First experience of Cambridge (almost)

The weekend saw the first what should be a classic series of roadtrips for the Oxford second XI - out to Cambridge. We were playing the team from Anglia Ruskin university - which is the poor man's Cambridge, for handwriting studies, handkerchief embroidering and the like - [University of Canberra compared with the ANU if you will]. We weren't quite sure who hated the Tabs more, those who didn't want to go there or those who weren't able to get in there. It was also good banter to emphasise the definite article when yelling in teh field: Come on the uni. Classic elitist humour.

The pitch was Mumbai-tastic. Recall Michael Clarke taking 6 for 9: their opening bowler took 5 for 10 or something similar. We were skittled for 108 - and at one point were 7 for 30, when TS Trudgian entered the fray. With a eye for leaving a ball on its length and a proclivity to turn a quick two into an easy one (no need to haste really) I managed a defiant 5 (although the partnership was around 40 due to cunning extras and the other batsmen AJ Ball).

Keeping was well, interesting. Not one, but two catches went square into the gloves, and both times the same umpire, who resembled Captain Jack Sparrow crossed with Ronny Corbet, gave the batsman not out. Oh dear, it was a tough pill to swallow. We had a similar run with the pitch, and although there were no 5fors taken, we managed to have them 4 for 40. With a fiendishly quick stumping we had them five wickets down, and then the second of the umpiring 'decisions' an absolute classic: cannoning from the bat onto the thigh pad, (a double deflection for the price of a single) and no, no need for a dismissal.

So we lost by 5 wickets, but I have managed to work out some of the bugs and acclimatise to the low and slow English pitches. HA I am watching the South Park episode where the Mormons are in heaven and wanting to sing songs about how much it hurts to lie. The simple pleasures...

I drove the big 9 seater van to the game and went along at 70 miles +... make that 70 miles tops, down the highway. Tomorrow is MAY DAY, aka the first day of May - with all sorts of dawn services and carols sung.

Ah yes, and tickets are booked and it is all set in stone: back in Canberra from the 15th of June to the 1st of July. Good times all round.

I was filling the rental car up before returning it when I drove into a small 'local' petrol station. An old bloke came out, I asked for diesel. He said: 'Twenty?'
'Ahh, what?'
'Twenty?'
'Twenty what?'
'I can only do twenty.'
'Ahh.... I don't know what that means. Can I have the tank filled with diesel please?'
'No'.
'Oh, OK. Ah, why?'
'I can only give you twenty.'
'P-p-pounds?'

And so on: he only had a bit of diesel left and only wanted to part with 20 litres, but we got there in the end. Good times.

Leg Byes, Knife Fights Pontius Pilate and the Tea Interval

Today marked my first cricket match in Oxford - I was keeping for the second XI (the Authentics or just 'Tics') and we won: Oxford 208 (48.3) def Hampstead 165 (47.2).

The game itself was full of loud lbw shouts with which English umpires seem very fickle, and although much excitement was had with the first game of the season, there were still a lot of winter bugs to work out. Especially my own - I was 'stumped' for a 4th ball duck. My back foot never left the crease, but I think the umpire was remaniscing about his days playing cricket in the 20's and when he came to, saw me off balance and the keeper acting like a chump. Naturally I wasn't the happiest chap around, but life goes on. When it came to the field I nabbed a catch off the opening bowler, keeping up to the stumps and letting the ball bobble between gloves, chin and gloves, causing a nice little wound in the chin. Other than the final wicket of the innings, a regulation run out, I had no other scalps and let through 4 byes down the legside off the quicks (although I was up to the stumps... that is right, I am justifying my inadequacies as a cricketer... no I don't think I am making excuses... that's it: no soup for you).

So there were some bugs to work out, but the season is long, the matches are plentiful and I hope to work my way into the first XI (although there are rumours of a Gun(n and More) [cricketing humour was always my strong suit] keeper straight from England under 17s).

This was the first game where I was able to wear my cricket vest - a present courtesy of Messrs J.J. Dore, W.R. Usher, C.L.J. Davey et al. Naturally - in the same fashion that one spills spaghetti sauce on a nice white shirt the first time it is used - I dribbled blood from my chin (accidentally) all over the vest and now it looks like I keep wicket in Mad Max's Thunderdome.

Now - onto the title pieces (before I get there, the disposable camera has some photos to be put up but film has not yet been developed):
I was listening to a World Cup match and heard Colin Croft [of West Indies fast bowling fame] comment that Ireland had bowled 12 extras and thus had gifted the opposition 2 extra overs. I checked the score card and 6 were leg byes - the Clayton's of Sundries, and certainly not gifting the opposition another over. I thought about emailing in... then thought that I needed to acheive something more than day than picking up on Crofty's mentalism.

Knife Fights - I look like I have experienced one, and not just due to the clip on the chin today, oh no - the 15 stitch Y shaped scar between my eyes yields a much more decisive image. How? Keeping up to the stumps, normally fine, but when the batsmen can't manage to middle a short ball and instead pull it for a top edge straight into your face, things go awry. I have photos, but have also been told that I won't go away any time soon, so certainly some will make their way here.

