Yes, that's right, the cricket's back. And I mean proper cricket, not the travesty that was the World Cup. Test cricket. Grown-up cricket. The sort of cricket that huge numbers of people moan about while everyone else follows it with an almost blinding passion. And whilst Richie's mellifluous tones won't be greeting us this morning, it's still bloody exciting. As the clock strikes eleven, Steve Harmison (please God) will start thundering in, ready to scare the bejaysus out of whichever hapless fool happens to be facing him. Bring it.
And of course there are concerns: Freddy's ankle is one; the weather is another. But sod it - it wouldn't be the cricket season if it wasn't cold and grey. Over the next few months there's a veritable feast of cricket ahead of us, and all those other florid phrases sports writers use when what they really mean is 'My girlfriend/partner's not going to see me for months. And with a bit of luck, I'll be single in time for the Rugby World Cup'. Adding to my joy in this instance is that I'm going on Saturday. Hurrah for me.
Incidentally, Edward is away this weekend for his Dad's 60th, so once again I'll be failing to force him to watch/write about sport. Sorry. Eventually, this blog will be about what it was always intended to be about. Promise.
In the meantime, this is bloody funny.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment