A look back in assuagement
An attempt not to be grumpy
I have been told to be positive by a higher authority*; in other words, I have been instructed me to be more light-hearted. I am not to dwell on any negative perceptions of the corrupt, decaying, lazy, unmanageable, State of the Nation. Likewise, I am here to amuse, not to confuse, bemuse, abuse or even to grouse. (It was Truman Capote who said “Alliteration — have you noticed? — is my least vice”).
This last couple of weeks, it has been relatively simple to be upbeat. Apart from the bad dose of Robespierre’s Revenge, which saw me lose 4lbs in a matter of nanoseconds, life has been generally positive. The funeral of a good friend might not sound like the place to start, but it was an exceptional service, and his wife and family conducted themselves with great dignity and presence. Good hymns, great eulogy, (given by the wife), wonderful readings and memories from the children, and then afterwards the family provided a full-on fizz and canapé wake, full of people universally awash with kind thoughts and prayers for our friend gone away.
Then to a wedding up North, which allowed us to drive to York racecourse, which was also heading towards a 35° state of Scorchio. Madame is a member of Sam Hoskins Hot To Trot, a syndicate name taking nominative determinism to new heights on the day. They’re a jolly group of sociable racing coves, and their runner Rage of Bamby was on a recovery mission. On her May seasonal debut, she lost a shoe and was struck-into, and on her next, her run suggested she was reticent about repeating that exercise. However, her head was on straighter this time, she came 6th having led for about 5½f, and she is a Group winner in waiting, probably over 6f and in blinkers.
From there we went onto Ripley to catch up with the Godson, ushers, best man, family, guests, and odds & sods, where we all dined in a pleasant local hotel. The bridegroom’s father was a City panjandrum, after a spell in the Cavalry, and the wedding was organised to on-the-minute exactitude. Transport orders, Smoke Breaks, Kit Orders, one really did not have to think at all, which was brilliant. The venue was a charming Dales church, next door to the talented and beautiful new wife’s family’s house. Ten mile views in any direction under blazing sun, and a gentle breeze. A 47-minute service, (normal market for a three-hymn and sermon wedding is 43-46 so it was spot-on), and then a short walk to the house and drinks in the garden with swarms of very clever, gorgeous people, who all appeared to be cricket fans.
At Lords, the third test was building up a head of steam, and I suddenly realised how desperately dull Racing People must be to the outside world, especially when they add betting into the mix. Arcane bollocks about monkeys and not getting the distance and being struck into and back to a decent mark, and stepping up in trip and Lay of the Day and Dutching the top two. How dull we must sound.
But lumme… cricket! Every fan has to know every player and their test, ODI, First Class and white ball stats. No, me neither, not a clue. Someone mentioned Wilf Rhodes**, which seemed to require a polite nod. Having spent some of my life running restaurants and in PR, I can normally play the “Yes, who would have thought!” card or the, “You must tell me more, he sounds fascinating” gambit pretty well. But cricket fans, real aficionados, can spot a faker from two miles out. For those moments, I try to keep a fact up my sleeve to be used as a question: “I was wondering the other day if Peter Siddle is the only bowler in international cricket to have taken a hat trick on the same day as his birthday (25th November 2010). I have looked in Wisdens, and they don’t seem to have the answer. Do you by any chance?”
Anyway the beautiful Dales idyll, was awash with cricket fans, and swathes of young, all of whom looked 17 and all of them appeared to be multi-millionaires, or in line to becoming Chancellor of Cambridge, head of GCHQ, or running CERN. Sadly, that made me marginally aware that one had potentially reached the stage in life of being like a large fridge — you’re not necessarily needed on the journey. But I am immune to such niceties and will stay on, if only to be a bloody nuisance.
Much drinking (me), dancing (others), generosity (hosts), affection and chatting (all) after a very jolly marquee dinner, and a very witty Best Mans Speech. Anyone moderately sociable will have heard sufficient BM speeches to pass an honest critique - and this one was excellent. But Lord above, I’ve heard some doozies in my time! I was once at a cousin’s wedding and the Best Man, who I suspect is now a Judge, spoke for 72 minutes!
Then pre-organised taxis for the survivors, schlafen, breakfast, more hugs, kisses, farewells, congratulations, and Well-Dones, and away. Eventually, back to Lambourn in time to see Sinner win and the realisation that both Champions this year had been found guilty of failing drug tests…. sorry, forgot my positivity instructions there for a moment. So that aside, Tennis can hold its head up high, at the result, and be proud of the use of a line-call technology using AI algorithms, that was called into question every day of the tournament.