Pontius Pilate: on walking to cricket today I was listening to the Crucifixus from the Mass in B Minor by the Big Man and couldn't help but think that the poor fellow gets a tough rap - the only man (who was all man that is) who gets a mention in the creed, and not in a positive way. Then I thought about the Family Guy Episode about the Church of the Fonz, and starting saying 'Eeehhhhh' to myself, attracting odd glances from passers by.

Ah yes, the Tea Interval - no one does cricket like the English. Today we played proper test match stylings (breaks wise) with lunch and tea for 40 and 20 minutes respectively. And for both of them well.... To set the tone: playing for the ANU, I experienced a lunch break most weeks by grabbing Steve Arthy of Muller and driving down to the local bakery to return with pies and soft drinks for those who placed orders - certainly good times. But here... the university employs caterers each week and their sole task is to make sure there is enough food (and good quality food) for the tea and lunch intervals. So we come off the feed and enter the pavillion where I find two long trestle tables with places set, water, juice and of course tea all available and then the buffet: cold meats, pasta salads, chicken curries, standard garden (variety) salads, roast potatoes, quiches, two whole barbecued chickens... and that was just for lunch. Tea included: fruitcake, caramel slice, marshmellow biscuits, chips = crisps, apricot cheesecake and flapjacks. Certainly beats a pie which has been sitting under a warm lamp for the past hour.

This was a warm up game for the season and doesn't count, which is fine by me. Tomorrow is the first match of the college season, but a friendly so it will be a chance to try out a few new odds and ends.

Oh yes, and by request I will put up a post detailing what exactly it is I do - at the moment Mrs O'Grady still refers to it as 'something with large numbers', [when typing that I wrote 'numbeers' which go down rather well right about now] so the public must be told.

Ireland - the cricketing Juggernaught

So we had more than we bargained for alright:

After trying, like the little Engine that Could, our bus made very slow going through the London Boroughs and eventually the bus driver (call him Seamus if you are a nominal person) decided to throw in the towel and head back. What ho? saith we.

So on the road from London to Wales we spent 3:45 hours just chilling in traffic, and took all of 45 minutes to retrace our steps. Good on National Express though, they put us up in a hotel for the night. [I heard Frank Warwick say, back in his Channel 7 days, 'AN hotel', but I later found that out to be a filthy lie. The 'an' is only used before a vowell sound, and unless you are the Artful Dodger an go for a pint at the 'otel, Frank is leading you up the garden path.] After a bit of banter as to whether we wanted a double or twin room (there is nothing like gay jokes) we were issued into a twin room in a local establishment which unfortunately for my first experience with an English hotel was not run by Basil Fawlty.

There was a lightning breakfast the next morning (and I took some loaves [but no fishes] to feed the masses [Lex and I] on the bus) as we had to get away by 'half-six', or so said the Bus Driver, Patty or Michael or whatever I called him. And away we were, rocking through the English, and later Welsh Countryside.

From a glance at one or two of teh bilingual traffic signs in Wales, I came to believe the quote from Blackadder that 'You need half a pint of phlegm in your throat to pronounce the place names.' Eventually we rolled into the seatown of Fishguard to begin the ferrying across the Irish Sea.

Arriving in Rosslare on the South-East of Ireland, we took the bus along the coast to Cork. By this stage the travelling was getting rather irksome, but with buses, ferries, hotels (oh my) for a miserly £9 and some good banter along the way, the trip thus far was a success. There are photos on my disposable camera, but we will need to wait a while for the development.

Cork itself was full of characters, infact one of the advertisements for a pub, Charlie's Place, included a description: "Full of characters & CHARACTERS" - unfortuantely we didn't get to ssee this place full of all sorts of mavericks, rogues and knaves, but others substituted. After visitng an Irish tourist attraction we retired to a pub in the evening to meet an Irish bloke who didn't think much of the gimmicky sites around Cork. His immortal line was in response to what to see in Ireland, "The pubs: I have lived here all my life and haven't seen a castle, but I have drunk a lot of $%&@ing pints."

What knavery is this [I read that in As You Like it - what a classic term]? This software thinks that $%&@ing is a website... ah yes, the wonders of teh computer age. Wonders Lisa, or blunders?

Here are some pictures taken at Blarney Castle: without directing you to their recruitment site - there is a stone there, the Blarney Stone, and if you kiss it you are blessed with eloquence for the rest of your days. Also with meningitis.

The castle itself.

Lex being lowered down (gripping the iron rails) to kiss the Blarney Stone. Old Mate here was employed to help get you back on your feet, although he seems to be losing interest here, perhaps he has seen the advertising slogan of www.$%&@.com .

Manly poses. We met these two mavericks from Sydney, plus a girlfriend of the chap on the right (taking the photo). Just around the corner was a bloke, about 18 or so, who was being photographed by his girlfriend. He had long flowing locks, a cravat, an open shirt, and was posing on a tree trunk like a reincarnation of Oscar Wilde; so a ponce. Thereafter the photos had to be manly, wistful and ideally with a bit of shirt open to capture the romanticism, like our friend, the ponce.