My life around Selhurst Park . . .

There are many defining moments in a person's life - rites of passage from riding a bike without stabilisers, a first snog - to the biggies like first-time rude behaviour, leaving home, marriage, kids . . . .

But I can also track my life around Selhurst Park, a footballing oasis in SE25, a far-from-bucolic area of south London - home of the mighty Crystal Palace FC.

The Child: Sitting on the wall that ran through the old White Horse Lane with my dad making sure I didn't fall off . . .

The Boy: Switching to the Holmesdale to proudly stand side-by-side with the old man . . .

The Gobby Teen: Plucking up courage to venture unaccompanied into the bear-pit of the Arthur Wait, shrilly crying "Come and join us!" to the opposing fans - hoping to God they did no such thing!

The Young Man: Back to the sanctuary of the Holmesdale - giving it large but not taking any risk of aggro!

The Man With Responsibilities: A short sojourn in the Main Stand. Bollocks to that! How expensive and I'm not dead yet!?

The Settled Fan: Now happily back in the Arthur, never quite getting into the heart of the AW Massiv - but close enough to not be signing alone.

What's your footballing journey?

The Sikh of Tweak . . . can't speak!

Bounced out of bed to catch the last few overs from Perth and was delighted to see Monty had taken a spectacular five-for - shaming that idiot Duncan Fletcher and bottle-job Steve Harmison.

Okay, Harmy took four wickets in his third Test outing of this Ashes series - but the weight of expectation on Monty was HUGE. And my God, didn't he respond magnificently!

So after the close of play - by which time I'm in my motor so I'm listening to the Beeb on the radio - I tune in to hear Monty being interviewed.

Bloody hell! I thought the BBC had collared some monosyllabic Premiership dipstick by mistake. He was hardly grilled by the interviewer, but the answer to every question was the same incoherent nonsense.

All we gleaned from the first England spinner to take five wickets in Perth was: "well, obviously, you know, I enjoy taking wickets and, obviously, you know, I enjoy doing that and will try to do my best. But you know, the important thing, obviously, is I enjoy the game and try to take wickets. Which I enjoy doing."

Cheers for that, Monty. FFS!

I thought cricketers were a few rungs higher up the academic ladder than the feeble-minded scrotes in football, so Monty's interview was so disappointing.

He wasn't asked any leading or contentious questions - but it seems even if a sportsman is capable of independent thought, they are all paralysed by fear at the thought of saying anything 'off-message' that hasn't been cleared by the team managers.

The shame of the media is that just because a star has spoken, they are seemingly untouchable and instead of applying any skill in helping an interview flow - the interviewers gratefully accept whatever turgid crap is spouted at them. Because the media is also paralysed by fear - the fear of losing access to the players if they ask anything remotely challenging.

From now on, I shall just watch the action on the pitch - and switch off as soon as a microphone swings into view at the end.

Jumping on the bandwagon . . .

THE occasion was Sussex CCC's triumphal open-top bus tour of Brighton and Hove to celebrate its success in winning the 2006 county championship and C&G Trophy.

PB and Jacko, stationed on the clocktower, were enthusiastic representatives of Headliners CC.

As the bus passed - to the bemusement or disinterest of early afternoon shoppers - we decided we could get a second bite of the cherry if we horsed it through The Lanes and on to the Thistle Hotel where the mayor of Brighton would host a celebratory luncheon for the Sussex squad.

But we were accosted by a blazered duffer who spotted our Sussex Twenty20 shirts, put two and two together and come up with five. "Hallo, you a player are you? For Sussex, what?" he bugled at PB.

"No," said PB, "but he is!" With a slap on Jacko's back. "Really?! Good effort, what!" trumped Blazer. "No room on the bus, though, eh, what?"

Of course I should have put him right, told him his grey-flannelled leg was being pulled. But no. "Not made the First XI yet," I heard myself say, "but I've done all right in the one-dayers. The bus is just for the championship squad. The rest of us have to walk to the hotel!"

"Too bad, eh, what? But have you had a good season?" asked Blazer.

"He passed the thousand-runs mark just last week," chirruped the delighted wag PB, referring to my total lifetime career total for the Liners, not one summer's glory with Sussex. "But I'm a bowler, mainly," I offer, "left-armer, it's been a good season for swing."

With hearty pats on the back, we take our leave of Blazer and leg it to the seafront, giggling like errant schoolgirls at lights-out.

The encounter is soon forgotten as we join the throng outside the Thistle, cheer the players off the bus and into the foyer - and just as we turn to leave, there's Blazer a few yards away! "What ho! There's the big left-armer!" he bellows, "Spot of lunch with the team, what?"

The crowd closes in, fearing embarrassing exposure, we have it on our toes again. Sharpish. Still giggling.

I'm 38. I really should grow up!

Welcome to The Gabba. Here's Harmison to get the series underway . . . and England has lost The Ashes!!

There was absolutely no question which side was going to get the upper hand on the first day of this Ashes tour. It was all in the body language.

The Aussie openers charged out to the wicket with flames spurting from their helmet grilles - while England had a little cuddle, then allowed a terrified looking Harmison to deliver the most comical ball in Test cricket history - straight to his startled skipper at second slip!

In fact, as soon as England opted for Ashley Giles over cult-hero Monty Panesar, the die was cast. Feeble, feeble, feeble England. Hopefully the groans of disappointment from tens of thousands of fans who had waited up until midnight to see or listen to the start could be heard in the England dressing room in Brisbane.

Those watching on satellite telly had the advantage over listening on radio.

After six overs at least I had the happy option, which I exercised, of switching over to 'G-Spot XXX Fantasy' and watching a few sparsely-clad lovelies do their best to entice me to call them for some one-to-one horny chat.

Well, Mandy on line two was available and it was only £12.50 a minute from my mobile so it would have been churlish not to oblige.

"What can I do for you, honey?" she asked, massaging bits of herself with what looked like a passable swing bowlers grip and action. "I don't know," I replied, "are you as disappointed as I am not to see Monty take the field?"

"What's that honey? You want the full Monty? I'll give you the full Monty. Just stay on the line and let me show you and tell you. Oooh yeah, honey . . . " and so on for about 80-quids worth of telephone time.

Not convinced that Mandy fully understood what was happening at The Gabba, I half-heartedly knocked one out just to be polite and rang off.

Switching back to Sky Sports, there was genuine excitement as Flintoff took the first wicket and for a few overs we looked like making a game of it. But in the overs before lunch it became more and more difficult to remain interested.

As England left the field to chew over their lacklustre start. Jacko took to his bed.

I won't be stopping up late for day two.

Calippo . . . a tasty summer ice-lolly, or a dead give-away you're a shirt-lifter?!

WARNING: VERY BAD LANGUAGE FOLLOWS!!!

This is very cruel, but deserves a wider audience.

If it had happened to me I'd have kept schtum and never breathed a word. Unluckily for Headliners senior batsman PB, he blabbed!

As a spindly 13-year-old PB was enjoying an afternoon of county cricket at Sussex's historic Hove ground. It was hot. He was a little lad. So he spent 25 pence of his pocket money on an ice-lolly. He chose the colourful and sugary Calippo.

So far so good. Happy lad sets off to return to his seat to enjoy the game.

With unfortunate timing, young PB passes the beer tent just as a few slightly worse for wear geezers stagger out in to the open air.

Our young hero's sunny disposition quickly evaporates when one of the drunken ne'er-do-wells catches sight of him giving a lusty slurp to his Calippo, points accusingly and bellows:

"COCK SUCKER!!!"

The hoodlums fall about, killing themselves laughing.

Poor PB, in deep shock, bins the remainder of his gay lolly and, his day ruined, goes home.

I must stress it was a blisteringly hot day . . .


Not just warm, but the sort of heat that would have had Death Valley scorpions too lethargic to do anything other than plop another ice cube in the Pimms.

This episode pre-dates my Headliners career, and occurred when I played for Beckenham's Sunday thirds.

Have I mentioned it was unseasonably hot? Jolly good. Because it 'kin well was!

We were in the field while the opposition (whose name I've forgotten - and I hope they have afforded me the same courtesy!) toiled in the middle. In truth, it was a poor game and the sizeable crowd on the shallow grassy bank at the boundary was drawn to the sunshine rather than the cricket.

I was right on the boundary, on the lowest part of the slope with probably a hundred people behind me soaking up the sun.

Sadly, in the heat my concentration was starting to waver. I had been standing idle for perhaps half a dozen overs and not once had the ball been hit with 50 yards of me.

It's possible I actually nodded off. By possible, I mean extremely likely, if not absolutely certainly.

Suddenly everything seemed to speed up. Action was required! I was alert in a nano-second, with a hit of adrenaline like a driver suddenly bolt upright after feeling that first drift over the 'rumble strip' on a late-night motorway.

The batsmen were converging , ready to cross. Other Beckenham fielders were on the move, but where was the ball?

Eagle-eyed Jackson caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision of a small, brown missile heading his way. "It's within reach if I really go for it . . ."

I ran and flung myself full-stretch to my right . . . but my grasping fingers closed on fresh air. Damn! I landed with a heavy thump and raised a cloud of dust from the parched outfield.

I'm just about to forlornly signal a four when I hear a titter. A titter that becomes a chuckle, a chuckle that grows into an incredulous guffaw from the now interested crowd. "Did you see that?" "Why did that man throw himself to the floor?" "Do you think he's all right? It might have been sun-stroke . . "

What are they going on about? Are they laughing at me? Indeed they are. And my team-mates look completely bewildered, too.

Alas, the batsmen were not looking for a run - but were merely conferring. The fielders were not chasing the ball - merely getting into position for the end of the over!!

And the little brown missile I so heroically attempted to catch?

A sparrow, now sitting on the branch of a sapling and looking at me with pity and disdain!

(I tell you what, though. It was a bloody hot day.)

Headliners CC snubbed by young Indian superstars! No one shocked!

There was widespread acceptance and an astonishing lack of surprise in the world of cricket today when HCC's approach to schoolboys Shahbaz Tumbi and Manoj Kumar was summarily ignored by the pair's families.

The dynamic openers broke the world record for a first-stand partership when they crashed 721 runs in just 40 overs in an Under-13s school match in Secunderabad, southern India on Wednesday.

Full story here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/6154000.stm

Tumbi spanked 324 not out (116 balls/57 boundaries)
Kumar could only muster 320 not out (127 balls/40 boundaries).
There were 77 extras and then their opponents were skittled for, um, 21!


Headliners CC, once dismissed for a grand total of 5 by an American Express XI made an immediate swoop for the pair. Their dads said: "No."

We are now £16.78 out of pocket as a result of peak time international telephone charges. Subs may have to go up. The good news is Statto is still available to open for HCC.

Headliners and The Beautiful Game . . .

The Headliners franchise embraced more than just the summer game. In 1995 the East Grinstead and Crawley Sunday League (Division Three) welcomed its newest member: Headliners Football Club.

For the record, I made 11 league appearances (2 goals), 4 cup appearances (2 goals). A respectable total bearing in mind I lived in Portsmouth at the time and our home matches were at 10.30am on a Sunday in Turners Hill, Sussex.

But there are some key details you cannot glean from bare statistics. For a real insight, you need the views of your so-called pals and team-mates.

A swift perusal of the shambolic match programmes produced each week for our debut season reveals a recurring theme whenever Jacko was mentioned. Fitness and Stamina (the lack of).

Anyone who has played Sunday morning park footie knows that fitness and stamina are not pre-requesites for selection. So for my wheezing, red-faced, puffing exertion to get noticed and remarked upon - by blokes who were themselves only a bacon butty and a pint away from a coronary - probably meant I was an extreme case.

I was oblivious at the time, but 11 years on I was dismayed to read the following in the long-forgotten match reports in the programmes:

• Team boss Richard Neale: " . . . I know everyone was surprised Jacko stayed on the pitch for the full 90 minutes last week. When I made the substitutions, I raised the No 11 as usual to get him off - but failed to realise he was wise to that and had sneakily nabbed the No 9 shirt."
• Left-back Stewart Ward (Wardy, for f*ck's sake! Hardly a power-house himself!): " . . . It's always a worry when Jacko goes forward for the corners. The defence is never sure how long it will take him to get back."
• Loyal substitute Bruce Talbot: ". . . I'm always happier when Jacko plays. It means I'm guaranteed at least 10 minutes, often more if he's struggling."
• Goalkeeper Tony Lindley: ". . . my f*cking granny has a more accurate cross, stronger tackle and better stamina than Jacko - and she's been dead a long, long time. But he looks like he's trying."

There is plenty more, but I'll return to them at a later date. Suffice to say, 11 years on, I'd back myself to beat any of my detractors over 100m today.

The ultimate 'TFC!' . . .

The match was in Brighton, the seedy beating heart of our glorious home county of Sussex.

The new signing, who proved his worth to HCC on tour by having Mr 'I Was Offered £400 A Week To Play For Hungerford' caught for just three at Brading, lived in Cambridge.

Quite a journey for a 40-over match. Good job the weather was fine and no chance of being rained off.

Shame about the virus that decimated the oppo in midweek and so were unable to fulfil the fixture.

Probably a bigger shame nobody rang our man* from the Cambridge to tell him.

But Thanks For Coming, eh!

Edit: *Mr Phil Chaplin. (Not that he whinged about not be being named earlier or anything!)

That's what friends are for . . .

My mate was having a rough time. Needed distraction from a few things that were dragging him down. Needed his mates around. Needed a sympathetic ear.

