Of course all the sporting websites were raving on about a fantastic England comeback in the Ashes that had happened on or at the Gabba overnight. I don’t watch cricket and having tried to catch up on the action by reading a BBC website offering (which I have drawn on for the purposes of this post), I realise that I don’t actually understand what the hell they are talking about anyway.
I am advised by my good friend that there is nothing better than a trip to the Oval or Lords on a summer’s day, but she was certain to emphasise that it was the champagne and picnic that was the real attraction. I think you can chat too when they are playing, as it all goes on at such a soporific pace. It doesn’t sound like a sport to me.
Check these baffling phrases out…
Australia hampered by the flat wicket – in racing this would mean that there was was a horse called Flat Wicket. Maybe there should be.
Spilling catches – suspect this is a dropped ball, a fumble they might say in American Football. To be honest, I’m not sure.
Pessimists looked to the thick cloud cover overhead that promised some lateral movement for the bowlers. – is this a poem? If so, the imagery is mighty puzzling.
With the only danger for the batsmen being the cracks in the pitch which, if Australia’s bowlers could locate them, might cause the odd ball to misbehave – frankly disturbing imagery here.
Edging Siddle wide of third slip, and then playing an ambitious slog sweep at Xavier Doherty – a slog sweep sounds awful. I have no idea what it looks like.
Both men were positive, confident enough to hit a series of cut shots and off-drives as Australia looked to locate their outside edges.
The next two balls were more problematic for the England captain, an inside edge evading leg stump by millimetres and earning him a fortuitous 10th boundary before a nasty bouncer spat up and hit him on the glove.
This reportage has now descended into utter gobbledygook. Could there ever be a more pointless game in the entire universe?
Why do they use this word exclusively for poor English cricketing performances? No-one says Sunderland collapsed at Chelsea do they, or that Ricky Hatton collapsed in his two most recent bouts. It seems a ridiculously dramatic term for a few balls that I suspect my dog could have caught with little bother.
Speaking of the dog, the last twice we have been disturbed by the foxes, but he has twigged on and remains bed-bound, wakes me up and demands sense and reason plus consoling pats as to why he should not launch himself headlong through the window onto the car below.
As always, I do my best to oblige.