Cricket for dummies

Cricket is more than a game. When you consider that it involves an afternoon of blood, sweat, toil, cups of milky tea, cherry bakewells, mockery, beer, hilarious observations about members of the opposing team and discussing who has been the day's biggest bellend, I think you'll agree that it more than captures the existential essence of the human condition.
But to people not steeped in its noble traditions, it can look very much like 22 massive idiots wasting a perfectly good afternoon retrieving a red sphere from surrounding gardens, randomly yelling and deliberately putting themselves into a position that seems to highlight to all and sundry that they cannot, in fact, play the game they're actually playing.
How wrong they are. How very, very wrong.
To these people I plead "Allow me to shed light where there is none and probably none is wanted." To which they reply. "No thanks." Bastards.
Anyway I present to you some pictures from a recent game and underneath you'll see a short description of what is going on, what are the thoughts that are going through the tiny minds of these mighty ICC gladiators.

 Fig 1. The stance.

This is me preparing to face a delivery. Any second now some 6ft, lanky, 18 year old arsehole, high on testosterone and low on IQ is going to hurl the ball at me as fast and dangerously as he can. What is going through my tiny mind is. "I wonder if Phil's remembered to buy Cherry Bakewells for tea."

Fig. 2. The Swish Fuck

This is me executing a cricket shot invented by me at Ightham Cricket Club some 370 years ago, entitled the "Swish Fuck."  You aim an almighty swish at it, miss the fucker and then shout "Fuck!" From this we get, you guessed it, Swish Fuck. In my tiny mind I'm thinking "Fuck I could have fucking hit that if I hadn't been thinking about fucking cake!" In this picture the ball has probably sailed harmlessly to the wicket keeper or, if I'm lucky, accidentally hit the top edge of my bat and gone for 6 behind me.

Fig 3. The comfort easement.

This is Dave executing a textbook comfort easment. Along with shutting the eyes, sounding as if you have a single goddam clue about what you're doing and thinking the square leg umpire is another fielder, this is an essential part of the batsman's armoury. Basically his wedding tackle is contained within what amounts to a small plastic greenhouse, which is itself contained in a pair of tight plastic trousers and he's running around in temperatures that can exceed 22 degrees Centiheit on a good day. That's right. He's got a sweat on in the top paddock. As you can imagine the microclimate inside this region is getting pretty uncomfortable. Solution? A sneaky comfort easement.And this is a classic of the genre. Left leg raised, balance maintained with bat, pretend to be looking at a stick or something, quick adjustment and then back to the batting. What's going through his tiny mind is "Oooooooooooooooh yes. That's better."

Fig 4. Insect awareness

You need to be looking at the batsmen here. They're the ones carrying the bats and displaying wonderful insect awareness. Moodos, nearest the camera, has spotted a bee on his right boot and is attempting to squash it. Don't worry animal lovers, he was trying to hit it with his bat so he probably got nowhere near it. What's going through his tiny mind is "I could really do with a beer." That's what's always going through his tiny mind. Giles furthest from camera has been caught at exactly the point of becoming aware of a different bee. As you can see his arms are raised in alarm. He's thinking "Aaaaaaaaaggggghhh what the fuck is that? Hang on...relax everyone...it's only a bee."

Me and Liz went on holiday and met a bloke called Wes Anderson.

Asked him to do a video of our holibob. I think he was messing about. Bloody directors.

What gives, Andy?

I'll tell you what gives. I haven't posted since Feb, that's what fucking gives. By now you're used to the excuses so I won't bore you with them, save to say, I had to go to Shanghai again and all the usual life administration things, such as renewing car insurance, setting up a company ( I am now the proud owner of a company called "G Bailey & Sons Horse & Motor Contractors Ltd.) then I had to get get a face cloth, of all things removed from, of all places, the fuel tank of my car  (wha...eh...errmm....a face cloth you say...but..how...how... no...never mind), playing cricket (see earlier posts) and dealing with a mother who has lost the ability to differentiate between good things and bad things so has taken to thinking everything is now a bad thing, you know, just to be on the safe side.

