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 . . .

I apologise for the uncomfortable imagery, but I want to share something I learned from a cross-Channel adventure last weekend.

And it is this . . . that to fully appreciate the rarified elegance of one of Europe's finest restaurants, you first need to have stared down the ragged tradesman's entrance of a pound-a-pop East End stripper.

Well, When your fourth bottle of Pol Roger Brut 1998 is competing with the eighth bottle of Becks still in your system from the early hours - you can't help but draw comparisons.

And by any token, a 24-hour jolly which takes in both a Shoreditch table-dancing dive and a Michelin two-star restaurant in Brussels is definitely one for the scrapbook. Twenty-four bizarre hours during which every instance of civility and culture had a diametrically opposed snapshot of the gutter.

For example, the £60 starter of Rosette of Lobster and Black Truffles enjoyed by several of my dining companions was a beautifully presented roundel of pure class and had them in raptures. Seeing their bliss, I thought better of pointing out its startling similarity to the £15 Starfish de Shoreditch presented on a greased pole not 10 hours earlier.

Later, having ditched the Saville Row in favour of casual classic Ben Sherman gear (ideal for pulling or fighting - depending which way your nights usually pan out) - it was time to hunt out the rest of the gang somewhere on the Grand Place.

It was not difficult to spot them. You don't find representatives of the cheap end of her Majesty's Press working their way through moules mariniere under a parasol outside a cafe bar. You find them holed up inside on the second floor, flushing down snotty strings of croque monsieur with 12% continental ale and demanding 'who's had my 'kin crisps?!'

After reminding the bewildered barman that if it wasn't for us he'd speaking German, a quick conference decided that having left the pub, we ought to, um, find another pub. Genius. It's "outside the box" thinking like that which won us an Empire!

Between 8pm and sunrise, we did what Brits do best when abroad. Mix beer and spirits into a deadly ferment in already gorged bellies, sing long and loud, and wake up with no recollection of the walk home.

Every time a Eurostar heads north out of Paris, Lille, Brussells you can hear an enormous exhalation as the train pulls away. The groggy, pasty passengers think it's something to do with the hydraulics. It isn't.

It's entire cities breathing huge sighs of relief that we're not staying and are going home. But chin up, mes amis - there's another train just pulling in!

You know that feeling when everything just clicks? Your run-up is smooth, your action precise and the ball fizzes on to the spot every delivery - and every other other over or so your team-mates converge on you with smiling faces to celebrate sending another rabbit back to the hutch? . . . Neither do I.

And after my first outing of 2007 for the Headliners, I'm still waiting.

I have to say I felt confident taking the ball when Dogger asked me to freshen up the attack after the industrious RB, the doughty RN and peckish Beefdom could find no chinks in the West Blatchington armour. Three nets and a high-protein shake or two in pre-season had me in fine fettle.

But after four overs of unadulterated leg-side jank I asked to be withdrawn from the attack having conceded 27 runs from an embarrassing series of double hops. "If you're sure," said Skip - a gesture really, as I could already see Stanley warming up at fine leg.

Of course the real villain was RN. Leaving the pavilion, the West Blatch openers' introduction to the pitch was hearing the mouthy Yorkshireman telling RB: "Don't take too many early wickets, let's make a game of it!"

Donner A, Mackenzie T and Proton K decided they'd make a game of it all right and twatted 145 runs between them!

Brown S tried desperately to return to his beer, skying three huge efforts off successive deliveries to RB on the boundary. The first actually carried for six, the second was dropped but the third was superbly, um, dropped too!

The unlucky bowler was RN. The rest of us offered commiserations and encouraging noises to both men, while we all tried to imagine what RN would look like with Bryant's nadgers threaded on to his necklace.

Then the plucky Stanley had the dangermen despatched with great flighted deliveries tempting the batsmen to waft ineffectually and allow decent fielders in Beef and Panch Jr to catch and stump.

Beef then enjoyed a sensational over, taking three wickets - including a tremendous caught and bowled in which he actually spilled his own blood to secure. Well it looked like blood, but someone later heard the groundsman mutter about the peculiarity of someone leaving a pool of gravy on a length.

Set 198, Liners did not shine. The Don hit 26, Beef knocked a patient 36, Dogger fell to the most plum obvious 'lbw' ever seen in the history of the game and Fitzy's £200 prescription Oakleys meant he had a clear view of the walk back to the pavilion, if not the ball that sent him there.

