Dances With Chazzwazzers

I met my good friend Welsh Andy a dozen or so years ago. He was due to play in goals for my now defunct 7-a-side team, Rural Madrid, one cold night all those winters ago. Our mutual respect for timing meant we got there, as is customary for both, earlier than everyone else. If there’s something we both prize as much as a well-placed centre from a tricky winger on to the head of an on-rushing centre forward, it’s punctuality. (That and texting in the Queen’s English as well, to be fair.) We worked out who the other was by way of introduction and got talking from there. We haven’t really stopped since. One of the first things we learned about each other, as blokes tend to do, like dogs marking their territory, was ascertain the other’s favourite teams.

“Newport County”, said Andy proudly, authoritatively, maybe even a touch solemnly. He then went on to tell me about his supporting life. Those halcyon days in Europe, the hellish days of bankruptcy and expulsion from the league; he was there for all of them. He even gave me a report of the previous weekend’s fixture.
I was massively impressed by the depth of feeling Andy so evidently, and dedicatedly, felt for his team. You’ve got to go there to come back as his Leeds loving compatriot Kelly Jones would probably say. Blokes like Andy I respect.

Your local team is your team.

A philosophy I wholeheartedly adhere too. So I told him about my team. The ‘atters. We were down on our luck that season if I remember rightly. It’s got better then worse and much worse since. Comparatively though, we were better off than County then. From that moment, I’ve kept an eye on County’s fortunes. I’ve even since boasted of them being my ‘Welsh team’ (Never my second team though. What’s all that about?).

Fast forward to now. A glance at the Blue Square Premier League (The conference in old money….) as I write reveals, sitting proudly in third position with 84 points, Newport County. Scrolling down, eventually I find, with sixty points and in eleventh place, my sorry lot.

Tonight we entertain County. Work commitments mean I can’t attend. I’m not altogether too sorry about this.

County’s rise over the last few season’s has been as meteoric as Luton’s fall. It was the only thing to compensate with the misery of the dropping out of the league, two games with those roister-doisters from over the border. So we’re in a bad way in a bad league? But, aw bless, we’re playing County. A cheeky four or maybe even six points and a consoling ‘better luck next time old chap’ over a beer with Andy would be a brief respite from the utter despondency what being a Luton Town fan has now become.

Last season County beat us. For the first time in a very long time.

The biter has been bit. Little brother has now stepped out of big brother’s shadow and is about to bloody his nose. Again.

As Luton find it increasingly harder to get out of the conference, so a rejuvenated Newport side, after a very good season, find themselves a play off scrap away from the promised land. As a football romantic it would be great to see for the sake of Andy, his lad, his brother, his friends and all the other die-hards who’ve done the hard yards down the years, the return of a traditional club back to where they belong.

In the football league.

Pob lwc County.

Just go easy on us tonight, eh? Otherwise it’ll be Andy buying me a beer with a grin the size of the Severn Bridge.

Woolloongabba, Thursday 21st November.

The date is branded upon my conscience. The first morning of The Ashes in Australia. I want to be there. I need to be there.

And it all starts today. New job, new start.

Keep me away from my old habits. Please. The casual boozing has to stop (one or two occasions already scribbled into the diary notwithstanding, naturally). Otherwise I won’t be there.

And that would be blooming annoying. Really blooming annoying.

The SCG, 2nd January 2013. Been there. The SCG, 3rd January 2014. Want to do that.

Thought The Big Question was for Sunday’s only, then think again. Whereas I can’t bring you house wife’s favourite Nicky Campbell segueing serenely around a studio, elegantly trying his best to look interested in the mawkish contributions of the audience-by-numbers of under loved and over nourished provincial towns, I can still pose the type of rigid enquiry usually associated with facing a searching spell of James Tredwell off-break on a wearing third day St.Lawrence Ground pitch. Today’s conundrum is as follows.

Which is your favourite platt?

