You can beat a polygraph, trick a jury, be immune to truth syrum and even make sure the CSI bastards don’t find a thing, but you can’t beat Steve Waugh’s eyes.
They are double barrelled weapons of truth.
When not roaming the cricket world talking about the baggy green, Steve Waugh is used by various world governments to find double agents because it is impossible to lie to them man.
Once his eyes have you locked in there is nothing you can do but tell the truth.
The MCC have thusly offered to rent out Steve Waugh, or even just his eyes, to the ICC to check when players are cheated.
Apparently Salman Butt walks around with his hands over his eyes when Waugh is around or looking at his compact mirror, much like Perseus did around Medusa.
A 30 second conversation with Steve Waugh will result in no less than 7 secrets coming out, cricket or otherwise.
His truth beacon eyes are like polygraph detecters, only not a bullshit pseudoscience, they actually work.
How he does it is by steeling his eyes up, making them tougher than a stone. Then he locks on your gaze with the sort of razor sharp eyes needed to cut Curtly Ambrose from a touch to close to off. Then he looks through your eyes, down past your brain, he finds your soul, and he mentally disintegrates your soul until it coughs up all your biggest secrets.
The Indians are still not 100% convinced with the system, they say that Steve Waugh’s eyes, while being far more efficient a system for telling match fixers than a polygraph, are still not a system that they really believe in.
That hasn’t stopped the MCC from suggesting that Steve Waugh’s eyes could solve match fixing in cricket.
It’s even rumoured to have already had an effect on cricket with Steve Waugh sat in a room with Daryl Harper and Harper admitted that he had never actually read the laws of cricket (which he called rules) and that he was generally incompetent as an umpire.
As if backing up the claims of Steve Waugh’s gaze of truth, there is a wikileaks document stating that Steve Waugh can’t be in a room with any American Peisdent, because even by accident he could find out the name of the remote control operator of the two 911 planes.
Fuck polygraphs, one quick bit of eye contact with Steve Waugh and you’ll be saying your a match fixer, admitting to licking a doberman’s ass for a dare and talking about how you like to Tarmac young boys.
There is truth, and then there is Steve Waugh truth.
I should say he wasn’t actually in the toilet at Lord’s, but he was in there via this picture.
And even forget that Lebara have found the cheapest no name shirts they could for the ad, and think about what this could have been.
It is placed above the piss troughs at the grounds, it should be Dirk with a shit eating grin on his face, pointing his camera down like he is taking a picture of your cock, while Vaas and Saqlain kick the shit out of someone in a chicken suit in the back ground.
Some people just don’t have the flare for advertising that we do.
I’m sure there is an air of anticipation in the air.
The smell of freshly cut and expertly manicured grass, the small tear in the eye of a Bangladeshi player who steps out there for the first time, the hushed silence as the cap parts Eoin’s short gingerish locks and the glint of sunlight that filters through the gloom onto the father time weathervane.
Old men shuffling in with their telegraph’s wedged under their arms.
Bangladesh supporters being just a little too loud and excited for pink cheeked old men.
Young Tories coming to the ground in groups excitedly talking about mergers, shares and other ways to rip each other off.
NPower girls grabbing the attention of one and all by looking like Nazi cheerleaders.
Cricket tragics who are wearing replica shirts or tour shirts, team caps, runners in case they get a late call up and who have children in roughly the same attire.
Cricket sadists who are wearing less cricket like attire but are obviously looking down their nose at people who do and who have already worked out all the best paths to the bar.
Bacon and egg tie wearing members who have chosen outfits that will spectacularly clash with their ugly ties.
First timers at Lord’s who will rush into the ground with a sense of excitement wearing one thing, and come out with Lord’s apparel.
The picnic set who will bring in the Lord’s limit of alcohol in Champagne form, roasted duck panini, gourmet crisps and mini scotch eggs.
There will be apprentice members all over the ground, listen for the tut tuting that doesn’t come from the members.
Stone faced ground clerics who will not allow anyone to even look at their mobile devices, even for the time.
Emotionally cold guards who pat you down as you enter the ground even though you’ve come up with a joke just for the occasion.
And the press running around with their important lanyards on trying their best to get up to the safety of the press box so the stain of the regular people won’t touch them.
I am assuming this is happening as I am not there.
But one great thing about Lord’s, and cricket in general, is that this is still probably truish.
Lord’s bills itself as the home of cricket, so today there will be much chat about exactly who these Bangladeshis are. Do they play much cricket in Bangladesh? Who is their captain? Are they still poor? I knew a chap who was stationed in Bangladesh during the war, lovely chap, lives in Devon now.
There’s no place like home.
Traveling on the tube on the way to lord’s is an experience.
There are more beige suits, dark jackets, sun hats, and bacon end egg ties in close proximity to you than you get at your local pub.
And it is unsettling.
It is sort of like traveling on a train from 1938, except with dead people.
Make no mistake some of these men are dead. They don’t know it, but there is no doubt they are just going to the cricket because they have always done it. A beyond the grave leisure activity, a chance to catch up other corpses and talk about how things were better in their day.
They are the great cricket undead.
I had one seated next to me. I stared at him for 3 stops, and by the end I was convinced he had passed on. He hadn’t moved, or given any signs of life, his skin was a matte grey. `I thought someone better do something, so I reached out to take his pulse and just before I got to him he sprung to life with a splutter.
When I looked around I realised it wasn’t just him, there was a carriage full of them.
Each more ghostly than the last, copies of the times or the telegraph in their old bony hands, a packed lunch by their loving wives sitting at their feet, and three layers of beige on.
You wonder what these guys do the rest of the year.
I’ve never seen them lining up for a film.
Perhaps there is some special Lord’s mortuary, and they are shipped out so that younger members won’t get their seats.
When you leave the tube you have to dodge them on your way to the ground. They don’t walk, they do a shuffle trudge, and they take up the whole footpath, like a zombie obstacle course.
Once in the ground, you realise there are thousands of them, still doing this shuffle trudge, getting in your way, taking hours to piss, stopping in walk ways, dissing any new (post war) changes, dropping booze and food on their shirts, and slowly getting life in their cheeks.
Lord’s is a special place if it can bring these guys back to life.
465 Lord’s members have just died.
465 simultaneous heart attacks.
The event that triggered this was Graeme Swann opening the bowling.
A move so shocking, and ill conceived that the old grey army in the Long Room just started dropping like flies.
Lord Bubblefardt, Lords’ chief head wobbler, had this to say:
“We have no problem with revolutionary captaincy, as long as it is tabled, a committee has passed it, and all of our members have received written conformation of said action. This sort of ‘on the fly twaddle’ is just not cricket. People have died. Important people. These weren’t football yobs slammed into a fence; these were pillars of the community, every one of them resplendent in jacket and tie. This is just not cricket.”
The ECB has already formed a taskforce to look into this massive tragedy.
The new team of Flower and Strauss will have a lot of questions to answer.
Moments before the deaths happened, Sky received several phone calls complaining of a “tut tut” sound in the effects mics.
As of yet, they two incidences have not been linked.