Tan God

While I was out treading the boards, and receiving high praise for it, another 11 men were putting the 20th Century's finest club to the sword. Damn me and my now twinkling toes. Still, the highlights featured 11 of our 12 shots on target, and 2 of their 3. Arguably there wasn't much else to the game, although I may have to watch the first 20 minutes online later to see how we set the tone.

There was good contrast and some fine twists. Here's hoping for an excellent finish over the next six weeks.

I'm saddened, but delighted by how you've turned out. My favourite died, but with just one book to go, his demise came far enough in for me to have seen plenty of him.

I'm confused. I thought you were a dense, heady tome. It turns out you're a series of bullet points, each explaining things that I already know from other works. I guess some other writers have done their research too.

Over By Over and Over Again

This is what gets me through most days. Well, when there's play that is. Such a simple principle, and yet so enjoyable. I used to watch a lot of cricket when I was young, during those long, grey-skied, rain-splashed summers spent pining for the outdoors, or guzzling a mug of Bovril after spending two hours getting hammered in KitKat Tennis. The BBC had it then, or Channel 4 maybe. The Windies were my favourites then, although they seem to have lost some of their style and panache in recent years. The twin towers of Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh charging in and spearing red leather into hard dirt past stout willow. The young ebullient Brian Lara smashing run after run on his way to immortality. All long-since faded now.

Irish people have problems with cricket. It's so very English. It's boring. It takes five days to play. Those reasons are all part of why I love it. I can think of no better activity than spending five days in a park, whiling away the hours, while the white-clad warriors play their game of life and death and a series of numbers tick along on a big black board - something to keep an eye on. Even Americans, after their fashion, know the joys of this. Their own version of bat and ball is something they savour during the summer months. It pains me that this most beautiful and leisurely of sports is so derided in our land. Even our World Cup Heroes gained little recognition, and even less respect.

During that World Cup I have a right old time of it trying to find pubs and places to watch it in. The rockers downstairs in The Neptune had a good laugh at my expense as we played Zimbabwe. By the end though, I had the nuances and skills explained to them, along with the basic rules, and as it reached the finale, where we eventually drew, they were cheering along with me. We won a match then, against Pakistan, and were through to the second round - that's better than what our much-vaunted egg-chasers managed in their last outing on the world stage. I didn't manage to see that game, being in Sweden at the time didn't help.

In the second round we had a game against the old enemy, England. Now, being a good Irishman, I'm always up for a crack at the Sasanach, and I presumed that, no matter the sport, everyone else on this isle would have been too. How wrong I was. First there was the trouble of getting them to turn over from Sky News' rolling inanity in Kennedy's of Westland Row. This was at about 4 pm on a Friday, when surely nothing fantastic was about to happen. Then, as we toiled in the sun against our superior opponents, the channels were changed, on all 5 screens, so that we could all watch Munster play European Cup rugby. I asked for just one screen to be changed back, so we could at least keep an eye on Trent and the boys. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that Kennedy's was an Irish rugby pub, and wouldn't be showing such foreign filth for the duration of the match. I bit my loosened tongue and wandered off in search of a more amicable location.

Ireland's oldest cricket club can be found in the Pav, Trinity, however, they too had fallen foul of the great Heineken curse. I was left with no choice but to retire homewards, refreshing the over-by-over on my phone as I went, and streaming the game online when I got home. We were well beaten, but only by virtue of a man named Collingwood's stones. His iron will got England home that day, but I sometimes wonder, if the whole country had gone Cricket mad, if we had all decided to go on the lash and really get behind the team, if the players had known that we were gone bananas and right behind them, would things have been a little different? Would they have tried just that little bit harder and got one over them?

We play England in Belfast later this year. Another crack at them just after they finish playing for the Ashes against Australia. If the Aussies have hammered them, we might have a chance of causing an upset. Maybe if they do, the public will start to realise that we have a team on the cusp of joining the world's elite. It's important to be up there in world sport, to show a winning mentality. It engenders a national pride and a culture of success, something that is sorely needed these days. I'll be there, supping on a flagon and scribbling terrible poetry as we bat and bowl for our lives. But today, let's cheer for the Windies as they wrap up their first series win of the milennium over their, and our, old masters.