The highlight was your humble scribe's ferocious 11, reaching 1,000 career - thus ending the longest running saga since The Mousetrap.

I felt sorry for West Blatch's Brown N. Seven wickets for 18 off 10 would normally be an achievement worth celebrating - but it ain't a 1,000 runs matey! It ain't a THOUSAND RUNS!

No long appeal. Just watch this. Then visit www.justgiving.com/wecanbeatwilms and please make a donation.

Cheers

Jacko warned not to give up the day job! I entered a short-story competition last week - and the judges hammered me!

The rules were simple: Submit a previously unpublished true story about yourself. Max 1,500 words. Prize: £1,000. I delved back into my sporting past and regaled the judges with an inglorious episode from my short boxing career at college.

Here's my effort that garnered "nul points" from the worldwide juries:


IT'S difficult to enjoy your breakfast when you know a fit, strong, aggressive bloke is going to punch you hard in the face sometime before lunch.

This was neither an irrational fear of an unprovoked attack nor a ghastly premonition. It was a planned event, I knew when and where it would happen. It was to be a self-imposed initiation test. A test of my mettle and courage.

I'm certainly not a masochist and whoever was going to land that punch was going to have to earn the privilege. Before that blow landed (and hopefully afterwards!) I would be doing my damnedest to dish out similar punishment.

In short, I was learning to box.

At that early stage of my training I had only recently progressed to light sparring after weeks of gruelling fitness work and practising basic punches and combinations. So far, no one fending off my newly acquired skills had actually fought back. The instructors didn't have to and the leather bags tended not to - which is not to say they didn't nip back at you a bit sharpish if you lost concentration!

I'd been told I could develop into a useful boxer. Despite being dominantly left-handed, I adopted an orthodox stance but could switch to southpaw at will.

Yet one thing was nagging at me. I had no idea if I could actually take a full-on "bloody-hell-this-bloke-means-to-damage-me" punch. I'd been caught accidentally a few times by my fellow students but never at full power and never without the action immediately stopping and accepting the apologies of the perpetrator. And I have to say these innocent tags still hurt like the dickens and made the prospect of genuine combat genuinely unappealing.

So I decided to find out how bad it could be. When it came to a bit of proper sparring, I would deliberately leave myself exposed and invite the consequences.

On the appointed day, despite my undigested breakfast turning somersaults in a suddenly turbulent belly, I was able to see one or two positive aspects as I pulled on my gloves. First, the bloke in the opposite corner was a little lighter than I was and looked just as anxious as I imagined I did. Second, we were given headguards. This cheered me no end. Flimsy as the padding looked, it offered reassuring protection - unless I was careless enough to take a blow straight to the chin.

Which is exactly where he pinged me about 12 seconds into our first round!

All my plans went out the window - as did most of my cognitive processes. I thought I'd have a few rounds toe-to-toe before dropping my guard and taking my medicine. I didn't count on matey-boy flying out of his corner like an adrenalin-fuelled, hay-making demon.

I blocked a flurry of wayward blows, ducked under a hook and was just about to take a step back and wait for his nervous fury to pass. But as I came out of my crouch, I just had time to realise my field of vision was filled with red leather before I saw stars exploding spectacularly all around me.

In the half a second it took my rear to thump Bambi-like on to the canvas, my addled noggin tried to make sense of what was happening. Had the gym blown up? Had something fallen from the ceiling and struck me? And when did my opponent invite another two identical versions of him into the ring?

My disorientation was only momentary and I was soon in full possession of the facts. I'd been laid low by a man who had his eyes closed throughout his entire pinwheeling mayhem and had no idea he'd hit me until he almost tripped over me. As I stood up, he had the proper mix of concern and badly-hidden triumph flitting across his face. Our coach just looked perplexed by the whole sorry debacle.

I suppose, ultimately, I had my questions answered. I knew what a knock-out punch felt like - and I can report even brief unconsciousness is a fine anaesthetic! But my boxing career was stillborn. I carried on long enough to find out what the other side of the equation was like. A few weeks later I knocked my sparring partner out cold. It was the day I called it a day.

I'M sure the sympathy expressed was sincere. But it was so shockingly wide of the mark I was momentarily stunned.