Jacko is nothing if not a good mate. Of course you can come round. I'll get the beers in. Of course it's not inconvenient, your my mate. What? Tomorrow? Sunday?

Shit. It's the one day of the season the Sunday thirds get to use the main square. Proper dressing rooms and showers. Electronic scoreboard. A real rope boundary. Benches on the pavilion verandah. Club umpires in black slacks, straw hats and their own white coats.

Sorry, mate. No can do. Hang on, tell you what, come down the club. See me rattle the furniture of a few poor saps and then we'll head off down The George for a livener.

Next day. The electronic scoreboard isn't seeing much use. I'm keeping these boys pinned to the crease. Taken two cheap wickets earlier on, but this pair is stubborn. They're not in any rush. I'm probing for the opening, they're blocking out.

Glancing up to the pav from my post at fine leg, I see my mate has turned up. He looks glum. World weighs heavy on his shoulders. Cheer up - it's a fine day, the cricket is good and the tennis courts way, way over square leg boundary are full of happy people.

Jacko is up again. Think I'll give this one a bit of extra oomph. Give this rabbit something to think about. CRAACK!! Bollocks, that'll be four then.

Lucky shot, more of the same will do. CRAACK!! Four more chalks. "Round the wicket, ump."

CRAAAAAACCKKKK!!! Holy moly - it's a six into the tennis courts!! Drop the pace. Two dot balls, then CRAACCCKKKKK!!!! another six scatters the tennis players. They're miles away!

Look up to the pav. My mate doesn't look so glum. From here it looks like the git is grinning! Spend the over nursing injured pride. Skipper offers me a way out. No chance, of course I'm up for another over.

Getting into my stride, I'm forced to abandon my run-up by a loud cry from the tennis courts: "Don't serve yet, Tabitha! It's that blond chap bowling who was hit over here last time!" I stare. The batsmen snigger. My supposedly depressed mate is pissing himself!

Take a moment. Here we go. Feels good leaving the hand, it's swinging . . . CRAAAAACK!! Ump raises both arms. OH FOR F*CKS SAKE . . .

Four. Dot. Dot. Dot. SIX. Arse biscuits. Skip tells me take a blow, another chap warms up. I've got the hump. Fume for the rest of the innings. Got a draw. Back to the meadow we play on next week . .

My mate comes over. Not a shred of gloom hangs over him. "That was f*cking brilliant!" he brays. "I was in a foul mood earlier, but I doesn't seem so bad now! Did you see those people in the tennis courts stop playing when you came on again?! Classic!"

"Don't worry," he says. "Let's go down The George. I'll get the beers in and you can tell me all about it."

WINTER? It must be time for a bit of sledging...

The following examples of good sportsmanship and gentle banter were shamelessly ripped off a number of other (ie: better!) cricket blogs. I make no apology as I'm a rock-hard keyboard warrior. Come and have a go etc . . .

As Ian Botham took guard in an Ashes match, Rod Marsh welcomed him to the wicket: "So how's your wife and my kids?"


Daryll Cullinan showed an astonishing lack of respect to the legend that is Shane Warne. As Cullinan was on his way to the wicket, Warne told him he had been waiting two years for another chance to humiliate him. "Looks like you spent it eating," replied Cullinan.

This one appears to have been said by every cricketer to every opponent, but the earliest example I've found is Glenn McGrath's splendid exchange with Zimbabwean batsman Eddo Brandes: "Hey Eddo, why are you so fucking fat?" Eddo Brandes: "Because everytime I f*ck your mother, she throws me a biscuit."

Javed Miandad called Merv Hughes a fat bus conductor at Adelaide in 1991. A few balls later Merv dismissed Javed."Tickets please," Merv called out as he ran past the departing batsman.

No querying the veracity of this one, it was picked up by a stump mic. Ian Healy's verdict on Arjuna Ranatunga's request for a runner: "You don't get a runner for being an overweight, unfit, fat c*nt!"

James Ormond had just come out to bat on an ashes tour and was greeted by Mark Waugh: "F*ck me, look who it is. Mate, what are you doing out here, there's no way you're good enough to play for England." James replied: "Maybe not, but at least I'm the best player in my family."

Another quality Aussie put-down of the unfortunate Ranatunga. Shane Warne, trying to tempt the batsman out of his crease mused what it took to get the fat man to get out of his crease and drive. Wicketkeeper Ian Healy piped up with "Put a Mars Bar on a good length. That should do it."

Ravi Shastri v the Aussie's 12th man. Shastri hits it to the sub and looks for a single. 12th man gets the ball in and roars "If you leave the crease I'll break your f*cking head." Shastri, unbowed fires back: "If you could bat as well as you can talk you wouldn't be the f*cking 12th man."