Donkey Shot

I thought this last night, Twitter is for twits. Really, it reminds me of some processed meat barn, where the soon-to-be-ready meals live out their days in darkness squalking their emptiness to the rafters. It's a gobbling gaggle of useless guff, garbled together for no gain. It's a soulless store of sordid sentences, seemingly supposed to spread sentience. It's a.. well, you get the idea.

But is it? Maybe it's worthwhile. Maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of our new, superhuman hive mind. Imagine it. Get someone else to imagine it and twit you about it. Can you twit someone? In years to come non-twits may well be hunted down because of the partitioned nature of their minds; their seperate individuality, which they refused to share with the broiling masses. I can't wait. A superhuman hive-mind only capable of saying things like: "I'm off to the shops!" and "OMG, ROFL, Rhianna + Britney naked." If that super-powered glob of brain power should ever come for me, I have a plan. I will trick them with twits. They will be running right for me, when I will twit them saying:

"No, not that way, he's behind you."

Slowly, the amorphous gelatinous blob will reverse its advance, and I will skulk away, still twitting:

"@GelBlob: That's it. You're nearly there."
"@GelBlob: Almost got him."
"@GelBlob: Gently now."
"@GelBlob: Do it so he won't even realise he's in."

But, obviously before I know it, the blob will have me. By twitting him, I reveal myself to be a twit. And so, I will make it my mission to hunt you down free-thinkers.

"@Independent Thinking Humans of the Earth who refuse to join Twitter: I'll get you next time!"

Sunny Sun Day

I still say we should have dug a trench and floated it off while we had the chance.

Why won't you just organise yourself into a seamless piece of prose, complete with reverence and wit. Do I have to do everything round here?

In 23 days a whole new world of pain is going to come crashing down on top of me. I do these things for sport, right? Still, to continue with the analogy, I expect to be severely undercooked going in, but one must peak at the right time. Maybe some light training between now and then will get me over the line.

Fairplay Mary and Derval, performing when it counts. Shameful, shameful bronze it may be, but it's more than the boys are bringing home. Is the confidence brought about by the Celtic Tiger years breeding new levels of success? Are we no longer a nation of semi-talented no-hopers? Do we really, honestly, possess that deep in our bowels belief that makes Australians such ruthless competitors? Have our spines turned to steel at last? One can only hope so, for there's nothing quite like a disappointed medalist to spur us all on.

Surf Ire

I should have been here yesterday, but the lure of cotton and warm comfort proved too much. Despite my protestations, I remained unproductive.

Bah, you anonymous shill. I hate how you have made me defend myself. It's always hard to know whether it is better to ignore baseless allegations, or reject them outright. By ignoring them, you allow rumour and conjecture to foster, by rejecting, you give them acknowledgement. Either way he got his rise, and I feel like a marlin on its way to shore.

The wait goes on for my inspiration. I can feel it, but I cannot touch it. It will leak from me soon, of that much I am certain, but the question remains, will I be ready for it?

Cough Fee

Seeing the dawn two days in a row makes it more difficult to rise for the slog on the third.

The bones in my ears have stopped vibrating, finally. There was every chance that they wouldn't and that I'd be left with a medium-pitched hum in there for all eternity. It was, however, on a pleasant note, so it may have served to keep me in key.

Such control, such good management under pressure: is that what was missing? It was a one-point thumping to be fair, and their score at the end was a reflection of their impressive psychology in the face of our team, who believed us to be home. Dangerous, but the Kid will stop that next time around. Another two weeks until the next outing, which is a pity, back-to-back makes it more exciting.

We were abject. Disinterested. Well no, we weren't. Not at first, although to read the reports you would think it. We were on top, creating at will but not finishing - a common complaint this time around - and when they got their bit of luck it was always going to be more difficult. We felt as if the tide had turned against us, and they had new belief. Little wonder that we could not claw it back. Still, it's only the second time we have tasted defeat this year. A fact that augers well for us.

It's lonely enough with you gone, at least one of us is having fun I suppose, although vicarious vacations just don't have the same effect.

Happy Birthday Dad.