The cricket World Cup is on, and 16 countries comprising some 17% of the human population are agog. As good a time as any for novice bloggers to turn their attention from whence the game came and the current run of play.
Many millennia ago, once Adam and Eve had procreated a generation, who in turn sired several populations, and they had fought wars, discovered fire, agriculture, the annual honour’s list and a certain leisurely boredom that the Great CEO in the Sky had a disruptive idea. Pottering around in His mad lab in the sky He wondered, now let me create a non specific, rather pointless activity for a population already at a loose end [and no, the result is not an afternoon of Golf] – and thence appeared somewhere in a tiny island in the Northern hemisphere a small rain of bats, balls, bails, pads, an oval ground and a neighbourhood pub. Soccer fans claim that the pub is a side effect of football but the real arm-benders know which side of their whistle is wet.
The principle purpose of a game of cricket used to be to allow 32 players and sundry underemployed gentlemen of leisure to lounge around with a certain insouciance and throw a ball around till it was time for the aforementioned pub to open for business. The pub owner being a God fearing man pushed up the opening time to 11 am on match days. Quaffing a few pints of ale was then the abiding objective of the game – and as good a reason as any to get away from the old ball and chain and ultimately return to the nest with a general air of anesthesia.
It’s been a few centuries since and parts of the game have shrunk, in an orderly process of evolution, to fit into 40 overs and a couple of drinks breaks – all neatly capsuled into an evening’s TV viewing interspersed with advertising breaks, super models, money laundering, after match parties and sex, drugs & general rock and roll.
And that brings me to the slightly middle aged 50 over version of the game currently being played out in Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and India. Pakistan is not on the venue list as Gilani, Zardari and Musharraf are engaged in a game not quite cricket. So Canada, Netherlands, Kenya and Ireland are running around - and enquiring who won is like asking who Angelina Jolie’s first husband lost his virginity to – I mean, who cares!
So, really, the world is divided into two right now – those who know there’s a game of cricket on and those who don’t – and both of them don’t care a mug of stale beer. Now, there is a growing tribe called the ‘third set’[to which I proudly belong] which staggers between the refrigerator and their favourite armchair, a pint of Kingfisher in hand shouting 2 questions at anyone who cares to hear – what’s the score and is Sachin still around? These are the real purists, truly one with the real purpose of the game – the true climax of any good game is really a pint of ale, isn’t it?
Many millennia ago, once Adam and Eve had procreated a generation, who in turn sired several populations, and they had fought wars, discovered fire, agriculture, the annual honour’s list and a certain leisurely boredom that the Great CEO in the Sky had a disruptive idea. Pottering around in His mad lab in the sky He wondered, now let me create a non specific, rather pointless activity for a population already at a loose end [and no, the result is not an afternoon of Golf] – and thence appeared somewhere in a tiny island in the Northern hemisphere a small rain of bats, balls, bails, pads, an oval ground and a neighbourhood pub. Soccer fans claim that the pub is a side effect of football but the real arm-benders know which side of their whistle is wet.
The principle purpose of a game of cricket used to be to allow 32 players and sundry underemployed gentlemen of leisure to lounge around with a certain insouciance and throw a ball around till it was time for the aforementioned pub to open for business. The pub owner being a God fearing man pushed up the opening time to 11 am on match days. Quaffing a few pints of ale was then the abiding objective of the game – and as good a reason as any to get away from the old ball and chain and ultimately return to the nest with a general air of anesthesia.
It’s been a few centuries since and parts of the game have shrunk, in an orderly process of evolution, to fit into 40 overs and a couple of drinks breaks – all neatly capsuled into an evening’s TV viewing interspersed with advertising breaks, super models, money laundering, after match parties and sex, drugs & general rock and roll.
And that brings me to the slightly middle aged 50 over version of the game currently being played out in Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and India. Pakistan is not on the venue list as Gilani, Zardari and Musharraf are engaged in a game not quite cricket. So Canada, Netherlands, Kenya and Ireland are running around - and enquiring who won is like asking who Angelina Jolie’s first husband lost his virginity to – I mean, who cares!
So, really, the world is divided into two right now – those who know there’s a game of cricket on and those who don’t – and both of them don’t care a mug of stale beer. Now, there is a growing tribe called the ‘third set’[to which I proudly belong] which staggers between the refrigerator and their favourite armchair, a pint of Kingfisher in hand shouting 2 questions at anyone who cares to hear – what’s the score and is Sachin still around? These are the real purists, truly one with the real purpose of the game – the true climax of any good game is really a pint of ale, isn’t it?
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