Because it’s Easter dressed up as Christmas. Because it’s a grey, cold Monday morning. And because it seems appropriate, on this day of all days, that we see something from the masters.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DzSBZIvDDbM

Happy All Fools Day everyone.

Easter? Ye Gods, by the temperature outside, you’d think it were Christmas. Lovely family day planned, four generations of Wisson present and Auntie Daphne’s coming for lunch too. Bless her.

I saw this mug in a hostel in Dunedin. I thought of Auntie Daphne. Bless her.

She’s a lovely lady. Bless her.

A very Happy Easter to you all.

Pie makers of Australasia, take heed. Think you’ve got the world pie market sewn up? Think on. Dear old Blighty is still in there scrapping for the Northern Hemisphere. Take yesterday’s trip to Olney, Buckinghamshire, an archetypal English Market Town so endearingly charming a return there makes tourists of us all.

En route to collect my trusty chariot from my pal Lupt, the time and day of the week decreed it PieDay Friday. There was nothing else for it. Parking up then strolling across the frozen Market Square to the bakery, my cheery enquiry was met with apron-clad blank looks and shrugged shoulders. As false starts go this was stonkingly inglorious.

Imagine if I’d have gone in there with an Aussie or Kiwi? The shame of it. A bakery. Sold out of, or indeed, more embarrassingly, not selling pies in the first place?

I’d have been laughed all the way to the Department of Immigration & Citizenship.

Fact.

As it was, I meekly sloped back into the tundra, tail firmly twixt legs, towards the fish and chip shop and a humiliating reintroduction to the staple of fat bastards the length and breadth of the land, The Pukka Pie. Then I spotted, as I trudged along the High Street, the Olney Delicatessen and Tea Rooms. Like a Stuart Broad delivery heading down the leg side with the batsman two foot outside his crease, I reckoned that had to be worth a shout.

The counter was crammed with the savouries of what makes this country great. Local farm cheeses, pates, preserves, olives, pastries, pork pies.
Yes! Pork Pies.
And pies. A big list of pies in all shapes and sizes. Keen to see how the Buckinghamshire version shaped up I ordered the Kiwi Staple and another more distinctly British sounding one.

Steak and Horseradish.

Hello and ahoy-hoy! How head-smackingly, derr-brainily simple? Your Sunday Roast encased in pastry. British ingenuity at its finest. I felt a tear patriotically run down my cheek.
Mind you, it could have been the cold.

The pastry was lighter than the snow flurries of the last day or so and unlike last week’s cumbersome effort, there was the just the right amount of light, golden flaked goodness. The meat was overcooked and less chunky than its recent Oceanic counterparts but the onions and thick gravy made up for this. The creamy horseradish, dolloped regally beneath the lid was superb, tastily offsetting the beef. The exquisiteness of Sunday Lunch two days early. Absolutely marvellous.

To the pie men of Australia and New Zealand, here’s a timely shot across the bows. To make matters worse for you, the Buckinghamshire steak and cheese pie, that corner of the pie world you think you rule was good too. The British are coming. Huzzah!

Crikey, where did the last few months go to? Tapping contentedly away beside the Rayburn overlooking the last of the relenting snow on the fields next door, it’s hard to believe I’ve been away at all.

Gosh that was fun. Thank you to everyone who made my travelling such an epic adventure. A Roll of Honour will feature here soon. A long with lots more.

The travelling may have ceased, temporarily, but the writing won’t (at least until I’m back in work at any rate). Please keep stopping by.

However, I am completely cattle-trucked from my thirty hours in Economy Class. And I’ve got nets tonight. So that’s probably it for today. Meanwhile, here’s a nice picture of my faithful slippers.

Time to get reacquainted. Night everyone. X

In Sunday’s drunken post-Six Nations sulk I wrote even more crassly and ill-advisedly than usual. Something about sport or reality hurting or something.

Put next to the correspondence I received via Twitter from a chum of mine back home (Hello Roachy!) it reads embarrassingly flippant. I’d like to draw your attention to a friend of Roachy’s Steve John. Steve’s son Sam is in need of our help.

Sam’s story is tragic. Aged nine he was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Now, aged sixteen, the tumour has grown even more dangerous.
Sam is very ill.The specialised surgery Sam needs is mostly unavailable in the UK and as a result it appears increasingly likely Sam’s family will have to raise money to pay for this life saving surgery.
The proton beam therapy is likely to cost between £100,000 and £200,000.
Steve has set up a website http://www.thinkingshrinking.co.uk/ and is in the process of organising, with his wife Julie, a series of fundraising events in order to pay for this important operation.

