Category Archives: indians

Australia is Watson

Forget the many shit slow filthy disgusting deliveries.

Forget Pat Cummins impressive display.

Even forget Dave Warner’s new Steyn moustache

The only thing you need to know about Australia at the moment is that Shane Watson is a freaking robot of death.

There was a time when he was a loud marshmallow of inconvenience.

In T20 cricket you need to bow down to Watson and apologise for all the mean things you ever said to him.

I’ve said more than most.  I think I once compared to him to Paris Hilton, or Lindsay Lohan, or someone like that.

In T20 cricket you can only compare him to Voltan, defender of the universe.

Sure, you and I could have hit some of those shit long hops for six, or at least two.

But would we have got them in the first place?

At the moment Watson is getting shit balls delivered to him simply because his machismo is fucking up the bowlers before they even come in.

Wickets, runs, cheques, he’s getting them all.

Are Australia shit, who the fuck knows, we just know that Watson us UnShit.  Very very UnShit.

Watson cannot continue to to be this good, even robots of death eventually stumble, but while he is let us put behind us all the petty shit we say about him and just enjoy the carnage.

Destruction like this is a joy forever.

Result: Chawla and Sharma are back, and Australia still struggle to score singles off the spinners.

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how shapoor are India?

Hands are made for self love and putting together things you’ve bought at Ikea.

In cricket, they are also used to catch the cricket ball when the striking batsman has lofted it.  In the case of Afghanistan, hands are made for deflecting the ball oddly and then placing on your head to show your anguish.

On the flight on the way over I watched the Road to the World T20 thingy that the ICC made about the minnows trip to the big show.

This video showed about 1539 occasions of Afghani players clean bowling random batsmen with pace or swing.  It didn’t show many catches.  I thought this was because they didn’t need to catch the ball, but now I see it might just have been because they lacked the hand eye coordination and soft cupping technique to pouch them.

Had they taken any of the 73 or so they seemed to drop, India might have had some trouble in this match. Not trouble, trouble, but trouble nonetheless.

As it turned out it was a decent work out for India as the Afghanis were like that bloke at a party you can’t stand, they wouldn’t go away.

So far in their development that Afghanis haven’t mastered batting, but hitting, oh hitting they do.  They all seem obsessed with Dhoni, and that’s no bad thing.  It’s 11 excitable tailenders, like if we cloned Staurt MacGill and Murali and let them bat together over and over again.

India should have shut them down a bit more efficiently, and those nervous about the bowlers will be nervous about the bowlers.

Except for Yuvraj who tricked the Afghanis with his club cricket bowling.  That’s their fatal flaw, not enough club cricket.

India work their way well into tournaments, so maybe that was this.  Or perhaps they were all trying to work out at once how the IPL would be blamed for all of this.

Of all three major sides so far, India were the least impressive, or Afghanistan the most impressive of the minnows.  It means India is the only team that had a good run out and went through all their options.  That’s a good thing, unless their options turn out to be rubbish.

It’s also quite clear to me now that there is no way England can beat Afghanistan.  They’ll walk right into that Afghani helicopter.

Result: Shapoor is an impressive slab of man with Shoaib’s Hair and cold dead eyes.  And thanks to Yuvraj we now know that shitty left arm spin is not affected by chemo.

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Indian Cricketers tell people they are about to die

While it was clear that watching a Mark Waugh ad about dandruff could kill you, he never said it outright.

The Indian cricketers have.

And it’s creepy and brilliant.

Based on the performances of Sachin, Yuvraj and especially Viru, I am now writing a horror script for them to star in.

The only one I won’t cast is Virat, because it’s clear he’s not acting and is actually a murderer.

If you’re reading this Virat, only joking. If I turn up with an armed guard when I have to interview you, that’s also part of the joke.

Apparently the players and BCCi want the ad banned. But only because they have just realised that Virat really is a serial killer.

As for Yuvraj and the grave digging scene, that’s in bad taste, isn’t it? I mean, in this day and age Yuvraj would have employed a guy with a truck to do that, wouldn’t he?

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VVS: a cricketer

It’s sort of hard to talk about VVS Laxman without talking about how pretty his batting was.

The man could cover drive from the rough outside legstump better than most people eat soup, and do it prettier than Bryce Dallas Howard.

But, he was more than just a pretty blade.

VVS could have quit cricket before he even started it, he could have become a doctor, or lawyer, or classy hotelier.

It would have been easier than playing for India for 16 years. Or even making it to the top in the first place.

Some players play to win, that sort of Ricky Ponting sickness.

Some players play for the adulation, Sourav Ganguly’s main reason for being.

Some players play because they can’t do anything else that good, Shane Warne wouldn’t be a doctor.

And then some players play just because they love cricket.

VVS had that. Really, he could have left the game a while back. Once he disassembled Australia like they were a Mr Potato head, he was a legend. The rest didn’t even need to happen. No one was going to forget that innings.

Instead he stuck around through form lapses, Greg Chappell and India’s decline.

At any time he could have jumped off the bus and run for the hills.

His average was not untouchable, and in years to come, people will look at it and wonder why we all drool when we talk about him. It wasn’t how many runs he scored, it was when he scored them and how he scored them. He’s not a man who deserves to be put into a spreadsheet.

Considering he was never going to be captain, couldn’t enhance his reputation, India were getting worse and worse, has a back essentially made of ice cream cake and he’s not been a run machine for some time now, he’s had plenty of opportunities to leave cricket over the last few years.

And he hasn’t. From what I can tell, not because of ego, wins or because he had nothing else to do, but just because he likes to play cricket.

Cricket is what makes him happy.

It’s not often you get a professional sportsman who plays just because he loves the game, without trying to prove anything to anyone, but just because of the thrill he gets out of playing a good shot.

Players who make it look as easy as VVS do are often said to not care as much as others.

But VVS spent hours just trying to unpretzel his back before each Test day. He screamed at Ojha to run to win that Test in Mohali. He put his body and mind through everything in Kolkata. And I still remember the look of horror on his face the day he went out to Brad Hogg. Cricket just got inside of him, and even now he plans to continue playing in the Ranji trophy without a spine that wants him to. Cricket and him were made to be together.

When someone like him moves on, even if it was time for him to go, cricket loses something. It loses a star, a poet and a cricketer.

VVS was as pure as any cricketer before him. A cricketer’s cricketer. Perhaps he would have been a great doctor, or lawyer, or anything else he wanted to be, but I’m glad he chose cricket, and consider myself lucky to have seen him play. I’d like to thank Baba Krishna for giving VVS cricket, and giving us VVS.

Cricket will move on without him, but it will miss him. Very very will never quite do him justice, it was always to clumsy a term for someone that special.

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what cricket boards spend their money on

Because of Doag I’ve been allowed into the buildings where the cricket thinking goes on.  This is what I remembered of each.

The ECB offices are like that of a high class paper manufacturer.  They have their awards scattered in a very tine reception area that was built to impress no one.  The reception is actually tiny, and if you are waiting at the desk with more than one person or a bag, it’s actually hard for people to get around you.  Other than the fact the office is in Lord’s, it doesn’t really feel all that crickety.

It could be the headquarters of a company with an owner who likes cricket rather than a cricket headquarters.

Although no could be disappointed seeing their Jack Russell painting.

Cricket Australia’s headquarters are instantly a bit more swish.  They’ve tried to put a touch of wow factor in there.  It’s got a boutique ad agency feel to it.  The reception has enough room for an entire crowd of a shield match to hang out in.  It feels like it’s been designed by the same person who designs the MCG members bar areas.  Smart, casual and just a bit sporty.

The headquarters aren’t in the MCG, but just down the road far enough to lose any magic the ground holds.

It’s all a bit too planned out for me.  A bit too much we like cricket, but we want to look good doing it.  Like someone who gets a tailor made Richie Benaud jacket to wear to games.

The BCCI have a decent sized stumpy the elephant in their reception at Wankhede stadium.  As shit as stumpy was, it’s nice to see him on a reception desk.  The BCCI office is quite nice, it’s like a industrilists office with photons on every wall.

Just that these photos are brilliant.  The Nawab with a sun hat on. Shastri with the world’s angriest eyebrows.  Sachin with a photoshopped afro.

It’s all there.  They even have a completely unnecessary 3d photo of the team winning the world cup, which is impossible to look at without getting a headache.

The conference room we went into was just covered at one end with photos of their captains.  It was much like that room where proud parents put up every school photo of their kids.  They’d run out of walls and just started putting players up in random spots, but no one was left out.

They even had time to put up a painting of Don Bradman and photos of Jardine and Grace.

I never saw the IPL level, where I am sure that they had stripper poles and dance tracks using commentators in a sexually suggestive way.  But I still really liked it.  It was impressive to look at, fairly new, not overly designed, but grand enough you still felt like you were in a place where people did real work.

