If someone murdered a member of your family, then passed the body to another who in turn cooked it for a third party to enjoy as a meal - whom would you hate most of the three?


Would it make if a difference if the cook was a craftsman and delivered a spectacular dish for the diner? And would it matter the diner finished every morsel and really appreciated all the effort that had gone in to preparing the meal?


I ask because last night - in fact very, very early this morning - I believe I was visited by a flying angel of vengeance, in the form of a CUCKOO!


I have lived nearly all of my 39 years without any memorable encounter with these creatures. Yet in the past few weeks I have twice crossed paths with what anoraked 'twitchers' would call Cuculus Canorus.


On the first occasion, the bird was silent. And hot and tender and partly caramelised and served with the sweetest baby asparagus. Delicious. I showed it the utmost respect by washing it down with a toothsome Pol Roger.

This a.m. the bird was neither silent nor tasty nor demanding respect. It was a loathsome intrusion into my home. Sitting smugly under the eaves, it sang. "Cu-coo, cu-coo." And sang . . . and sang . . . for hours. Until even the fretful seagulls could take no more and tried to drown it out.

It only had the one song. And it performed it with metronomic precision for hours, with no change in pitch, harmony or tempo. It nagged like toothache or Portsmouth fans giving it the Pompey Chimes. The whole family was awake and on a short fuse. Then it was gone.

Was this visitation coincidental to my fine meal? I think not! Was it a spirit of the star of the a la carte menu? An avenging relative? Who knows!

Was it inspired by Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven"? Possibly. Am I now free of it? Quoth the cuckoo: "Nevermore!"

I'M not exactly down with the kids, but I have noticed the streets of sunny Brighton are being rendered gloomy by a proliferation of angst-ridden, woe-is-me type youths.

Sounds like just any group of spotty teenagers, but these freaks call themselves EMOs and have taken their persecution complexes a stage further. They're a sort of goth 'lite'. Floppy black hair, eye make-up, maybe a piercing or two and light scratches on their forearms for that authentic 'self-harmer' look. A few slaps and a haircut might liven 'em up a bit. But I'd settle for just slapping them around a bit.

So it was a surprise to see similar expressions and loose-limbed despair on eleven chaps dressed in bright whites and old enough to know better. Step forward the vanquished Sun XI! Their starting line-up was a Who's Who of master batsmen with a reasonable chucker or two for good measure.

The Headliners XI, on the other hand, looked like a day release outing from a Royal British Legion Hospital. Only Jackson appeared to be in washboard trim and fine fettle. A lot rested on his steroid-pumped shoulders.

But cricket is a funny old game. KJ pouched an early catch and then contributed nothing more than buffet bowling and letting Scoggins off the hook with a failed 'c&b' long before his eventual 48. To round off his display, his charge to save a boundary ended with the sound of plucked hamstrings like a hamfisted harpist in a special needs orchestra.

RN, being of northern extraction, cycled to the ground with double calf strain and hamstring injuries - but fed on the pain to carry his bat for a match-winning 80, having already taken 2-17 with the cherry.

I don't think RN is human - at least not entirely. I've known him more than 16 years and never seen his house. Nor has anyone else. Turns out he lives at the Cyberdine Systems factory in Lewes and is a T-101 Terminator. He's living tissue over a titanium endo-skeleton with a built-in Alec Bedser programme. After his knock he chugged a pint of WD40 and responded to the offer of a lift home by lighting up his bionic eye and snarling: "Fuck you, asshole!" Charming! Luckily for the Liners though, he'll be back . . .

Had it not been for RN, man of the match would have been Glen Donegan. His unbeaten 60 and 4-30 was fantastic reward for a real all-round display. Bowling to a crocked KJ was just like bowling to a four-stump wicket, but they all count.

PB deserves a mention for his stylish 35: Hi, PB. fnurk!

Anyway, aside from the pisstaking and to be uncharacteristically serious, I think every player is indebted to every other player for making it one of the best days of cricket we've enjoyed in many years. And thanks to St James's Montefiore CC for the venue and Stanley and his pal for the post-match tucker. And once again huge thanks to everyone who contributed to the "We Can Beat Wilms" child cancer campaign. For some reason I can deal with adversity and chaos with stoicism - but generosity, compassion and anything to do with Molly plays havoc with a stiff upper lip!

The match details can be viewed in quite detailed detail here: http://headlinerscc.proboards82.com/index.cgi?board=general&action=display&thread=1182249882

Headliners CC v The Sun

HISTORY is littered with examples of conflicts in which divided loyalties have destroyed friendships, pitted brother against brother - and father against our kid.

There are the biggies such as the English and American civil wars. Then come regional spats like the troubles in Northern Ireland and the Merseyside or Old Firm derbies. Some way down the line are the grudge matches - although no less serious to those involved - such as between those who crack the Big End of an egg and them what crack the Little End.

But a war is looming which even has the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse knock-kneed with fear and ready to turn tail and bolt for the trees - like Baggie at the first sight of a cover drive heading his way.

Orcs and Nazgul don't fancy it. Elvish archers suddenly realise they've left the iron on and Sauron has shut the gates of Mordor on the pretence he doesn't want to be disturbed while "Gondor's Got Talent" is on the telly.

Battle lines are being drawn - in crayon - as The Sun and Headliners CC are poised for a cataclysmic encounter at the sinister and deadly-sounding St James's Montefiore Cricket Club, near Ditchling, Sussex.

The Liners and The Currant Bun used to live in peaceful coexistence. There was frequent cross-over of talent (well, players anyway) and frivolous badinage between respected (well, tolerated anyway) rivals.

Until it was foolishly mooted that these white-flannelled gladiators should play each other. Thighs were slapped and guffaws guffed at the splendidness of the idea.

But it has turned sour. The frivolity has turned frosty. The respect has turned to contempt.

The Sun's warm-up match - a resounding victory against the Sunday Times - was notable for the tension within the team as the few Liners in the line-up were watched and analysed more closely than the opposition.

Boxing clever, KJ allowed himself to be tonked for 60 runs off just eight overs so as not to alert his temporary team-mates to the true venom he could muster. Unfortunately, Statto wasn't so sharp and got carried away - all the way to 56 - after getting excited at hitting a career-first four in front of the wicket.

But the Scoggins had the same idea for The Bun. Having given it all the chat all season about his 874 average, he holed out on 25 leaving us hopeful, yet still worried. Bastard.

And Baggie bowled four overs of multi-hop jank. Clever, thought I. Turns out he had poured his very soul into every ball. Chin up, the Liners shall make hay.

The storm clouds are gathering. The waiting is tense. It's T-Day all over again. Watch this space . . .