I HAD been issued with 'key tasks' by herself - important things that need doing/sorting/booking before a family holiday.

But as with most blokes, my initial flurry of activity was momentary. Mid-way, if that, through the first task - the relatively simple "clear that sh*t out of the boot so we'll have room for the luggage" - I was sidetracked. All I had to do was transfer a large cardboard box from car to garage.

Only I peeked inside the box. Straight away, the Y-chromosome kicked in. It was a box full of my old football programmes! All other considerations go out the window at this point. Ask any bloke.

Suddenly, nothing is more important that reading and reminiscing and, of course, sorting them all out into date order.

My team being Crystal Palace, this meant a rollercoaster ride down memory lane: Play-off triumphs and disasters, touching distance of FA Cup final glory, the day we had it on our toes from a mob of Ipswich, giving it the biggun' up at Manchester City, getting hit for nine (NINE!) without reply at Anfield and always lively encounters against Brighton . . .

Thus can a two-minute job somehow end up taking taking nearly three hours!

And the box contained another little gem, or rather three little gems - faded and yellowing school report cards! Michaelmas terms 1978, 1980 and 1983; when I was 10, 12 and 15 respectively. Michaelmas term! That's Autumn for you state-educated herberts.

It is only in hindsight I appreciate how the form tutors managed to damn with faint praise! This from my fifth form Geography report: Keith's standard of classwork is perfectly satisfactory, but his form position (2nd) flatters his knowledge. In the exam, however, he was inclined to ignore the rubric* and write as much or as little as he fancied, about whatever he fancied. Much of it was true, but irrelevant.
This from fifth form woodwork: He has made a great deal of effort and works to the best of his ability. Nevertheless, he is by no means a strong examination candidate.
Tellingly, my sporting development through the years follows a theme. It appears I could have been a very useful footballer and hockey player but for a peculiar back condition - a great yellow streak right up the middle of it!

PE report aged 10: Keith is improving but is rather timid in matches. I hope that timidness will disappear next term.
PE report aged 12: Keith is captain of soccer and has played well in both soccer and hockey. But he must develop more confidence. He has the ability to be very good.
PE report aged 15: A capable footballer and hockey player who plays with enthusiasm but lacks the aggression to dominate a game.
There you go, the curse of the sensitive soul. No lack of ability, but it was always the rough boys who got the plaudits!

*Rubric: (I had to look it up!) A chart or plan that identifies criteria for evaluating a piece of a student's work, be it an essay test, a paper, or some other student production.

A BRAND new sport has totally captivated me. I've become a life-long fan of a team I first saw only a month ago and which I'm unlikely to see again for several years.


Its players are genuine giants among men and their athleticism and skill is simply spectacular. They are also eloquent and educated and, despite earning salaries that would have even a Premiership footballer choking on his bling, they seem to lack the arrogance and thuggery that mark out their single brain-celled British sporting brethren.


The fans are noisy, passionate, steeped in history and knowledge of the game and even outside quantities of beer that would fell a horse they have absolutely no inclination to kick anyone's head in.


Welcome to NBA basketball. Welcome to the Boston Celtics.

My introduction to the sport and the Celtics was a pretty cool one - Games 1 & 2 of the 2008 Finals against historical rivals LA Lakers at the TD Banknorth Garden in Boston. With court-side seats going for about £14,000 I was pretty chuffed to have paid only, um, nothing - courtesy of the NBA.

The Garden is not an attractive building. It's a huge concrete block that would be more at home in a Stalingrad suburb than down town Boston.

But inside it was a cauldron. A sell-out 18,000-seat arena packed with locals screaming "Beat LA!" and jeering the A-List, fancy Dan celebrity fans of Los Angeles.

As a nipper, I used to read Whizzer and Chips which had a strip called "The Toffs and The Toughs" which pitted a collection of snobs against a gang of scruffy herberts. Innocent japes and pranks ensued. These days they'd be knifing each other in alley ways and copping ASBOs from a powerless judiciary.

Any old hoo, Celtics v Lakers had a very similar feel. While Leonardo Di Caprio, David Beckham and Jack Nicholson backed LA; Boston's sole celebrity cheerleader was a sweaty, dancing Jack Black. Pictures of Nicholson on the Garden's big screens were greeted with rabid pantomime boos, while banners in the crowd proclaimed "You Can't Handle the Truth" as a dig at the actor and in praise of the C's hero Paul "The Truth" Pierce.

Boston did have the better eye candy in a supporting role - the Celtics Dancers - 15 uber-hot babes in tiny hotpants and tight, low cut tops getting jiggy to a thumping musical background.

When the noise did drop from Concorde take-off levels, the big screens urged the fans to greater vocal support, with a noise-meter rising from Rumble to Loud, Wicked Loud, Thunderous and finally the ear-splitting, skull-cracking Garden Level!

