Bean has always played the game on his terms, he even says so himself. From the time in 2013 when he refused to walk when clearly caught in the slips til the stage managed tonk for six at the Oval recently it’s been all about the Bean. The first scoundrel act was was during Test of the 2013 Ashes at Trent Bridge, Broad decided not to walk after the Australian fielders appealed for the catch. The southpaw tried to cut Ashton Agar behind point but could only get an edge that ricocheted off Brad Haddin’s gloves into the hands of Michael Clarke in the slip cordon. The umpire, Aleem Dar who was wearing a pair of sunglasses lent to him by Reverend Julius Love of the Blind Boys of Alabama, refused to give Bean out.

Some months later when Dar was found to be clinically blind he began touring the sub-continent with the Blind Boys. In an interview in 2018, with Ratty Ponting, on the television sports show, Run for your Life, Dar admitted that Bean was “a cheating turd” and that it was so obvious that he was out that he expected him to simply walk. He laughed and said, “You know Ratty, that in our show (Dar Blind Boys of Birmingham) we feature a song that I dedicate to the Bean, it’s a gospel song called, “I Shall not Walk Alone”.

But the folly of staging his walk out on the morning of Day Four at the Oval takes the plonker pudding. To continue the innings just for this dumb act of swinging a six over the ropes then walk off with the dismissed Anderson was another ham-fisted selfish effort by the Dull bowler to stage manage the end of his surly and sullen career. Most selfless players wait til after the last ball is bowled. But no not this self-centred ring burner. Of course when he announced his decision to retire at the end of Day three, the Pommy fawning started. Pig Ears Morgan must have wept and wet his duds at Bean’s imminent departure. The obviously tipped-off television commentary team, led by Michael ‘Licker” Atherton and Nasser Hussain played Bean a hastily scrambled Broad Tribute on a tele strategically placed on the field. Bean said he was having “fun” and wanted “to retire on his terms”. What was not mentioned was that Bean’s full terms were not granted.

Bean, a fervent monarchist had originally demanded that the following be granted to him;

1. The use of the Gold State Coach to do laps of the Oval at the beginning of the fourth and fifth days plus at the conclusion of the Test with Broad inside together with Samantha Fox and Suzie Quattro
2. The Kings Singers to perform a cappella versions of “I’m too Sexy” and “Love and other Bruises” at the beginning and end of each over bowled by himself, Broad.
3. The complete Royal Family, including Ginger and the girl out of Suits, to be present for the remaining days of the Oval Test.
4. The complete Royal Family, including Ginger and the girl out of Suits to form a Guard of Honour for him at the beginning of Day Four.

I can reveal here that King Chas the Third was quite happy for the first two demands to be granted by Royal Decree but would not allow certain members of the Royal Family to appear at the Oval.

King Chas said, and I quote directly from a Pig Ears Morgan hacked phone transcript, “Look I say, fair suck of the scone, it’s not as if Bean is a heritage architect or someone who has invented a new, improved strain of cabbage. No he’s just an ordinary, simple bloke who plays with a cricket ball, albeit according to my servants, quite well. Look I’m happy for him to take the Goldie for a run or two around the block. Happy for a few popular songs to be sung by those date wasters but there is no way I’m going allow the Pedo to hang around the Oval public toilets like the Parrot nor let the Ginger Prick back into my country to roger me again.”

So as the fourth day dragged on Slogger and Ushy repelled the swinging sods effectively. The Dulls, eulogised and fawned on by a string of ex-English cricketers who have clung desperately to any sign of the alleged Renaissance of English cricket have been disappointed. They were simply outplayed on Day Four. Beano didn’t get a wicket and the rest of the Dull Huff and Puffers failed also. The ringed field, placed by Choker, that was previously called “sublimely inventive” by Licks Atherton and by others “a new age approach to the game of cricket”, proved pointless and looked plainly stupid. The previously constant outside off-stump dabber, Slogger Warner strangely contained himself. Ushy continued to smile, occasionally chatting with the Bear about his recent Shakespearian performances and the use of pantyhose to fix fan-belt issues on a Datsun 1200.

You could sense as Choker Stokes continued to clap his hands and call on his “Common Boys” that the wind was slowly and inexorably being sucked from their sails. As he squinted into the sky, Choker saw a grey cloudy sky that had delivered so much to them in the past but today there were no silver linings…just the threat of rain. Even the Dwarf who had previously skipped around the ground like a very small Cavoodle on uppers simply stared at his nails as he pulled fluff from his sweater. The Dulls were experiencing a Mannerist twist to their tale. No longer enjoying the exotic fruits of the bazzball they were watching a couple of old hands put on a less shiny, old fashioned cricketing partnership and it mystified and somewhat disturbed them.

So an intriguing Day Five conclusion to the Ashes series awaits. The Dulls may still get up but in the end the two most important issues has been already resolved.

They are firstly that spirit of the game of cricket is not defined by crass self-interested commentary but by the actions of players, playing within the laws of the game and secondly and more importantly Australia have already won the Ashes…again.

A lot of people have bagged the English cricket teams (aka The Dullards abbr: The Dulls) – not me my friends you know I have stood on the sideline and merely observed the folly of this series. This English is a team riddled with invention. Who would believe that a whole cricket team would suddenly go the ‘tonk’, and just fearlessly belt the ball. Sure they are fundamentally the same team that has again lost the Ashes but they have added greater depth to their performances with the addition of the Giggler (Brooks), and the Dwarf (Duckett).

More importantly they have channeled a very creative streak. They are the team that has defined what the “spirit of the game” is really about. Who would have thought that a team led by a tattooed bully boy could define the spirit of the game? Until this test series we all thought that the spirit of the game was playing according to the rules. But no…it’s actually about having your supporters full of ‘spirit’ and lager and hurling abuse (some of it racist) at the opposition. Novel eh?

But the Dulls are to be heartily congratulated. Sure they stupidly lost a very winnable Ashes series but did they sit in the sheds and moan about the rain, or wonder why don’t we play a test for twenty days, or couldn’t we have a giant umbrella? No. Not this spirited misshapen group.

Instead some of the players used the rain delay to sharpen up their acting skills. Until now all we knew was that Bean (Stuart Broad) had appeared alongside Dame Judy Dench in “Much Ado about Nothing” at the Old Vic to rapturous reviews, and I quote; “Broad takes his acting cues from heaven, his raised eyebrows, his oily smirk, his heavily nuanced distain of everything gives Beatrice a real sense of menace. And his use of a cricket bat as a staff is an inspired choice.”

But in a further display of the incredible acting depth within the Dulls we find that at Manchester’s Odium on Day Five, the Bear (sometimes known as Bairstow), appeared in a hastily arranged version of Shakespeare’s King Lear, playing the Fool. Bear wearing a very small bejewelled codpiece and a Peter Alexander pyjama top laments how unfair the weather has been to him;

“He that has and a little tiny wit—

With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain—

Must make content with his fortunes fit,

For the rain it raineth everyday”

The Bear continues the rich tradition of the Dull cricketers performing Shakespeare instead of winning cricket matches. His previous performance as Bottom in a Midsummer Night’s Dream at Lords was also something to behold. Playing the much loved Bottoms, nude, the hairy Bear proudly displaying his massive ginger Marrickville Mat, went off script and made an ass of himself by straying out of the crease and causing a Dull collapse.

What is absolutely galling to the Dulls is that for every day of this Fourth Test they were the far better team. This was obviously helped by an Australian team that batted and bowled as if they were heavily medicated. However Choker Stokes batted for far too long. He didn’t need that many runs he needed more fine time. Just as he had ended the Dull first innings prematurely in the First Test, Choker has failed to concede it was wrong. However Choker was gracious in his post match press conference as he urged every Dull supporter to get behind the Arts in the Dull Country.

“I know a lot of you think we spend far too much time in the theatre and not enough time in the nets, but that’s bullshit. I’ve hit more balls and blokes than you cunts have had hot dinners. But enough of that I want to leave you with a memorable quote that sums up the series from the Bill Shakespeare play about the Gypo bird and the Italian;

“I love long life better than figs” *

When Choker was pressed about what this quote was actually about he said, “You journalists are so stupid…don’t you know what are a fucking fig is?” and stormed out.

It was left the diminutive and highly successful Duckett to try and explain, but he just shrugged his shoulders but added;

“Look if anyone’s interested I will be appearing at the Oval in the Members restaurant in the Micky Stewart Pavilion during each lunch break. I’ve decided to give the Bard the flick and do something a bit more modern. I’ll be doing the Harold Pinter play, “The Dwarfs” and I’ll be playing all four parts.”

When pressed by a Guardian journalist about whether his thespian pursuits could cause him to become distracted and not concentrate on cricket, he defended his actions by saying;

“Look fair call, yes point conceded I have never played a lesbian mate but at least Choker and I know what a fucking fig is!”

* ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, ACT 1 SCENE 2,

‘

The selection of Swotter Warner once again for the Fourth Test, despite his appalling recent form is proof of the folly of picking average cricketers as selectors. These dull simpletons don’t seem to understand or recognise talent because they themselves didn’t have a great deal of it.

As said before by others it is far harder to be dropped from the Australian Men’s Test Team than to get into it. This means that very few present or past selectors have liked change and are generally conservative in their selections and life choices. Put simply Australian selectors (The Fat Dwarf Throwers) would consider the perfect good time as being at home with a copy of the NRMA’s latest Open Road, a pair of well-worn slippers, a mug of Milo with a couple of ginger-nuts on the wild side. They tend to favour hobbies such as building Match Stick Towers, collecting stamps and a fascination with breeding ferrets. I have never seen a selector at a Rave. If they have been sighted at one then they are the arresting officer.

The other characteristic of selectors is that in recent years they have mostly been average cricketers. Look at the current mob. The Three Loons; George “Bill” Bailey, Andrew “Ronny” McDonald and Tony “Dolmades” Dodemaide…all of them have had incredibly undistinguished careers as cricketers and continue in the same fashion as selectors.

The other problem with this mob is a few of them are far too nice – well Bill and Ronny maybe. I’m not sure about Dolmades. He has funny eyes. He has the look of a bloke who would set you on fire if you used his stapler. He was also a cricket administrator which means he likes pie charts, paper and the smell of a Gestetner machine in the morning.

When Dolmades was installed as a selector in late 2021, an article written by Malcolm Conn had as its headline – Forward-thinking Dodemaide a natural selection for Australia. Bullshit Conny what were you on when you wrote that piece of detritus, you poor delusional scribe?

Conn went on to more pointedly say; “Dodemaide is one of the most respected men in Australian cricket, but, as some have pointed out, he played the last of his 10 Tests for Australia in 1992. He went on to carve a career in administration, first with the Marylebone Cricket Club in London and later as CEO of Western Australia then Victoria.”

So Dolmades last tried to bowl and bat, in an average manner 30 years ago…since that time he has only pushed a biro across countless pieces of paper doing work for anyone stupid enough to employ this dull pen-pusher. He even worked for those bacon and egg pommy bastards at the MCC. He really has little idea about what the characteristics of an opener in a Test match in England should be. However give the Dolmades a spreadsheet and he grins like a fat kiddie in a locked room with a dozen cream horns.

I’d have a different approach to the selection of the Test team. Not only do they have to be skilled in the arts of applying the willow to the ball, they have to be brave and smart. I’d also apply this to the selection of our Fat Dwarf Throwers (the selectors).

With contested positions such as the other opener (apart from Khawaja) I’d have the following selection processes involving the three main candidates for the other opening position – Swotter (Warner), Uncertain (Renshaw) and Hurry (Harris). Forget all the other fanciful suggestions of pushing other losers up the list. We are not from the Country of Dull Bastards. We desire form and order not chaos.

So for example this is the Bravery Test;

Swotter stands in the crease in the nets, no box, no pads and in the nude…naked except for the baggy green (no helmet) and his cricket bat. Uncertain and Hurry have a box of 48 cricket balls each…a total of 16 overs. You see this is more balls than Swotter would have faced in his last three innings…They then pelt all 96 balls at the stumps or at Swotter….this will test his ticker….and then each of them face the same test…obviously to some this may sound a little ‘extreme…’perhaps not in the spirit of the game’ – yes granted some may have to go to hospital…but this is wheat and chaff time people. The winner of this test is deemed to be the person who has his wicket hit the least times and is not in need of surgery. Simple. But would the Three Loons have the imagination and courage to do this? Of course not. Dolmades would firstly soil himself, grab a slide rule and cite OH&S.

As for who to fill the all-rounder position. That’s so simple. Put Boggy (Marsh) and Gang (Green) in the ring. Once again nude and greased like pigs and let them rip and tear til only one is still standing.

But no….the Three Loons went with both Boggy and Gang. Unable to channel the wisdom of Solomon they couldn’t split the two. So they drop the Irishman (Murphy) leaving us without a proper spinner on wicket that has in the past spun more than any other English test wicket. And of course, like sands through the hour glass they went with Warner again, who may or may not get a score….he’s long due*. But they didn’t have the capacity to even imagine that anyone else could flog a few boundaries then get out – as well as Swotter.

When these Fat Dwarf Throwers (selectors) have their next meeting, no doubt in a chamomile haze, possibly congratulating themselves for their contribution to an Australian Ashes victory I wonder if they’ll spare a thought for all those players they have repeatedly disappointed and let down with their turgid and unimaginative approach to the selection process.

*As I write Swotter is currently on 28 and swinging like a rusty gate

A close examination of the performances of both David ‘Swotter’ Warner and Scott ‘Well Blow Me’ Morrison show some similarities and some jarring differences.

Firstly Swotter loves a challenge while Blow Me runs from them and hides like a soft toy. But our little mate Swotter runs head long at it…smiling through gritted teeth, the little bugger does not back down. That’s why we like him but at the same time he annoys us with his constant fiddling outside off-stump. His once great strength is now his achilles heel.

‘Well Blow Me’, you may remember, when he finally and reluctantly returned from the Honolulu Bush Fire Control Centre (thanks Vince), told the bush-fire ravaged communities he didn’t hold a hose. He probably wished he did have one of those hoses years earlier when he soiled himself at the Engadine Maccas. Well to be fair …a Chilli Whopper can do that to a flaccid, soft sort of bloke who is used to the Truffle Deluxe from Bettys’ Burgers in White Town (Cronulla).

However recent performances show that both Warner and Morrison are on a downhill slide. The major difference is that Warner for most of his career has been a great cricketer while Morrison wasn’t good at anything except lying and avoiding the truth for all of his sad, pathetic bloated life. Morrison is nothing more than a part-time turd polisher.

With a decreasing average of just 25 runs over fifteen Ashes Tests in England one would think that Swotter Warner can no longer hold onto his position as an opening batsman. The poor little bugger is a tad delusional if he actually thinks he still has the credentials of an opener.

In his 57 innings against England both here and in the EDCOB (Extremely Dull Country of Bastards) Swotter faced on average just 58 balls per innings. But in the land of EDCOB he faces on average a paltry 39 balls. That takes about as long as you take to grab a couple of slices of Tip Top White Loaf, butter it…take the Devon out of the fridge…put a bit of tomato sauce on it, close the sandwich and gob it. Not long. Unfortunately as much as we all like a swashbuckling opener and I do like this pugnacious, bull-dog shaped, little bugger a lot. These days he’s less swash and more buckles. If we examine Usman Khawaja’s record it is an average of 89 balls faced per innings against the EDCOB and 70 balls in the Dull Country.

You see the real job of an opener is to occupy the crease until the new ball has stopped swinging and has gone soft – in shorthand this is when the opposition’s best bowlers are as rooted and desperate as a bloke turtling in the Engadine Maccas.

At 36 Warner’s reaction time is fading. I’m not sure if he gets on the piss but at the crease he now swings a lot like a drunk bloke trying to swat a blowie. I know that in their Maroubra mansion David and Candice Warner have an “epic bar” with beer on tap. Maybe he has taken on tour a keg of that beer he brews with the Furry Freedmans and Tommy Berry down on the Mornington Peninsular – whatever he’s on its not working.

For those of you who can remember a time when Keith Raymond Stackpole opened for Australia in the 1970s, you can see how Warner got to be where he is now . Originally a pugnacious middle order batsman, Stacky was pushed up the order to partner the old brick wall, Bill Lawry. Stacky had a great average in the Dull Country of 53, because he bridled his aggressive middle order habits. Swotter has never been a natural opener nor can he show the necessary patience that an opening batsman must have. He started as an aggressive one-day wonder and was tried as an opener with some success against average sides. Nor should he be expected to be an opener at the end of his career.

It has been said many times that it is harder to get out of the Australian Test side than get into it. Swotter’s continual selection as an opener shows a complete lack of courage and imagination from the selectors. The only reason he is still there is that no gimlet-eyed bastard has dared to step-up and have a decent go. And that’s not his fault. However they took Renshaw over there as a fill-in opener, apparently he has played some county cricket, so why isn’t he in the frame? Renshaw does know English conditions. He has scored five county centuries in fourteen matches for Somerset and has made runs against the Dukes ball both in England, at home, and recently during Australia A’s tour of New Zealand.

The apologist ex-cricketers and Australian commentators, Ratty Ponting and Air Con Taylor have no idea. Air Con reckons Warner stays because he can catch a ball in slips and Ratty reckons a “big one is just around the corner”. What exactly the big one looks like I’m not sure as I think Ratty doesn’t know either probably because he’s been on the sly fiddle since birth.

It’s not that bloody hard. Do a bit of free-style you bunch of dud, useless, stupid selectors …here’s the plan…it is so obvious it makes me wonder if you fools can tie your laces.

THE PLAN TO BEAT THE DULL COUNTRY BASTARDS

We open with the Ushy and Uncertain Show, then have the Mad Men, Scratch* and Sniff* in next, push Swotter down the order just after Sniff…but give Swotter a box of jubes and a comic to keep him calm, have Bottoms* come in next then Boggy* (leave out Gang* he is far too nice), of course Sneaks on the gloves, bring in Nuts* (leave out the Irishman* if the wickets dead and let Bottoms bowl the spin) drop Roland* and of course keep Nudey* and Enjoyment*

So there it is – a team and a bloody plan. With a team like that no one can stop us…not the Choker, the Bear, the Dwarf, the Bean or the Giggling Fool…we will be unbeatable.

And of course at this time as we contemplate our differences and change we have a tale of two ‘players’. We have one player at the cross-roads of an exceptional cricket career and another player at the cross-roads of a tepid political career mired in controversy, deception and dislike. They are not the same. Blow Me Morrison has riddled the Australian landscape with lies, false promises and pain inflicted upon the most vulnerable via Robodebt and other unctuous schemes of betrayal. He has to go now, hopefully to jail, never to be seen or selected again.

Swotter Warner on the other hand, over many years has provided us, the Australian people with a whole hearted passionate performance, sometimes flawed, mostly exciting and occasionally sublime – and don’t we all love a bloke that has a red hot crack?

The Australian Team for the Fourth Test at Old Trafford

Usman Khawaga (Ushy)

Matt Renshaw (Uncertain)

Marcus Labuschagne (Scratch/Madman 2)

Steve Smith (Sniff/Madman 1) (VC)

David Warner (Swotter)

Mitchell Marsh (Boggy/ son of Swampy)

Travis Head (Bottoms)

Alex Carey (Sneaks)

Mitchell Starc (Nudey)

Pat Cummins (Enjoyment) (C)

Josh Hazelwood (Nuts)

Reserves:

Cameron Green (Gang)

Todd Murphy (The Irishman)

Scott Boland (Roland)

English cricket is still “racist, sexist and elitist” and Bastard-Ball is symptomatic of a rotten and forgotten nation that was once England.

It took just 317 pages of a just released report to say what we all know. English cricket suffers from “widespread and deep-rooted racism, sexism, elitism and class-based discrimination at all levels of the game and urgently needs reform.”

The Independent Commission for Equity in Cricket which drew on evidence from more than 4,000 players, coaches, administrators and fans, also urges the sport to also face up to the fact “that it’s not banter or just a few bad apples” causing the problems.

The duplicity of the alleged cricket and societal standards and rules were on clear display during the second Test at Lords where Australia once again flogged the sallow, shallow Poms. In England’s second innings the Midget (also known as Pluckker, Dwarfie, Tiny, Half-Pint, Small Change) was caught by Starc on the boundary. Midge was given out only to have it reversed by the Third Umpire. Of course the flanneled fools of the MCC immediately issued a press release stating that Starc did not have “complete control of his movement”. Mitch was obviously as loose as Laxette-loving whirling dervish in his movement and they felt compelled to correct the colonial complainers who stated that Starc had held the catch. But we move on as this is after all not a one-act play.

At Lords Cricket Ground you only have to have a casual glance at the allegedly esteemed members of the MCC (The Marylebone Cricket Club) to see what is wrong with both English cricket and England. Old, white, busted, dishevelled entitled English males leering from above with not a woman or person of colour around. Some haven’t bothered to shave or are so stupid they have forgotten where their heads are. They wear various incarnations of their uniform of red and yellow (“Oh Chum it’s bacon and eggs”) as a badge of pride.

Rumpled blazers, trousers failing to meet their socks, with red and yellow ties covering gravy stains and dribbles. They have recently admitted women to their membership begrudgingly and have as their chairman, the famously fruity and quite lovely Stephen Fry. But they are still by large a ragged and stupid bunch of ‘haves’.

It took the Bear’s dismissal for these pathetic, bun-starved loons on loan from the19th Century to show their true colours. It was a case of ‘”Please Sir, It’s not fair Reggie has goosed me”.

Here we have those with limited memory forgetting that the Bear, the minor ginger-lord, himself attempted “to dismiss the striker in the same fashion in the same game.”* The difference was the Bear wasn’t accurate enough. Once gain the Third Umpire ruled that the dismissal of the Bear was correct – as per the rules of the game. The dumb-play antics of the Bean (Broad) post the stumping were hilarious. Bean kept on asking permission of the Australian players to leave his crease even after the umpire had called ‘over’ and was appropriately ignored. One can perhaps forgive the sullen Bean as he’d been hit in the head continuously by the Australian bowlers. And of course the MCC issued a press release? No it was left to the ICC to issue a clarification of the Bear’s stumping;

The decision was well within the rules as clarified by the International Cricket Council (ICCAccording to law 20.1.2 of the MCC’s Laws of Cricket, “the ball shall be considered to be dead when it is clear to the bowler’s end umpire that the fielding side and both batters at the wicket have ceased to regard it as in play”.

The only press release the MCC old dribblers could cobble together on this occasion, after a day on the ruby port was an apology for the abuse that the Australian players were subjected to by the ragged, pissed member mob. You have to remember that Bacon & Egg Brigade can bring into Lords…a bottle of vino or shampoo plus a litre of beer. It is obvious that the B&E’s cannot hold their grog and that their team cannot play cricket. Of course cricketing apologist, former captain, Andrew Strauss blamed the behaviour on the fifth day crowd being “less exclusive” than the previous four days. What Strauss is forgetting is that these ‘chewed-up charlies’ were members – these were the special people who were in a very upper-class kind of way, shoulder charging and jostling the Australian players.

In a masterclass of understatement a spokesperson for the MCC said: “The Long Room is unique in world cricket and the great privilege of players passing through the pavilion is very special. After this morning’s play, emotions were running high, and words were unfortunately exchanged with some of the Australian team, by a small number of members. We have unreservedly apologised to the Australian team and will deal with any member who has not maintained the standard we expect through our disciplinary processes.”

A small number? Not only are they unwilling to state the bleeding obvious they cannot count. A small number of members. Really? What I saw was every red and yellow loon in the room of doom baying for blood. One leering loon dropped his shoulder into an Australian player. I was profoundly disappointed in the Australian Team. Why? Well it was time to put on the gloves. It was time to grab a few of these bloated mummy-boy toads and belt the ruby red out of them. A stink was not only required it would have been justified by the laws of cricket that cover ‘the intimidation of a player or players’.

But in the end there is really only one thing to say;

“Two-nil you sad old, faded, rumpled loons!”

*from Daniel Bretting: SMH 3 July 2023

If it is not enough to outrage the lovers of Test cricket that a gangly piece of dog turd (that also goes by Ollie “Follie” Robinson) is an uninspiring cricketer, then his unimaginative, crude sledging also adds cream to the already overindulged flaccid cake that is the Dullards – the English Test Team. The ‘inventors’ of Bastard Ball.

In 2014, Robinson was released by Yorkshire for “unprofessional actions”.  Robinson has a history of poor behaviour.  in 2021 as he prepared to make his Test debut for the Dullards, racist texts that he had posted as an 18 year old came to light.  In one text, he said, “My new Muslim friend is the bomb”. In another, he said: “I wonder if Asian people put smileys like this ¦) #racist”. One can imagine the young Follie writing poetry on toilet walls of the Kings School, Canterbury where I’m sure they likened him to a young Geoffrey Chaucer.

In a statement put out at the time by the England and Wales Cricket Board, ‘he’ said: “On the biggest day of my career so far, I am embarrassed by the racist and sexist tweets that I posted over eight years ago, which have today become public. I want to make it clear that I’m not racist and I’m not sexist. “Over the past few years, I have worked hard to turn my life around. I have considerably matured as an adult.”

Really? So, his targeting of one cricketer, Ushman Khawaja, the only Australian player with sub-continent origins, with such an oafish and undeserved send-off was a random act of unkindness. I think not. I think Robinson and his unrepentant tattooed fool of a captain Stokes are both objectionable pieces. Where was Stokes in all this? All this tatted buffoon would defend post-match was his dumb decision to declare early on Day One, while the Rooter was still getting runs. Poor Rooter. The fall-guy. The nice guy. Joe Rooter, who graciously patted the sledged Khawaja on the back after Follie gave his ‘mature’ send-off all the while as the other Dullards raced around the dog-track high fiving and giggling like hens on sugared corn.

Choker Stokes has form too. You don’t have that many tatts if you are into ikebana and macrame.  You get them if you are a warrior born in Glasgow or Brixton….erhhh no sorry Christchurch…New Zealand.   Jesus he’s not even a home grown thug.  However he was schooled in the UK at the Cockermouth School in Cumbria. I reckon that will not surprise many of you cricket buffs that a cock head like Stokes was incubated in such a school.   In August 2018 he was acquitted of affray and rightly so as his lawyers said that like the chicken, he had crossed the road to stop the verbal abuse of two gay men. Stokes was arrested in the early hours of 25 September 2017 after a night out with England teammates to celebrate victory over the West Indies in an international match earlier in the day.

He had been identified by an off-duty police officer as the “main aggressor” in a fight which left the firefighter and former nightclub bouncer Ali with a broken eye socket and blood pouring from his face. Another of the Dullard’s team Alex Hales, can be seen on CCTV kicking the Afghanistan veteran Ryan Hale in the head while he lay on the floor injured. See these are the skills you need when you are playing an aggressive form of cricket. No room for the fair or faint hearted me hearties.

Choker had denied being drunk during this interlude, but told the jury he had had “three to four beers, six vodka and lemonades” and “a few Jägerbombs”.  Of course he wasn’t drunk my lord, our ginger lord was just highly excited.

The other new kid of the block for England is the moon-faced, milk sop kid, Harry Brook. The Giggler Brook runs around like a small puppy that’s just pissed itself due to excitement and apparently when England U/19 captain he was dropped for something similar. Not pissing himself apparently but a minor violation of team rules. We can only wonder. But Giggler has form too…I could go on to some of the others in the Dullards including the Bear, The Bean and Sausage but you get the picture. There is an underlying sense of menace and misbehaviour amongst this motley crew. They are not the future of cricket they are the one-day wonders that will eventually fade again like pink patterned curtains under the scrutiny of southern sun.

Of course under the past stewardship of Ponting and Clark and the directorship of the under-skilled Darren Lehmann Australian teams became sloppy, mouthy and bent the rules often. However the current partnership of Cummins and McDonald changed the tone to one of competitive yet respectful play. Against a backdrop of the loud, stupid gingers and the sulky Bean and the frankly stupid Brook the Australians look almost statesmanlike, something that would have been deemed impossible a few seasons back. But here we are watching two games within one. The English playing loud, loin-wrangling rock and roll cricket in their leopard skin pads while the Australians play the pure symphony in classical white form. Only one will prevail and so far the flutes and strings have silenced the one hit wonders … for now.

However there is no denying that the Dullards are in a purple patch having won most of their recent test matches with around an astonishing 4.17 runs per over.  After a remarkable win in the opening Test match against Pakistan in Rawalpindi the English apologist and part-time doggerel grower, Pig-Ears Morgan called it the “greatest win in Test history”. So who are we to knock these new Pommie kids at the crease? These joyous flanneled souls who are breathing life into the dying art of Test cricket. They should be lauded and applauded. No. Not really. Not these pretenders. These worms spawned from the sallow flesh of one-day cricket. Not these imperfect forms, flash rendered by the creators of the cricket chewing gum form known as T-20. They are rats with gold teeth who care little of tradition. They are pirates and parasites with the attention spans of gnats. They are horrible. And every test cricket loving man, woman and child should loathe them.

You see great test cricket has its origin in art, grace and pure form. Of time over time. Of patience. It is anti the modern form of life. It stands still, quite, unmoved. Ushman Khawaja, in an interview, after the Australians won in the first test, talked about patience being a big part of his Muslim faith and how patience in this test paved the way for victory. Interestingly he praised Stokes Headingley innings. Unlike the Dullards who can only shine light into their dark crevices the newly invented Australian team have unwittingly become the champions of fair play and the cherished long form of the game…test cricket.

How sad must it be for people who peak early.  By early I’m talking about fifteen to thirty years of age. I say this because I’ve never peaked and don’t plan to for at least another decade or so.

When I was at a rough and tumble high school in the steel city there were a couple of fellows who had the whole world bundled up.  Golden Boys.  One was a not too bright jock who was so far up his own arse that he could pass as a wiry hula hoop.  The other was just simply a nice guy – good at sport as well as being academically solid.

Some thirty years later the jock was fat, bald and on his third heart bypass and Thai wife. The other just a poor sad divorced drunk fucker who was prone to periods of barking madness.

I  thought of them both last night.  I was cruising the free to air after the cricket chewing gum had lost its flavour (BBL) and I came upon one of the biggest indulgent loads of shit I’ve ever seen.  Now I benchmark this stuff – I’d rate this turdinaire a solid gold star Five Allens. This is based on one Allen being the equivalent of an embarrassing sycophantic interview exchange between the Parrot and pick and lick James Junior Goanna Packer. The show was titled “British Icons” featuring a live concert from Sir Elton ‘Fingers’ John interspersed with soft sell questions from a fawning no name.  Fingers was comfortably fat at the keys and welcomed on stage a guest to sing “Sad Songs” or to give it its full flaccid – “Sad Songs – Say so much”. You know the one with the chorus-
“Turn ’em on, turn ’em on
Turn on those sad songs
When all hope is gone
Why don’t you tune in and turn them on.”

The guest was the increasingly tuneless piece of Glaswegian cheek, Rod Stewart. Dodger Stewart’s thin voice clearly peaked on albums with Faces in the early 70s when they did such classics as “An old Raincoat will never let you down” and “Gasoline Ally”. But apart from a minor shit spot sugar smaltz with “Mandolin Wind” and “Maggie May” this chancer has toured on his past for decades. Apparently his concerts are now full of singalongs and soccer balls. Such a larrikin.  A few years back he put on a tux and did shit-awful reheated, badly sung classics such as “It had to be you”. This project was titled “The Great American Songbook” and a second follow up featured more of Stewart slaughtering songs.  It was a success of sorts. It had truckloads of women in trackies tweaking their love giblets and flanges while eating crispy creams as if they were gnoring on Rod’s wizenned love pump. But he’d become just a sad shadow of what he once was.  A tuneless, hopeless joke.

Stewart’s performance last night was just as flat and smug and made me wish that he had been a co-pilot in John Denver’s Helicopter.

As in music, sport stars come and go but very few continue to defy gravity.  Some however reinvent themselves after early disappointments.  Stephen Smith the fidgety Australian captain and batting behomoth is one such rooster. As most know Smithy started off his cricket career as a spinner and a pinch hitter. He was a chubby little fellow that often let both himself and team down with lusty longhandle tactics. But now he is compared to the Don. Hopefully he spreads a quid or two on the bar from time to time. Don was a tight arse when it came to shouting his team mates. Ian Chappell tried to garner support from a retired Bradman for a player pay rise but Bradman wouldn’t offer the support. Chappell said it was as if it was the Don spending his own money.  Bradman was a stockbroker of sorts and had a reputation for monetary meanness. I’ll go on record saying it doesn’t matter how many runs he scored, Don Bradman was simply a selfish stupid old cunt.

Speaking of stupid people who peaked early I note Nigella Lawson is at the the Opera House in a week or so talking about the deeper meaning of food. She will be interviewed by the alleged food journalist ‘Mmmmmmaive’ Omeira. ‘Mmmm’ is the only person I know who has made a career out of an utterance. But Nige Bites has for years defied all the basic tenants of good cooking by serving up fat riddled lazy recipes and subsequently soared up the charts. She could do this because she had a large set of Mudgee Mailbags and the mother/milk-soaked nanny English public were besotted. Bites only had to lick a chocolate laden spoon in front of her fridge and a thousand Grimsby pensioners would cum on their cushions. TV Cuisine has now moved on and she hasn’t. So now a more than ample Bites trawls the colonies flogging her suggestive recipes to fatties and fantasizers. It’s noted that her sad fare isn’t selling that well and you can now pick up half-priced tickets for this fat fandango.

I however have a solution to all of this. It will spare the hasbeens the embarrassment of acting out their downward flights in public. It will also protect us from them.  It is the creation of a Republic.  Not an Australian Republic. But the Republic of Yesterland.  I’m suggesting it should be on one of those great islands the Chinese are building in the Pacific. It’s a place where your Nigellas and Rods can idle out their downward spirals. No new rising stars would be there.  Faded politicians, sportspeople, singers, actors, jugglers and one-book writers could bore themselves shitless without raining on our present parade. While those who want to indulge somewhat sadly in someone else’s past glory or revisit a reheated classic can book a cruise and head to the Republic of Yesterland.

There will be no surprises as they’ll know it doesn’t get any better than this!