"Sorry to hear about your loss - I read a bit of your web thing," offered the venerable Doug. "Very sad. What was it again - your cat?"

"Very kind of you, Dougie - but it was my niece."

"Really? I didn't read all of it. I think I'll get padded up."

And so Headliners CC bade farewell to the balmy winter and it was down to the serious business of nets in preparation for the 2007 campaign.

Still a little put out, but finding it hard not to laugh out loud at the continual air of absurdity that surrounds this club - I picked up the pill for the first time since last September and measured out a seven-pace run up.

Fitzy stood at the crease - and despite a long step across the off stump and full-length stretch of the bat - he was still a good foot away from my Harmison-like loosener which fizzed pathetically into the side netting.

After five or six balls of varying prowess, I switched to left-arm over the wicket in the desperate hope of better luck. And - knock me daahn wiv a fevver - I found it!

With a few wayward exceptions, KJ was pinging the ball in on a good length with a bit of movement and Fitz, BT and Doug were all on the defensive.

One ball, had it been in a match, would have had the scorer marking the first downward stroke of his 'w' as soon as he saw it leave my hand. That's certainly how i felt about it. So you can imagine my disbelief and dismay when a clearly flummoxed BT somehow toe-ended the ball away for perhaps a streaky brace. No justice.

With bat in hand, I felt good too. Especially as the bowling on offer was distinctly low-grade stuff. Yet BT once again proved my undoing.

I took a look at one shabby lob and decided that I could cart it back over his head once it reached me on the second bounce. Sadly, I felt the swish of willow without any resistance of leather - and heard the terrible death-rattle of my flattened plastic furniture. My distress was compounded by witnessing the oaf's delighted gloating.

Roll on winter and the end of this sporting charade!

IT is not just with bat and ball that KJ has failed to impress as a sportsman.

A day after my return from the beautiful ski resort of Megeve, France, I can report I'm as equally inept on Alpine pistes as I am on the greener, occasionally flatter venues of home.

Actually, I do myself an injustice. After four years of skiing holidays, I'm not too terrible. I'm still more Stanley Baxter than Alain Baxter but drop me at the top of almost any slope and I'll muddle my way down.

Lack of bottle holds me back. Technically, I can be the bees knees. Indeed, my short-radius turns were the talk of the town. But while the rest of my ski gang point down the hill and gracefully carve their way to a waiting vin chaud, yours truly zig-zags out of the clouds with eyes like saucers and thigh muscles burning like hot coals.

So it was with utter surprise and a sense of foreboding that I heard myself sign up to a potentially humiliating and life-threatening experience:

I entered a genuine, competitive, gongs-for-the-winners giant slalom race! And I even had to shell out ten of your johnny foreigner bank notes for the privilege.

The omens were not good. My only previous attempt at getting up a proper head of steam on skis cost me an eye lid and my original facial bone structure. I can testify to the stunning stopping ability of a noggin buried into the side of a mountain which sneaks up on you at 60mph.

As it happened, speed was not my enemy in the slalom race. Far from it. For an indication of my performance and prowess, it did not go unremarked in the hotel afterwards that the official race photographer captured three pin-sharp pictures of me - and single, dramatic blurred shots of everyone else!

I didn't help that to even get to the start gate - that's right kids, a start gate (plus race bibs and proper electronic timing when I was expecting only a frog with a big flag at the top and his mate with a stopwatch at the bottom) - I had to negotiate the steepest, scratchiest run in the entire Alps and then ski a treacherous route through a haunted forest past the frozen bones of long-dead English adventurers.

Maybe I'm bending the verite a tad, but it was certainly no preparation for an all-out assault on the fiendishly fiendish giant slalom course that stretched away fiendishly below me.

All too soon I was no longer louche English tourist Jacko, I was suddenly competitor No 29 with a weak bladder, slack bowels and visions of a life spent eating through a straw next to big machine that goes 'ping'.

I got off to a flier. The first three gates whizzed past in a stylish swish of parallel excellence. The next few were slightly more ragged but commendable. Then, disaster! The after-burners cut-out! I was in a Top Gun-style icy tail spin and had to dig deep to remember the procedure - and deployed the emergency snow-plough!