Listed below are the links to the Facebook and Twitter pages plus a series of articles with more information on Sam’s battle.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mission-for-Sam-Lets-make-it-happen/119163168271721?fref=ts

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Thinkingshrinking/174640352683412

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mission-for-Sam-Lets-make-it-happen/119163168271721?fref=ts

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-hampshire-21798838

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2293337/Desperate-family-appeals-urgent-help-raising-200-000-needed-allow-son-chance-cancer-treatment-U-S.html

http://www.thinkingshrinking.co.uk/

Please support Sam and his family. Most of us remember fondly our teenage years. Lets get behind Sam and his family and give Sam back his.

There is no worse feeling in sport than this. A Happy St.Patrick’s Day to everyone who delighted in the debacle of England’s crushing defeat to Wales in the last Six Nations game. I know there’s lots of you.

Hope kills. Sport hurts. Reality hurts more.

Ok, ok, ok. I’m sorry I’m having such a great time over here. I’m sorry it’s snowing and it’s cold with you. I’m sorry over here and in this beautiful country. I’m even sorry I moaned when it rained last week. You can get your own back now though.

This week is my favourite week of the year.

Best mate Eats’s birthday, Cheltenham Festival, the final Six Nations weekend, St.Patrick’s Day and the Paddy O’13 nights out.

And this year, in anticipation of the marriage between my great friend Gary and his beautiful fiancé Sinead, the lads are off to Hamburg for a Stag Weekend.

Stag Weekend? Auf Deutschland? Ohne mich? Das ist nicht güt!

Word reaches me from another cherished chum, Jim lad, that they’re really upping the fancy dress outfits as well. Salt in the wound.

Salt in the wound.

I mean what am I supposed to do? Away from the action. All this way over here on the other side of the world.

Here in Wellington.

My third favourite city. Of all time. With its harbour. And mountains. And culture. And pubs. And its women.

And memories.

My third visit to the capital of New Zealand and its like visiting an old friend. Breezing through the busy streets in contemplative mood, echoes from my previous visits here call out like siren songs.

The Irish pub on Cuba street where Johnno and I taught some German girls how to celebrate St.Patrick’s Day, the restaurant where Will, Sian and I tucked into delicious NZ lamb, the open air bar with the huge Maori doorman, biceps like pistons and his friendly un-bouncer like hospitality.

And the Basin Reserve the spiritual home of Kiwi cricket, my third favourite cricket ground behind The Warren and Lords’. Meeting Merv Hughes. Being intimidated by Merv Hughes. Styling a ‘tache like Merv Hughes. Being glared at by Merv Hughes while sporting the impromptu hairy tribute. Being intimidated by Merv Hughes.

Trisha’s pies. Mr Bun’s pies. Hell’s pizza. The lass from Mermaids who ended up sharing a dorm with us in the hostel. Breaking into the Cake Tin. Johnno’s purple fleece.

Shuddering at the thoughts of Jaegers downed with Big Red. Shuddering more because I know there’ll be one or two recurrences of that coming this week. Smiling at the big man’s rendition of Footloose on the Karaoke. Taking pride in my rendition of Delilah next to the water feature in fond retaliation.

I could go on. And probably will should you be unfortunate enough to encounter me over the next few days.

Eats, Rob, Andy, Gary, Jim, Mark, Steve. Will, Sian. Phil. I’ll miss you this week chaps I really will. Thank you for Paddy’s weeks past. It’s time to get stuck into this year. This week.

My favourite week of the year.

My cricket club, Elstow C.C. are champions of Bedfordshire. Indoor champions, but champions nonetheless. I am exceptionally proud of Cousin Tommy and the lads for their achievement. This is another significant landmark in the club’s history and is testament to a great bunch of players and the hard work they’ve put in over the last few years.

Regular readers will be familiar with DWC’s regular guest contributor, The Bury Avenue Bugle. In the last of his winter columns, he reports from the club’s victorious last indoor game of the season.

It was fitting that arguably the two most progressive ‘village cricket clubs’ in Bedfordshire, Blunham and Elstow should play out the final game of the indoor season. Both clubs, have made giant strides in recent years, with emphasis placed on ‘community’, ‘youth’ and ‘facilities’ and at the heartbeat, dedicated lovers of the game ensuring both clubs continue to develop apace to try and emulate the powerhouses of Bedfordshire cricket.
The division was extremely tight; four teams equal on points going into the last round of games, with Elstow leading on net run rate. Many a calculator and abacus had been deployed during the day’s preceding games especially as both Flitwick and Biggleswade Town won handsomely. After much algebraic logarithms, the mathematic equation was simple:
If Elstow win they win the league.

Blunham’s Nick Harding put Elstow’s batsmen under early pressure, keeping Elstow’s opening pair and the all important run rate tied down. Despite the bright start by Blunham’s bowlers, the experienced Dave Riddle soon moved to the retirement score of forty, this in the fifth over. Fellow senior pro Matt Stevens joined Tom Wisson at the crease and Elstow were 65 without loss halfway through. This pair, allied with the profligacy of the Blunham change bowlers, began to speed things up for their side. Wisson’s departure left his team 117-1 with three overs left. Dan Wisson came and went for twelve before the gloveless Phil Johnson joined the irrepressible Stevens who smote a lofted six from the last ball of the innings to finish undefeated on 32. Elstow had to defend 157-2 to win the title.