Anyway. Here's some pics. I was sat outside a pub called The Fox on Paul Street one sunny weekend recently. It's a fanny-tastic boozer on a quiet street between Old Street and Spitalfields. This means that it's heaving with hipsters and city people during the week but almost completely deserted during the weekend which automatically makes it the place to be on weekends in my book (the book being entitled "Get out of my way you massive idiot"). There are few cars as the street doesn't really go anywhere anyone would want to go (apart from paradise). The sun was out. I had a pint. I was sat on a low wall in the sun. In short I was happy as a stick. To put icing on the cake, two nuns strolled past and said hello to me. I didn't really know what to do but they were smiley and I think they could just tell I was really pleased with everything. I got the impression that they were implying that this beautiful day had something to do with them and I wanted to say something along the lines that if indeed they and their god had arranged my day like this then they'd done a particularly good job and would they please pass on my hearty thanks. There were three things that stopped me,

a) They seemed to have somewhere to go and frankly, that's a lot to get over in a simple 

street greeting.

b) I'm not sure where their god stands on being happy in part because one has a pint. Can't help but think he'd be OK with it but I decided to err on the side of caution.

c) They looked really nice (they were nuns so, you know, it was a good bet) and I wanted them to think I was too.  

I settled on "Lovely day."  And as they tottered off I took the pic below. I like their little handbags.

Two nuns walking down a street, one says to the other "Look at that bloke sat outside the pub." The other nun replies "What an idiot."

I've also made a coffee table or occasional table or mobile beer and pizza shelf /trip hazard combo unit.  I found an old pallet outside the post office. When no one was looking I nicked it. Then I made it into this.

The technique is this:

1) Put it under your bed for 6 months.

2) Sand the fuck out of it.

3) Stain it.

4) Screw wheels onto the bottom of it.

5) Put it on the floor where you can bark your shin on it.

I've seen these for sale on the Uniweb for £150. Cost me about £20 and three layers of epidermis (sander got away from me).

Mostly it gets in the way but we've found it's great for putting "television watching" food and beverages on (ie all food and beverages) when you're lying on the sofa and then you just wheel it over to right next to you. You heard me. Right next to you.

Yangs Fried Dumplings

I eat a lot of these.

What you're looking at here is a piece of pork about the size of an Oxo cube, wrapped in a sort of pasta like piece of I dunno what, which is then popped into a frying pan and had the fuck fried out of it by a mysteriously angry Chinese man in a daft hat. This results in  a small parcel of pork surrounded by 3 fluid ounces of molten fat that is hotter than the sun. Four of them cost 60p and that's enough for me. Delicious. I burned my tongue on one yesterday when I was too keen to get at its heavenly cholesterol.
It comes from Yangs which is a chain of restaurants which serve just these and some noodles if you like that sort of thing, which I  don't. The brilliant thing about Chinese restaurants is they don't care if you bring in your own booze. So a trip to Yang's involves ordering your heart attack, nip to the Family Mart (a sort of Chinese off licence, confectionery and dildo store) buy a bottle or two of Tsing Tsao then back for the slap up, sit down Chinese supper while fellow diners point at you and laugh. The sight of a white person, all by themselves, with a grey beard in Yangs, wielding chopsticks badly, burning their mouth and then dousing the flames with Tsing Tsao is I discover, hilariously funny. I can't complain. I often laugh at the bizarre antics of our Chinese cousins. I swear at them a lot too.

I've been back to London and now I'm back out here in Shanghai again.

Yes I just can't stay away. I'm just out here for three weeks to cover a shoot for an advert for bottled water. That's right. Sitting in a chair all day, watching people who know what they're doing, filming a Chinese child fucking things up.

Town Square Shaxi. This was opposite the bar I was in. Otherwise I wouldn't have got a picture of it.

I ate some of this. See the fish in the top left. I thought you ate them, head and all. After I'd had two I saw everyone else had left the head. Hmmm

Blue sky. Oxygen. Not used to either of them in China.

Yes we ignored the old film maxim of never working with children or animals by working with both. Specifically a fucking idiot and some goats. The goats won hands down. Far more professional. Anywway we eventually got what we needed. The kid sadly, didn't get what he needed ie. my boot in  his ear but you can't have everything can you?

Two nosey parkers watching the shoot.

The editor is, however, putting a reel together of all the times the kid messed things up, fell over, dropped things, picked his nose, fell over again and hilariously got body checked by a girl and knocked to the floor. Me and the crew all gave the girl a round of applause.
I was filming in a place called Shaxi in Yunnan, which is a four hour flight and two hour car journey into the middle of goddam nowhere. This means that it has blue skies and has real oxygen instead of the toxic mix of poo vapour and mustard gas that we use for air here in Shangers.
Other good points about Shaxi was that it had an Italian restaurant, run by an Italian. I had a pizza. I was in Bumville, China and had the best pizza I've ever had. Weird.
Back in Shanghai now. The journey home was long and tedious but was enlivened at the end by the cab from Hongqiao airport in Shanghai back to my apartment. It was raining heavily and the journey takes us down the Yanan Road which is an elevated, eight-lane, death road that stretches the width of Shanghai that the Chinese use for crashing into each other. This would have been exciting enough had the windscreen wipers been working but, of course, this is China, so they weren't. Well, they worked intermittently. When they stopped, the driver would continue for a while until he considered he'd reached the most dangerous moment to try to fix them and then lean out of the window, grab the wiper blade and give it a pull. At which point they would feebly commence smearing water over the window again. How I laughed and reached for the seatbelt. Pointlessly as it turns out because, of course, it didn't have any.
I was so shaken up I had to have several beers to calm myself down. So it wasn't all bad.
I haven't blogged for a while due to a combination of laziness and .... no that's it...just laziness. I can't promise I'll start again but who knows?

I'm only back in Shanghai

Just a quick note as I've only just found out how to blog from China. So here's a pic.

As you can see from my fashionable clothes, my cool expression and the caption on the window "I am the style."

Ils De Re

Ils de Re is French for Isle of Re.
And it was to this French idyll that Liz and me repaired to for a well earned spring, weekend, short, three-day break.


A street in Ils De Re on one of the rare occasions there were no French people flouncing up and down it getting in each other's way.

It was a very nice place and even at this early stage of the summer, quite full of Frenchies having a holiday.
This involves them being haughty, walking in a line abreast that stretches the exact width of the street so anyone approaching has either to reverse in front of them or suffer the withering stares of some Frenchies who are having to go through the tiresome experience of acknowledging the existence of other human beings and deigning to move a millimetre aside so they can squeeze past,  hiring bicycles and wobbling off on them in a dangerous fashion, mocking English people in restaurants who are politely doing the best they can in a language they are unfamiliar with and eating cheese.
In other words Frenchies are the same on holiday as they are everywhere else on the planet.
Got stuck into some moules marinieres and a delicious beer called Pelican Biere.
The place we stayed in was called Ars and everytime the bus stopped in the village the bus driver would announce its arrival by shouting ARSE! Ha ha ha ha ha, I'm sure you'll agree.

Regular readers of my so called blog will recall a piece of graffiti on the ceiling of a bar in Shanghai which informed us that "Chris is a homo!"  Whilst the author could be criticised for his lack of wit and creativity (though if I recall correctly he did also drew a 'jizzing cock' next to it) he cannot be faulted on the concise precision of his phraseology. Whoever he is, he's clearly widely travelled because look what I spotted in the Ars bus shelter.

Compare if you will.

Same precise phrasing , same language, same helpful urge to keep the world abreast of who is gay. The only difference is the lack of 'jizzing cock.' Presumably he is either working solely in the written word these days or the bus turned up.