O’Bugger

There is no point dissecting England‘s defeat to Ireland today. The form book has been thrown out. The rule book has been thrown out. In fact England have piled up every piece of literature or article written about cricket and torched them. There is hardly any point in typing words because England will take them and drop them to the floor and burn those too. They like dropping.

 

Every time I close my eyes I see green. And a bit of purple.

 

A Fry Day To Forget

Stephen Fry is probably the most celebrated depressive in the country. He is arguably also Norwich City’s most famous fan and is as equally well known for being an avid follower of English cricket. Well I hope someone is with the big man tonight to dab his moistened cheeks, put an arm around his sagging shoulders and assure him that everything is going to turn out rosy and remind him that at least he’s not a Newcastle United fan.

It was something that came as comfort to me also in the immediate aftermath of a day of more car crash cricket from England at Headingley: turning over to BBC1 to watch the Toon adjusting to its new life in the Champo wasn’t exactly fortifying viewing but it was definitely better than what went before over on Sky. Bit like taking Tamiflu after a nasty bout of swine flu I would guess.

I feel weirdly sorry for Alan Shearer who was back in his old chair as pundit for the game. He had the forlornly jealous look of a girl who’s not heard anything from the guy she’s been dating for a couple of months but then only to see him out to dinner with an old flame. The old flame in this case is Chris Hughton, who isn’t so much a flame as the weak flicker of a Bic lighter in a stiff gust. Shearer must be particularly galled but will probably also know he’s best off far away from it in the television gantry. He’s certainly less busy.

Maybe he has the time to call on Steve Fry. He could do with the company.