Malcolm Marshall was bowling to David Boon who had played and missed a couple of times. Marshall : "Now David, are you going to get out now or am I going to have to bowl around the wicket and kill you?"

Fred Trueman bowling. The batsman edges and the ball goes to first slip and right between Raman Subba Row's legs. Fred doesn't say a word. At the end of the over, Row ambles past Trueman and apologises sheepishly. "I should've kept my legs together, Fred". "Not you, son, but your mother should have," he replied.

6 for 54!? Damn, make that 5 for 60!

Bomb disposal squads, double agents and Michelin-starred chefs endure a certain amount of pressure and stress in their professions. Maybe the relentless need for excellence to preserve their livelihoods keeps them sharp.

But a Sunday cricketer is an unlikely chap to need counselling for post-traumatic stress or a "keep your chin-up" from the Samaritans.

There are, of course, exceptions.

Given the choice of A) being under a steepling 300ft high catch nine inches inside the boundary or B) feeling the sweat bead on your forehead as you sit in a ditch on some rusting Luftwaffe ordnance with a pair pliers thinking "B*ll*cks! Do I cut the red wire or the blue one?" - I'll take the unexploded bomb every time.

And after a particularly testing day in the field at Bolney, I'd go so far as to say bomb disposal is a piece of p*ss!

Lack of concentration (a recurring theme of my cricket career) had already caused me pain and the derision of my team-mates earlier in the innings. Nodding off at square-leg of all places, I was brought rudely to my senses by an agricultural slog that caught me right on the breast bone and I'm sure temporarily interrupted my normal heart rhythm.

Banished to the farthest boundary, I was soon more interested in the surrounding flora and fauna than the contest unfolding in the distance. But a monumental, ululating scream of "CAAAAAAAATCH!!" ended my reverie.

"This'll be good," I thought. "I know that voice, and it means some poor old sap is going to have pouch a real corker or the owner of That Voice is going to tear them a new one with some very loud and inventive invective."

So why was everyone looking at me?

Peripheral vision leaps into action, adrenalin starts to flow, soft buttery fingers begin to twitch. But I can't see anything remotely looking like a cricket ball heading my way.

I begin to relax.

But a sixth sense makes me glance skywards. Nothing. Well, except for that speck on the stratosphere. Probably just a mote in my baby blues. Well, except for the fact it is getting a bit bigger. Is that a seam?

The deep-seated, alligator part of my brain has recognised the missile and the danger it poses. But the reasoning section insists "don't be absurd. No one can hit a ball that high."

Too late, reason flees the building. It's just me and the alligator left with a few drops of spent adrenalin to fuel us. It isn't enough.

Hands cupped hopefully, the five-and-half-ounce pill slams into my collar bone at terminal velocity with a nauseating crack. For a split second I wonder if it will count as a catch if the ball is irremoveably fused with my bone structure.

No need to check with Wisden - the ball is disappearing over my shoulder. It's a six. Had I run away as I wanted to, it would have hit the floor and dinked over the line for just four.

Through my pain a hear The Voice. I'm informed my pain is just a precursor to longer-lasting pain. Pain my children will inherit until Judgment Day.

He had a point, though. 5 for 60 is still a good return. How was I to know 6 for 54 would have been a personal and club record?

"It's only game," I offer. The Voice is silenced. But the owner is on the move in my direction. I do one. Sharpish

First Change Bowler - the first innings

I doubt I am alone in having a passion for sports that, by a considerable margin, outstrips any natural athletic prowess.

At school, I was on the fringes of the starting line-ups for the football and cricket teams. Only injury to the established players would see the coaches reluctantly elevate me to the First XI, but I could expect to make a late substitute appearance if we were already in a commanding lead and my inclusion would not jeopardise the expected victory.

But every now and then I would demonstrate an unexpected moment of brilliance that meant I could never be completely excluded from the selectors' minds.

For examples, natural cowardice and aversion to pain made me extremely fast and light on my feet and therefore difficult for hulking opponents to pummel into the mud of the rugby field. And twice in one football match I scored directly from corners by waiting for a favourable shift in the wind. And on humid summer afternoons I could occasionally get a cricket ball to swing at least a yard from my ungainly left-arm round-the-wicket lob.

Into adulthood, these rare champagne moments did not abandon me. I was still 85 per cent duffer and 15 per cent capable. That, plus a willingness to remain always available for selection, meant I stayed on the fringes of various under-achieving teams for years to come.

So this is just the introduction to what I hope will be an entertaining journey that retells a score of incidents, both the heroic and far more numerous catastrophic!