Hatters centre forwards or cricket-loving, old-Wembley ending, retired German holding midfielders). However, the other day I stumbled upon @WesPFCNFS.

Here is a tweeter, indeed, blogger, who belongs firmly in the ‘force for good’ category. Essentially, Steffi Wes Cricket devotes her life to following her cricketing countrymen in their exploits all over the world. Nothing particularly odd in that you may say, except Steffi Wes is German.

I had lots of experience of Germans travelling around the Antipodes. In fact, such is their prevalence in that part of the world, I wouldn’t batter an eyelid if, when I next return to Auckland, the motorway signs all have German subtitles on them just to make it easier. To a man, their indifference to our great game seeped out every time I mentioned what I was doing over there. Some were better than others, some, bless them (Hello Patricia! Hello Anja!), curiously even came to matches with me.
For the most part, the reaction of one bloke in a hostel in Dunedin summed it up. “Cricket? Pah! Vee Chermans chust don’t see ze point,” he spat in Prince Ludwig from Blackadder II pantomime-baddy tones.

Thankfully, for her followers and readers, Steffi Wes does see the point. Smitten by cricket since her accidental introduction to the sport at the first Ashes match in Cardiff, Steffi Wes has made it her goal to bring to our attention the fortunes of the German national team. Currently playing in an ICC World Cricket League Division Seven Tournament in Botswana, ‘The Germs’ currently sit bottom of their group below sides like Vanuatu, Fiji, the great Dotun Olatunji’s Nigeria and the host nation.
The developing game is as much part of cricket’s soul as the first morning of a Test match at Lords’ and Steffi Wes through her tweets and blog posts is helping to bring it into the lives of cricket fans who wouldn’t have considered cricket life outside of the Test arena, the IPL, the state or county game.

There is a game going on out there; everyday (pretty much) and everywhere. Thanks to Steffi Wes and people like her devoted to the smaller cricketing nations we can enjoy their triumphs and travails as much as our own teams.

Forget the unsavoury idiots and ugly incidents that make the headlines from time to time; Twitter is a force for good, definitely. Go The Germs.

http://playforcountrynotforself.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/support-german-cricket-team-at-world-cricket-league-div-7-botswana.html?m=1

It had been a good run. Capernoited in Queenstown with Bumble and the camera lads, dancing and disorderly in Dunedin with Midnight and the Tredwell crew*, wobbly in Wellington following a day’s hospitality courtesy of the Beige Brigade**, all over it in Auckland with Scene, Eric frae Lomond, Blair and his home brews then, finally, last week’s real ale-heavy homecoming session in Ampthill with some of my lads. Great nights all, chock full of great people.

Last night was more sedate.

I love Dad’s Army. It is brilliant. Allied with a roaring fire, a slice of simnel cake & cheddar with my feet up and slippers on it makes for a perfect Saturday night in.

Which, for once in a while, is every bit as good as a Saturday night out.

*

My Test Match companions pictured here half an hour after the epic draw at Eden Park. I’ve settled on the Tredwell Crew as a name owing to Greg’s fixation with his local hero, a man who, he insists, is going to lead us to an Ashes triumph this summer. The rest of us were happy to indulge him.
Left to Right: Lucky Paul, Greg, Keith, Jacky & Me. If I look distracted it’s because I’m instructing the clueless bloke holding my iPad on how the camera facility works.

**

It had been a lovely afternoon in the packed Beige Tent. Messrs Lane and Ford held court as various New Zealand cricketing folk popped in for a beer. Giles, Billy, Southgate and several more from the Barmy Army were there as well. The picture was taken, courtesy of the lovely Tracy, in the taxi en route to Ash’s Fush & Chups Extravaganza. It was probably a Righteous Brothers song.
Left to Right: China’s mate Neil, Me and Woofy. He’s got some stamina that lad, best Kiwi wing man since Wynton Rufer. If I look drunk, it’s because I probably am.

Dum dum, der dum, der dum…. Fingers pound the keys like the field over the Melling Road. The hairs stand on end, the mouth dries. This is the ultimate. The stirring soundtrack to the most stirring day in the sporting calendar. Sir Peter O’Sullevan’s calls them in and the memories flood back even though I wasn’t there for most of them; Foinavon in ’67, Red Rum (most famously) in ’73, Esha Ness twenty years later and Lord Gyllene in ’97 are always the ones that resonate most. Witness the magnificent heroism of horse and jockey played out in every scene as the music continues to soar away supremely in the background.

I’ve been brought up with the Grand National. The history and the sense of drama and occasion have been instilled in me since I was a wee lad. It is probably my favourite day of the sporting year. The afternoon spent getting ready for it marked by tea and Lardy Cake, the pre-races and documentaries, the atmosphere and the Aintree crowd, the interviews with the nervous jockeys and owners. All respectfully, dutifully and superbly brought to you by the BBC.