I crossed the finish line, just, with help of ski poles, to polite rather than excited applause. The timer consulted his calendar . . . 1 min 41.2 seconds. Not bad at all thinks KJ, coolly falling over in the snow trying to remove the bib.

Not bad. But still dead last! And not by fractions of a second. Last by more than 20 seconds! 40th out of 40! The winning time was a shade under 37 seconds.

I'm not expecting a call-up to Team GB for the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver - but at least I can now call myself a "competitive skier."

*I have been asked to point out that Mrs J also took part in the race. She took 1 min 09 sec. But you have to remember the ladies' course was, um, the same one.

The kiddies’ merry-go-round on Brighton Pier used to really bug me.

It wasn’t the awful airbrushed art of Scooby-Do, the Teletubbies and what have you on the little cars, carriages and trucks.

It wasn’t the surly East Europeans manning the kiosk who took the tokens without even a smile for the happy youngsters standing in line.

It bugged be that the two motorbikes on the little ride were quite clearly identical Harley-Davidsons – but had “Kawasaki” emblazoned on one and “Suzuki” on the other.

And to add insult to injury, both were also labelled CBRs!

I could live with the fact they were painted Barbie pink and had the same build quality and top speed of a genuine Harley. But I felt compelled to tell every little lad and lass who clambered aboard that they were being cheated. “Look!! How can that possibly be a Kwak!?? And when the heck did Suzuki start making CBRs??!! Eh? Eh? EH!!!???”

Angry looks from Mrs J and hostile vibes from mums and dads would send me muttering to the frantic drama of the Dolphin Derby.

But seeing my little niece Molly beaming away and squealing with delight as her bright pink Barbie bike chugged along the track and seeing her wave excitedly as we came into view on each circuit (and wave with her throttle hand despite my instructions to the contrary!) was a real tonic to soothe my cynicism.

When Molly smiled like that, you never noticed the tube in her nose or the fact she was the only child with no hair.

In fact over the summer I would get impatient for Molly’s visits. I’d take my daughter Abi out of nursery for the day and, after lunch at the Marina, the families would take the rattling, bone-shaking Volks electric railway to the pier for ice-cream and fairground rides.

Abi and Molly could well have been sisters. They laughed and charged around together and made up their own games and stories.

Abi was more often than not in Molly’s old clothes, despite being two years younger. But when Molly was smiling you never noticed she was so small for her age. And Abi neither noticed nor cared that her best friend had a tube in her nose and was the only child with no hair.

I had to work Christmas Day, so I can only imagine Molly’s reaction when she awoke to find a giant pink motorised Barbie VW Beetle next to the tree.

Fortunately, I did see the mobile phone film of her bombing through the park that afternoon in her vee-dub – foot flat to the floor trying to wring every last bit of juice from the batteries!

But this time her smile couldn’t hide the unpalatable truth. Molly Moo wasn’t at all well.

Just a fortnight after being given the all-clear from her aggressive and devastating cancer, Molly was taken back to Great Ormond Street on Boxing Day.

On the Friday, I stood by her bedside as her stand-in Godfather as she was baptised. On Saturday morning, her agony over, Molly died.

Even in death she still had a trace of a smile and I’ve never seen a more beautiful or serene expression.

Now I take Abi to the pier alone.

I really love the kiddies merry-go-round at Brighton Pier. I love the awful airbrushed art of Scooby-Do, the Teletubbies and what have you on the little cars, carriages and trucks.

Abi rides one of the bright pink Barbie bikes. It’s still a Kawasaki CBR. I like the sound of that.

Next to her I can see Molly on the Suzuki CBR. They’re laughing and smiling.

When Molly smiles like that, there’s no tube in her nose and her hair is flying in the wind.

At last! England can finally celebrate some success at getting under the skin of the Aussies!

But perhaps not in the way Fletch's troops had anticipated. Freddie Flintoff & Co were hoping to throw a bucket of cold water over their hosts' Australia Day jollities with a win in the day-night clash at Adelaide.

And they did so! England were so dire that, despairing of any worthwhile contest, the normally buoyant Aussies left the ground in disgust in their droves long before their opponents' humiliation was complete and before they even needed to turn on the floodlights!

Huzzah and hoorah! If we can't wipe away Aussie smirks with our talent, we'll do it with our total ineptitude! Well done, lads!

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.