In Shabz Hussain, Blunham had a man to break Elstow hearts. One of the county’s stand out cricketers and characters, Blunham promoted him to the top of the order to get them off to a flyer. Former County colleague and Elstow captain Tom Wisson took the new ball for his team. Runs came agonisingly through the vacant slip areas and Stu Robson was unlucky with a run out appeal, indeed it was the big North Easterner who was up next. As he has done all season, Robbo turned the screw with the ball and Hussain was run out by Riddle from the last ball of the second over. Blunham were soon 29-2 after three overs, Riddle again the man; his athleticism saw Connor Heaps run out.

Dan Wisson’s sharp catch at short mid on had the opposition 30-3 off the bowling of Johnson. Then Harding, the other danger man, was the third run out victim of the innings courtesy of smart work from Robson, as Blunham, under relentless pressure from the bowlers and fielders began to cave in. Belief was about to become victory.

Elstow’s player of the season, Dave Riddle, accounted for the remaining two wickets, the first a caught and bowled chance and the second, for the sentimentalists, via a stumping from his old mucker, Stevens. Blunham had been soundly thrashed by eighty six runs, the demolition job being completed inside nine overs.

Tom Wisson lifted the trophy aloft to great cheers from the packed gallery. He was quick to laud his players for an outstanding championship winning performance and a terrific last few months. However, the triumphant season was a squad performance, with every person contributing and thanks must be extended to the players that were not playing today but have assisted the club in becoming Champions. Rani Thiarra, Ed Wisson, Rob Tebbutt, Will Wisson, Rob Leddy and of course to our long standing scorer, groundsman, President and all round good egg – Ali Milne. Also to the throngs of supporters present at any game whether 9am sharp or missing their Sunday Roasts (even on a Mothering Sunday!). Your support is hugely appreciated.
As always, though its the players that do the easy bit, it is thanks to the ‘behind the scenes’ hardcore of dedicated volunteers that helps to make Elstow – ‘Elstow’ and give us the platform to develop and grow. Huge indebted thanks to Phil, Ali, H, Ben Wisson, Paul Jackson, Geoff Couling and Will – amongst the growing youth network and support (too many to mention) that makes our club special.

The Blunham Phoenix will rise again but the day belonged to Elstow. Lustily cheered below a packed gallery, little ole Elstow (who dared to dream) had somehow ascended the elite Bedfordshire Indoor League and become champions.
Elstow is now etched alongside Bedford Town, Dunstable, Flitwick and Biggleswade to mention a few, as winners of this league – esteemed company indeed. Tom Wisson lifted the trophy amongst the Elstow faithful after some kind words from the League Chairman.
Next stop…. the nationals…. crumbs!

So that’s settled then. They only win things when I go away for the winter. Better see if I can get to The Ashes in November…

At Dances With Chazzwazzers, it’s always gratifying to receive feedback from you, my esteemed readers. Here’s some correspondence on the latest article I would like to share with you verbatim.

“Burger? That’s not a burger. Liking the latest blog fella, only I think my effort last weekend (The Devastator!!!!) pisses all over your ‘Big Al’.

Feel free to use photo on your blog….”

Thank you, I will. That is quite a monster. But as I said to the last Mrs W, it’s what you do with it that counts.

Mind you, that was a long time ago now.

Thanks very much indeed brother (To those of you who don’t know the devastator of the Devastator is Will, Alfie’s Dad). Good to see sibling rivalry is alive and well despite us being hemispheres apart.

The title is a complete misnomer. There’s no magic or romance about Millwall. Realism? Definitely, their party-pooping professionalism shone through earlier. Ruination? Ah, yes, sadly, inevitably. Romance? Never.
So it was when I saw the draw I thought the worse. There’s just absolutely nothing fairytale or fluffy bunny about a team from The Docks deep within the East End of London. They’re called The Lions for heavens’ sake. For all our clutching at straws and brave talk, it was never going to be enough. I’d have preferred Arsenal (So too, would our late, great chairman Eric Morecambe I think…).

Job done and credit to Millwall for their win. The end of dreaming for Luton. Now, the nightmare of qualification back to the football league re-awaits. I’ll be honest, there’s absolutely no chance of us going up this year. Our FA Cup adventure has been just that and fun while it lasted while the revenue it has brought in will be most welcome. However, the cup run has been too much of a distraction I don’t see us coming back from.

Macclesfield away on Tuesday night. The first of eighteen ‘cup finals’ between us rightfully regaining our league status. We need to dig deep. It’s still in our hands but I fear the worst.

No Que-sera, sera, as the song goes, for us again this year. Not in the Cup anyway. Wembley for the playoffs? Possibly. Will it end in tears?
Almost definitely.