The Cricket was meanwhile building to a crescendo and to celebrate the restoration of normal services in the Nether Regions; a brilliant weekend; the survival of a tour to the not-frozen North; and to honour our Indian cricketing cousins, we had a homemade lamb and spinach bhuna, a cauliflower and potato curry and a biryani of sorts. No ill effects, so declared myself cured and listened on Monday, to the most exciting cricket match I can remember for some time.
I don’t drive, so it is bizarre that I should have followed Top Gear and the proper presenters with huge affection and interest. That, and it’s slightly gauche off-spring Grand Tour, are two of my favourite TV programmes ever. Similarly, TMS is my favourite radio programme, although I am not a real cricketing fan. But I can listen to Aggers and Tuffers talking tosh for hours. I laughed as I listened to Atherton trying to see Tufnell sidling out of the ground, thinking the game was all but over when the eighth wicket fell. The image of Tuffers hopping from foot to foot waiting for the fall of the last wicket, and his driver George standing by from 1:00, engine ticking over to keep the air-con pumping was sublime. As ball after ball was bowled, there would be some reference to Phil Tufnell’s enforced attendance. “He was hoping to be in his garden by now.” Then Indian stuck to their guns and blocked and parried and refused risk, and Tuffers was back in the commentary box, as far removed as it was possible to be from the car and George. And as every ball came, inch by inch, the Indian team moved relentlessly towards the winning line. But at 4.53pm, Bashir, with a broken finger on his left hand, which he got trying to make a catch in the first innings, bowled the ball to break India's hearts.
Mohammed Siraj had been India’s bastion, their Tower. He took plenty of blows from balls pitched to scare, but he stood resolute — this far and no further. And then, with just 22 runs in the game, the slow-motion end came. Siraj defended the off-break off the middle of the bat, but it was a tired defence, his hands barely appeared to be gripping the handle. The ball was top spinning after dropping on the pitch towards the wickets. Siraj instinctively stuck his left leg out to try to kick it away, but missed. Had it continued in a straight line, the ball would have missed the leg stump, but it turned the other way on the second bounce, then slowly tickled the leg stump with just enough force to knock one bail off.
The silliest, quietest end to a match which had buckets of aggression, bone breaks, body bruises, violence, exhaustion and vast swathes of huge mutual sporting respect. The pace of Stokes up the steps to the Changing Rooms away from The Long Room and that of his team reminded one of Napoleons Retreat from Moscow — yet these were the exhausted victors.
As Tuesday beckoned, all was good in Lambourn and Ripley, and York and Lords. Everywhere in fact that hadn’t been organised by this incompetent, corrupt, thieving bunch of know-nothings, who are streets ahead of the Tories when it comes to self-serving politicking.
Whoops… sorry.
A SIDE ORDER OF MEMORIES
* “A higher authority” was the chilling phrase used in the film The Great Escape by the Camp Commandant, called Von Luger (a really lazy piece of naming.) He tells the SBO; “I am directed by higher authority to inform you that... that fifty of your officers were shot while escaping”. The fifty recaptured prisoners, were executed on the direct orders of Heinrich Himmler and the Gestapo. In real life, the camp commandant was Oberst (Colonel) Friedrich Wilhelm von Lindeiner-Wildau. The Gestapo investigated the escape and, whilst this uncovered no significant new information, von Lindeiner was removed and threatened with court-martial. He feigned mental illness to avoid imprisonment and worse. In February 1945, he was wounded by Russian troops advancing towards Berlin while acting as 2 i/c of an infantry unit defending Sagan. He later surrendered to advancing British forces as the war ended. Von Lindeiner donated material and a stone for the memorial to the murdered fifty escapees down the road toward Sagan. Von Lindeiner was imprisoned for two years at the British prisoner of war camp known as the “London Cage”. He testified during the British SIB investigation concerning the Stalag Luft III murders. Allied former prisoners at Stalag Luft III testified that he had followed the Geneva Conventions concerning the treatment of POWs and had won the respect of the senior prisoners. He was repatriated in 1947. He died in 1963 at the age of 82, less than two months before the film The Great Escape was released.
** Wilfred Rhodes represented Yorkshire in first-class cricket. He took 4204 wickets and scored 39,969 runs, playing for Yorkshire. He scored runs at an average of almost 30 per innings and took wickets at 16 runs each. Thus, he was the best all-rounder in the history of the game… this too will be argued about, by a man on a Lancashire Omnibus.