You can keep your Kops and Sheds and Stretford Ends and your Holmesdale roar - Garden Level wasn't chanting - just dangerously loud, visceral, screaming lunacy!

Much as I loved the experience, basketball could learn a thing or two from British football.

The Boston fans had the volume, but not the repertoire. With only five players per side on court at any one time, a few songs for individuals wouldn't go amiss. And the repetitive tribal chant of "De-fense, De-fense" (said with an 's' not a 'c'!) grated after the 60th LA attack. That, and "Let's Go Celtics" were the only terrace offerings.

One thing that would shake up football if we adopted it from the NBA would be the 24-second clock. Essentially, once you have possession of the ball the team has just 24 seconds to shoot for the hoop. If you don't hit the ring within that time, you lose possession.

How good would it be to have that in football!? Actually, they already seem to have that rule for the hoofers at Anfield - but making every team shoot for goal within 24 seconds or give the ball to the oppo to have a pop adds value and entertainment in my book - and it would totally bollox up the entire Italian league!

But what may be regarded as drifting into the realms of anorakness is that my attraction to basketball means I'm looking forward to the British season!

After the NBA finals it might a bit like hoping Sunday morning parks football will offer the same quality as the European Championships - nevertheless I shall be popping a few miles down the coast to lend my unflinching support to the mighty . . . Worthing Thunder. Kaboom!

Three is a magic number.
Numerologists assign great importance to it, my Triumph Sprint ST 1050 is designed around it (three cylinder engine, three-dial dash and triple-port underseat exhaust and three bastard points on my licence every other week) and the Holy Trinity carries some weight with the God botherers.

Three played an impressive part of my 2008 debut for the mighty Headliners on Sunday at home to Southern Cross.

Three: The number of balls my innings lasted.
Three: The number of overs I bowled before Southern Cross passed their target.
Three: The number of runs I scored (if you add three).
Three: The number of sixes which soared over my head at deep mid-wicket.
Three: The number of Fingers' excellent sausage rolls I scoffed at tea.

But no amount of mysticism could disguise the fact we were well and truly turned over in the match. At 40-5 it was fair to say we were struggling. We limped on to 119 all out thanks to a generous change in the bowling attack and Beefy's timely 50.

My sad effort came to an end third ball when my text-book forward defensive prodded the ball over an anti-gravity field which suddenly materialised on the track, so a ball which was heading safely to the dirt instead carried slowly to a grateful bowler for a flukey c&b.

I'm not sure, but I believe these anti-gravity anomalies can occur when nearby space freighters are about to engage their hyper-freem drive (HFD) before making the light-speed jump through an event horizon. I'm not saying that's what happened, it's entirely possible I did just dolly it straight back to the bowler. But I'll check Monday's Argus for any reports of unexpected rips in the space/time continuum over Cuckfield.

One of the highlights of the day was the extraordinary wicket caused by one of Jackson's unexpectedly inaccurate lobs. The batsman tried to hook a ball which arrived at over shoulder height - only to doink it 50ft straight up. KJ and wicket-keeper Chris Francis conferred telepathically - he obviously picked up on my silent scream of "YOURS!!!" and lumbered forward as yours truly gamely charged down the wicket just in case it was actually mine.

The upshot was CF missed the catch, but in the excitement nobody had noticed the square-leg umpire had called a no ball. The batsman was still half-way up the pitch when he realised he would have been safe had the ball been pouched - then everyone realised at the same time he was now vulnerable a run out - to which he succumbed. It's not a KJ wicket in the scorebook, but I believe I have the moral authority to claim the scalp as it was my no ball which tempted him into the ill-advised hook and I'd have dropped it just as effectively as CF had I got under it first!

The last over of the day went to Parky's brown-slacked mate Brian. Fair play for turning up, not having played for 30 years, but I think even he would agree he looked a tad, um, rusty. And for that to be noticed in a Headliners XI takes some doing! For a start, having played left-handed in the nets, moments later he played right handed at the crease and admitted later he hadn't realised the change. And his bowling action was suspect at best. Smooth run up, then just bung it! Not just a slight bend in the arm - a proper chuck!

All in all, another ordinary HCC afternoon!

It struck me recently that literally dozens of people around the world may not have read my early musings on life with Headliners Cricket Club: the "Creased Up" column which ran for a glorious summer or two in the Evening Argus, Brighton. For those unfortunates, what follows will be a rare treat. For my devotees - and ye are many - kick back and enjoy a little HCC nostalgia!


The following is reproduced without kind permission of the Sports Argus. If their lawyers are watching: Chew the bark off my big fat log!


So let me take you back to the balmy August of 1999 . . .



