Like most visitors to this site I ambled on here yesterday for no reason other than my own boredom.
It was then I noticed a bizarre spike in the number of hits I’ve received in the last couple of months. Unless reading meaningless sport-burble from 2010 is now the fashion, it’s unfathomable. It’s seems that this blog is more popular when I’m not writing anything then when I wrote regularly. Okay maybe not that unfathomable.
I then became depressed at the thought of all these readers chancing on these pages looking for some relevant and incisive copy about the latest happenings in the world of sport and instead finding this decrepit old site and containing a fusty old piece about marathons. Like looking into the animal hutch outside the back-door and finding the corpse of an unloved pet rabbit festering under the piss-soaked hay.
So I’ve decided to write this to at least freshen it up, although admittedly that’s like dusting down the lifeless body of the rabbit, spraying it with Febreze and saying “it’s alive!”. Which is probably what my parents should have done.
I wish I could say nothing had happened in sport since I’d been away but that’s not true. English cricket has gone the way of the rabbit for a start. If there’s any truth in the adage that a team is cast in the image of its coach then it means we’ll be seeing a lot more of yesterday’s boundary-fumbling, which was enough to comprise a whole section on You’ve Been Framed.
It also means that the most interesting thing about this team is a misprint on a mug.
I’ve put down some words of advice for nervous London Marathon runners. It’s so indispensable it will probably be read out over a loudspeaker on the start line on Sunday. Regular readers will recognize it as a amalgamated revival of some posts I wrote a year ago. I would say about 50% of the text is new so you may just want to read every other word. Here it is.
It’s tragic that misadventurous Segway tycoon Jimi Heselden careered off a cliff to his death. For many reasons, not least that he was unable to witness perhaps the crowning achievement of his beloved machine:
I love how carefree and happy he looks as he glides past Mark Nicholas into the gaping maw of catastrophe.
Normally the Barmy Army trumpet rings out it works as a call to arms, the signal for a thousand stupefied contract workers to form a disorderly conga and sing ribald songs about Mitchell Johnson. In Dubai it sounds like a lonely last post. Where is everyone? Perhaps the insurmountable clash of cultures is to blame. Beer snakes and t-shirts bearing unhilarious ‘all Australian people are convicts’ slogans are actually forbidden according to sharia law. Getting lashed is stitched into the constitution of the Barmy Army. But not with an actual lash.
The ICC are hoping that the attendance will double when the series returns to Dubai for the final game. I’m going.
As for the team, maybe they are pining for the boozy encouragement from the sidelines. Or maybe they didn’t prepare properly. A lot has been spoken about the issues that the English batsmen had picking the length of the spinners. Thanks to an e-mail from a nice woman who appears to be doing PR for dhows, I’ve found the reason why:
I am descending into a dangerous obsession with the way in which people stagger onto this site. Of course the more I discuss the squalid succession of search engine terms that have been typed in to arrive at this destination, such pearls as “sex Hazel Irvine snooker” and “Sue Barker discusses Serena Williams tits”, the more likely it is that these kind of internet bottom-feeders will find themselves here.
Today we had a visitor with the following query, “what is the worst hurdler set to Coldplay?” Well that certainly is a question that needs to be asked. I’m not a expert in the field of athletes performing to alternative rock music but if I was pushed for answer I would probably plump for Tony Jarrett. He seems like the type of hurdler who would struggle to run to the tunes of Coldplay.
Anyway, all this is just leading up to a plug for my latest piece for the Huffington Post. They don’t really accept articles about Hazel Irvine’s breasts so I’ve written about fat people instead. Here it is.
This blog is rapidly degenerating into a conduit for my contributions to the Huffington Post. I have to point these articles out to you otherwise you wouldn’t know they were there.
Think of the HuffPost as a novelty box of retro sweets. The political comment pieces are the Wham bars. The cultural reviews are the chewy Drumsticks. The celebrity blogs are the fizzy strawberry laces. There’s a particularly interesting one written by Martine McCutcheon who explains how yoghurt changed her life.
My review is the single loose Nerd at the bottom of the box. You probably don’t want to eat it because you’re just coming down from the sugar rush of reading of how Susan Boyle conquered her demons.