That question again, which is your favourite platt? Not the type of question you thought you’d be spending time considering today I dare say. I wouldn’t expect you, reasonably, to answer that immediately. To help you in your contemplation, may I proffer a few suggestions.

Here’s mine.

The Bob Cunis of the savoury based meat snacks world, owing to it being neither one thing (sausage roll) nor the other (pork pie), the noble sausage plait is criminally underrated. Comprising pastry, sausage, onion and herbs ostensibly, add one or two tomatoes and a rasher or two of bacon to the dish and the sausage plait goes from being a fringe player to one of the first names on the team sheet.

It is simply majestic.

Postscript.

As is this.

No word of a lie, when he wasn’t trying to emulate his cricketing heroes, Cousin Tommy spent all that summer trying to copy that goal. He even managed it once or twice.
I, unwittingly, was Michel Preud’homme. Will was Gazza. Every so often we were joined by Dan who was Steve Bull. Football was the winner, Grandma’s petunias the biggest loser.

The more sharp eyed among you would have noticed a subtle change to the set up on this site recently. Essentially, as I’m going to be spending a wee bit of time in Blighty, I thought we could do with, for ease of use, a couple more categories on here.

Behold! “Beer & Skittles” and “Any More Pie?”

The first category will list any sport or shenanigans I get up to or feel like writing about, while the latter is devoted to the weekly pie reviews. The name is in tribute to probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.

Fifteen or so years ago on Danny Baker and Danny Kelly’s radio show, they ran a section inviting listeners to put forward nominations for Britain’s greediest footballer. The late Jeff Astle’s name was put forward for this unwanted sobriquet.
The great man attended a function and, allegedly, was quite short with the hosts, tucking in to the food on offer and not making much in the way of conversation except to venture, brusquely, if there were any second helpings going. Then it all got very silly, very quickly….

Genius.

Postscript. Three links to downloads should be included in this post. Annoyingly, this hasn’t happened. Go to http://www.internettreehouse.co.uk/footie2.htm and go two thirds of the way down the page to the Any More Pie section and take it from there.
You’re welcome.

A few weeks back, prompted by the re-launch of New Zealand’s version of Marmite, I took it upon myself to try some of the local stuff. The review wasn’t favourable. A day or two later, in the interests of fairness, I had another go at the Aussie option, Vegemite. The review wasn’t that favourable either.

One of the delights of returning home, along with, amongst other things, good, strong tea being the rule rather than the exception, is the re-acquaintance with the original Marmite.*

Southern Hemisphere. You may mock us for our inferior rugby (both codes), our rubbish weather (the sun is shining as I type) and our warm beer (we’ll always agree to disagree on this one) but while the good people of Burton-on-Trent continue to churn out the brown gold, we’ll always boast the best yeast extract-based foodstuff in the whole world.

*Note limited edition Diamond Jubilee jar: Ma’amite. Marvellous.
Thanks Lupt.

Ma Wiss is a very good cook. Her steak and kidney pud is the stuff of legends. People have been known to fight over the last slice of her treacle tart at family gatherings. Her Auntie Mary’s Chicken should be re-named Auntie Sally’s in Ma Wiss’s honour; not since Otis Redding sang Satisfaction have covers been this good.

However, for whatever reason, Ma Wiss has decided to buy rather than bake tonight’s exhibit for the weekly pie review. So rather than put one of her delicious, home made steak and Guinness pies under the microscope, today’s offering comes via Hunter’s Farm shop near Bow Brickhill, Bucks instead.

Quarter-cow like tender lumps of steak and sharp tasting bites of firm kidney sit tightly in orderly fashion below a russet coloured canopy of crisp pastry while a thick gravy resolutely holds everything in place. This is a great pie. Allied with a thin layer of Colman’s on the meat, it tastes even better. With crunchy broccoli, new potatoes, creamed spinach and washed down with a glass of robust Merlot; this Pie Day Friday becomes a feast.

Good on yer Mum. We’ll keep you on another week.

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.)