Any place with that many cricket photos, including one that was quite clearly a tourist snap, is going to win the award for being my favourite cricket board building.

Australia was pretty but sort of lacking heart, England was gritty but utterly forgettable, but India had that cricket feeling combined with an office that looked like important people could meet you in it.

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thanking dravid

There are many stories about Rahul Dravid flying around, most of them about his brilliant batting or down to earth gentleman like personality.  And they are all right, the man is a gentleman superstar.  It was an honour to ever see him bat, and an even more amazing honour to meet him.  But my story is a little different.

Rahul Dravid is the reason my wife and I got married.

Before meeting me, my wife was a cricket-obsessed nerd just like we are, and one day when she was trawling the shit soaked anus of the interweb, she found her way here.

One day I wrote about a torturous innings when Rahul Dravid made 3 ones off a katrillion deliveries at the G while being dropped 48 times.

It was fucking painful to watch someone you admire so much fail in such a prolonged and awkward way.

Anyone who saw that would have thought some billionaire had cloned Dravid’s body and just walked onto the field.

He was essentially a dog that had been run over by a car who was just begging for another car to run him over.

I think Mitchell Johnson was the car that day.

At the end of the day’s play I wrote all about this episode.

“Dravid batted like a man who had just been gelded. It was ugly to watch, and the fact a batsman like that could be given a Bronx cheer for finally getting off the mark is horrible.

If Dravid was my dog, I’d take him out to the country and I’d take a shovel as well.”

I was pissed off he was opening, I was pissed off he was doing it badly, and mostly I was pissed off that I had to see him like this.

I’d always loved Dravid.

Before an Australia India series, Australians would all start talking up Tendulkar, and then VVS Laxman, but Dravid never really did it for them.

They liked a fighter, but he was the other guy to them, the boring one. Even when he was making double hundreds in Adelaide.

So to see him like this just left me cold.

But, it wasn’t the first time Dravid had dragged his carcass around the crease like this.

And at one of the other times in the UK, my future wife had been there, and lived the same sort of horror I had. You know the horror, that it’s funny, but you wish it wasn’t happening to Dravid.

Seeing my words about Dravid meant she wrote a comment, and we bonded over seeing Dravid at his worst.

Later on we’d get married and she’d slip a ring on my left hand, which is very similar to my right hand that years later shook Dravid’s right hand.

Our wedding was at the Oval, the place of Rahul Dravid’s last overseas Test century.

At the reception the tables were named after cricket grounds.  One was the MCG, and we used this photo.

Yes, that’s Rahul Dravid just a couple of days before he would set into motion a series of events that would lead my wife and I to marry.

So, when I say “thanks, Rahul”, I fucken mean it.

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TRD – Team Rebuilding Desire

Genetic sexual attraction is as fancy way of saying that you’ve fallen in love with a relative. It doesn’t happen often, and most of us will never truly understand how a sister and brother or father and daughter, can have romantic feelings for each other, yet alone act on them.

Cricket has a similar syndrome that few fans could ever truly understand. Most fans want their side to be the best of the best. They want to be able to gloat to everyone who had the misfortune of not being born in their part of the world. They want to go into each series thinking that the opposition will be little more than road kill for their heroes. There are other fans including those who truly want cricket to be the real winner. And even those other sick fans who prefer their side to lose just so their natural pessimism is proved to prophetic.

Then there is the TRD fans.

 

TRD (Team Rebuilding Desire) is something that certain fans suffer from. While they get some satisfaction from their team’s heady success, they get much more from the new players coming into the team and replacing the old players they know everything about. The problem is, this turnover can also bring losses. Now true TRD fans don’t care about this, that’s what distances them from just the shouty guy who wants everyone dropped who hangs out at your local corner store. The TRD fans desire the new blood, they crave it like some tween heroine from an otherwordly novel, and they care little for things like ending careers or a few series losses.

I can finally out myself as someone who has this affliction. Over the years I’ve wanted everyone from David Boon, Adam Gilchrist, Steve Waugh and even Ricky Ponting to move on just so I can see the next crop come through. These guys don’t have to be dropped. They can retire if they want; I want new blood, not needless blood.

During the mid-90s I wanted David Boon dropped more than anything in the world, even though I loved watching him bat, just so I could see guys like Damien Martyn, Ricky Ponting and even Greg Blewett. It became far more important to me for these guys to come in than for Australia to keep winning. David Boon couldn’t shock me, I knew exactly what to expect from him. I could tell you how many times a day he’d readjust his box just by how many runs he’d made.
Then in the mid-2000s I felt the same. So Australia’s collapse in 2008 was perfect for me. Because I don’t even need the next big thing. I just need lots of new things. I need the old things repackaged. I need the new things still in the box. I need the damaged things. I need the things I never wanted. I just need it new. I need Michael Beer, Phil Hughes, James Pattinson and Matthew Wade. I need Bryce McGain and Patrick Cummins. New, fresh, different.

Right now you’re probably assuming I just have a one-off illness, it’s even possible you think I’ve made this up, that TRD is just some figment of my imagination. But I bet there are some Indian readers who get this. They love Sachin, Rahul and VVS, but their TRD means they want to see Che, Rohit and Ajinkya now.

To some of you this may seem sick and wrong. You’d want us locked up and our tickets taken from us and given to loving normal fans who don’t need to get their satisfaction from something this disgusting. You probably think we should all change our ways and continue to support and appreciate our aged greats.

This may not be normal to you, but please let us get our kicks from something as simple as a selector or coach saying, “we’re in a rebuilding phase, we’ll be looking at some new faces soon for sure”. Nothing makes a TRD happier than that.

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Ravi and Chappelli stuck in a lift: a CWB amateur theatre production

RS: Chappelli, it’s stuck my friend, jammed in tight, we’re going nowhere right now.

 

IC: I know, Ravi, but Australians don’t give up, if Les Favell taught me anything it’s to fight until the very end.

 

RS: It seems that the machine doesn’t always work in Australia after all.

 

IC: You know full well that it’s not about the machine, it’s about the individual people, and that’s what makes Australia great.

 

RS: Yet here we are, stuck in the elevator, and we may go down without all guns blazing.

 

IC: I have the utmost respect for Australian engineers to get the job done right, as long as the powers that be just let them get on with doing that job.

 

RS: Make no mistake about it; I hope you’re right.  If this were an Indian elevator getting stuck, you’d be claiming we were in third world conditions.

 

IC: India has changed a lot these days, Ravi.

 

RS: It’s just what the doctor ordered, but your old imperial chums don’t always see that.

 

IC: I have no chums.

 

RS: You hit the nail on the head there.

 

IC: Let’s just calm down a bit now, I’ve rung upstairs for assistance.

 

RS: One just gets the feeling that we may not be able to trust technology in all cases.

 

IC: Who paid you to say that?

 

RS: That sets the cat amongst the pigeons.

 

IC: Look, we need to get together, work hard, and achieve something here.

 

RS: We’re at a crucial stage; it’s touch and go.

 

IC: Holy shit, mate, I think the cable is breaking, we’re fucken screwed.

 

RS: Tracer bullet.

 

RS: Tracer bullet.

 

IC: Fuck.

 

RS: At the end of the day…

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Rahul “eyespin” Sharma

All legspinners are freaks.

Mushtaq Ahmed had hands of doom.

Shane Warne’s wrists were radioactive.

Anil Kumble could see into the future.

Imran Tahir had a magical alice band.

Tiger Bill O’Reilly was an actual tiger.

And Bryce is the human spreadsheet.

Legspinners aren’t normal.

Rahul Sharma is not normal.

He’s massive, maybe 8 foot 9, or taller.

He doesn’t spin it, but he still deceives, perhaps the hardest skill.

And he has a special legspinning bionic eye.

Some say it’s because he suffered bells’ palsy or something similar when he was a child.

Lies.

The man is just another super human mutant legspinner.

Now this doesn’t mean that Rahul Sharma is going to be the best spinner in the world, or even India’s first choice spinner. But it does mean he has an advantage that no finger spinner could ever have.

The world has been calling out for a tall wrist spinner with a bionic eye for years now, and Rahul could be that man.

If he was in the X-Men, he would be called eye spin, and his super skill would mean that his straight ball would be undetectable to the normal human eye.

He’d kill you while you were still waiting to see whether he’d bowl a leggie or a wrong’un.

His eye would also be silver or gold, which, if I was his manager, I’d have already sorted.

The man is uncanny, this should not be hidden, it should be celebrated like we do for the rest of the legspin freaks.

Legspinners aren’t supposed to be like other people, and Sharma isn’t, he’s better.

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