Cricket Reborn

A succession of slow, tedious pitches has been slowly throttling all the life and interest out of the current West Indies versus England Test series and as we were forced to remark over cigars, “Oh another century, how tedious, Do pass the bucket of rum punch.”

Nevertheless we’ve been vaguely following the massive run feast where batting averages have been as engorged as a Porn star’s work apparatus, but also reflecting in tranquillity on the wider implications of last week’s attack.

And it’s a still resolute but infinitely sadder cricketing world we now find ourselves in.

The atmosphere and relationship between players and supporters has probably changed forever. Just a decade ago we were able to mingle freely on the outfield and swap a post-game beer with the Windies in the 99 World Cup. Difficult to see that happening again.

While the security was a pint of shite, it’s Pakistani cricket lovers who are going to really suffer from the loony actions of a bunch of fanatical cowards who attacked an unarmed coach with rocket launchers – and couldn’t even hit it.

Way to go dickheads, that really proved a point.

Clearly cricket must go on and while it’s not often we get worked up or angry about the multitudinous iniquities of this sad world, this really pissed us off.

Reflect on this arseholes: If god exists, he’s most certainly a cricketer and we really hope he fucks you up for spoiling one of the few pure, simple, unadulterated pleasures left in life for the rest of us.

An eternity in purgatory facing a legion of departed through eternally angry fast bowlers armed only with stick of celery to defend yourselves should just about suffice.