The fabulous sunshine of the past few Sundays has made watching a few overs of cricket a real treat. But, at the risk of sounding churlish, it's not quite so tickitiboo if you're out there in the middle.

Of course I can only refer to fielding. Any boast about the trials of batting for hours under a scorching sun cannot be backed up by innings that have yet to last longer than 20 minutes.

Not for KJ the bright band of zinc across the bugle or oiled up forearms. Hardly a bead of sweat appears on the Jackson brow before he dollies one up to mid-wicket or thick edges to a beaming wickie.

But I can speak from experience when it comes to wilting in the outfield at third man.

I've not seen the satellite photos, but Whitemans Green must be in the path of El Nino, so bizarre are its weather patterns.

One week, all muggy and close, passing aborigines were gobsmacked by the amount of swing KJ could put on the pill.

The next week, hot and dry, swing evaporates and the batsmen make hay. I'm taken out of the attack and left to fester on the boundary until called upon to push one over for six.

Mention must be made of long-standing Headliner Tommy Faulkner. On a day when Death Valley scorpions were grumbling about the heat, Tommy trots in to bowl in T-shirt, cricket shirt, sleeveless pulley and long-sleeved woolly.

The man is better insulated than the nuclear reactor at Sellafield and has not been without a protective vest since he was eight seconds old.

Ma Faulkner was obviously a very sensible woman with her boy's best interests at heart and did not him catching a chest cold.

Skipper B.Talbot has flourished in all the greenhouse gases. The bean-pole spinball wizard is on a hat-trick with the next ball of his first spell.

Watch this space for a possible moment of rare cricketing history.

See you at the crease. I'll be the one with the parasol!


2008 update: BT did not get his hat-trick!

Sporting brilliance alert! Sporting brilliance alert!

Very first ball of the very first net session of the very new season: The bowling equivalent of a Ronaldo free-kick as KJ demolishes, nay atomises, Fitzy's off stump! I bet you can still smell burning plastic at Sussex CCC indoor centre!

End of alert

No, Mr Jackson! I expect you to die!

IN retrospect, I rather fancy that for suaveness and courage there could have been just a cigarette paper between me and James Bond.

In one of the most memorable opening scenes of any 007 adventure, Bond - in a natty yellow ski suit - is pursued across the snow by at least half a dozen bad eggs. He shoots one with his Q-designed ski pole, does a full loop jump and then skis right off the edge of the mountain - before releasing a splendid Union Jack parachute and making his escape.

Well me, too!

Roger Moore's reward in The Spy Who Loved Me was a punch-up with Jaws and a leg-over with best-ever bond babe Barbara Bach.

My reward for launching myself off an Alp and trusting a red, white 'n blue (but sadly French tricolor! The shame!) parachute was merely a cold beer, the respect of friends and the joy of finally completing something new without hearing about it first from an attending paramedic!

My incentive for skiing off the side of a mountain rather than choose one of the numerous perfectly-pisted runs to the bottom was not to escape dead-eyed Soviet agents. It was just because it looked like bloody excellent fun!

And fun it was - until I was strapped into a harness which was strapped to a French bloke who was the one actually strapped to the parachute.

With the pro behind me and the parachute laid out behind him, all I could see was a mere ten-foot run off, lots of very spikey looking trees about mile below and a landing area the size of a handkerchief!

My instructions were clear. "Keep your skis straight. Stand tall, lean forward and keep going! I'll take care of the parachute - but you have to get us off the mountain!"

That's a level of responsibility I was ill-prepared for and probably not insured for. But by this time we had drawn quite a crowd so there was no way I could back out. B*ll*cks, just go for it!

We've all experienced moments of profound relief, but I know that true happiness is a parachute that snaps open and lifts you skywards just as your ski tips dip into nothingness!

The next five or six minutes were pretty damn groovy. After drifting silently over the trees the 'pilot' suggested some acrobatics. Go on then. All of a sudden we were swinging high to left and right, spiralling down and 'enjoying' a number of stomach-churning manoeuvres.

The landing was very nearly oh-so-cool. We came in fast and low and touched down in a mountain restaurant garden. But just as it seemed we'd keep it together and stay on our feet. I lost control in a deep pile of powder snow and we binned it like total amateurs!

Last year I was a competitive slalom skier, this year I was a parapente extraordinaire.

I strolled over to where Mrs J, suddenly looking very much like Ms Bach as Agent XXX Anya Amasova, was waiting and looking suitably impressed. "Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred?" she offered.

"In a mo, luv. I think I wet my pants."

My devotion to the hapless Headliners Cricket Club inspired me to try my hand at simple YouTubery movie making - um, without any moving pictures!
Ho hum.
But I present . . . the Headliners!