In the days BC (Before Clare…) a gentleman by the name of Des Lynam was sports broadcasting’s national treasure. As a young man I yearned to be as cool as Des. As an older bloke, I think I still yearn to be as cool as Des. The consummate, unruffled pro with the mike, his stewardship of the build up, the big race and beyond helped make the day. He has been, by one or other, replaced by the peerless Ms Clare Balding. Balding’s equine background plus her outstanding presenting skills have seen her transported from the Beeb to Channel Four as a sub-plot to the episode that has seen this prestigious event transported from one channel to the other.

It’s been a bad year for the BBC, on and off the screen. The corporation’s other televised sport is slowly being pulled from underneath them like the carpet from the marquee as they stand around, lingering like disbelieving, capernoited Wedding guests. It’s not so much that the televised events are disappearing, their outstanding coverage of the Olympics last summer notwithstanding, it’s becoming apparent that the standard of their presentation of these events is declining too. Last week’s bloated horror show coverage of The Boat Race being a prime example of this. But the BBC always, always did the Grand National. And they’ve always done it very, very well.

Channel Four now steps up to the plate. With their experience of decades worth of coverage of racing I’m confident they’ll do a job. But as the nation settles down to the sweepstake later, then the scones and tea, before getting ready to watch the unsurpassable drama of the four miles and three and a bit furlongs unfold something will be missing this year. Something that helps make this magnificent occasion.

Dum dum, der dum, der dum….

BBC, thank you. Channel Four, you are under starter’s orders.

Regular readers will have seen my piece on the Seven Wonders of Bedfordshire a month or so ago. It was a close run thing, but the fantastic view from the top of Ampthill Hill just missed the list. There is something of the lowlander about us here in Bedfordshire, being fairly devoid of dale and vale, but even the hardiest of highlanders would give us a little credit for this marvellous vista. Meanwhile, the historic Houghton House and its importance to county lore is just a cricked neck away too.

A tradition stemming from the Middle Ages and my psychotic (misunderstood) namesake’s visits to Houghton House still takes place today, the Thursday market. Held on Market Square beneath the Clock Tower and between the charming Georgian buildings either side of the narrow high street, the market has provided a focal point for town life for centuries.

Trying to lay the foundations of a tradition of my own, The Engine & Tender on Dunstable Street in Ampthill is the hastily chosen venue for Friday Pie Day following the morning’s cricket meeting with Johnno. Johnno Snr reckons the pies from the Engine & Tender are well worth a bash.

Johnno Snr is from Lancashire so he should know. So, at about lunch time we piled into, what has recently become, my youngest brother’s local to meet him.

The Engine & Tender is a great local pub. With the cream wall paper design ripped straight from the Ronnie Corbett school of fashion design and the familiar wooden panels, comfy claret soft furnishings and three hand pumps featuring guest ales this is the archetypal British boozer. There’s a pleasant atmosphere which is enhanced by the local office workers pouring in for their end of the week bar snack and tipple.

Johnno Snr gets ’em in while the obliging barmaid goes through the pie list. Firstly, there’s no steak and cheese option.

But why would there be?

This is the archetypal British boozer after all. We mock the Kiwis at every given opportunity for allegedly playing catch up on the rest of planet earth, but I reckon it will be another twenty or so years before steak & cheese pies become the norm in British pubs.
Not so smug now are we fellow Britons?

I digress. From Steak & Ale, Steak & Kidney and Chicken, Bacon & Mushroom I opt for the former.

The pastry is denser than a Page 3 girl pub quiz team and as tough to break down. Chips and peas with a healthy dollop of HP provide the thinking man’s garnish and the thick gravy, brought out at Johnno Snr’s insistence, nicely tops off this Friday feast. Delighted to have finally breached the pastry wall, I ready my awaiting taste buds for the beefy, beery good stuff.

Hmmm.

Unless my buds deceive me, the steak and ale tastes suspiciously like chicken. And bacon. And mushroom.

No, it is indeed the chicken, bacon and mushroom version. I’m relieved to say that after months on the Ollie Reed Diet my gustatory organs, thankfully, aren’t completely shot to bits. And as chicken, bacon & mushroom pies go, it’s very nice.

But, as any pie lover worth his or her salt knows, just as you don’t make friends with salad* you don’t make pies with chicken.

*Copyright Homer J. Simpson

Then…

Now…

So I’m out all day today helping my brother and I’ve got an early start. Which means, people of Great Britain, I will be there at the collective breakfast table for Weetabix and hot milk before scraping the collective windscreen and heading off into the bastard freezing early morning. In short, like Captain Kevin Darling in the trenches and better late than never, I am joining you shoulder to shoulder in this, the Great Freeze of 2013.

Which means I haven’t got time to write anything of note again today. Instead, for your perusal, there is an article by one of my favourite writers on a recent topic that will run and run. Not for the first time I feel myself nodding firmly in agreement with the author’s well argued viewpoint while enjoying his jaunty, bitingly humorous style.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/sunderland/9966368/Paolo-Di-Canio-hasnt-told-us-anything-about-his-real-views-but-hes-revealed-plenty-about-ours.html

Something to ponder as you each for the de-icer. Or snooze button. Any sign of that Spring yet?