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Showing posts with label oval. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oval. Show all posts

Wednesday, 17 August 2011

England are magic. In a roundabout way.

England will bounce into The Oval on Thursday all burnished balls and Zebedee heels. How India will arrive is anyone's guess, but unless the tourists wish to play whilst enduring buttocks burnt with chutzpah-tinged print acid, it's unlikely to be on a sedan woven of the back pages of the English press. As many a soothing G&T-in-hand theatrical agent has had to say to his latest Gloria Swanson, I'm afraid the reviews have not been kind. Even despite the British media's notorious lust for magnanimity, this is hardly surprising in light of India's infuriatingly undercooked/ overcooked/just not that hungry efforts in this series, but some senior team members still might perhaps have felt justified in hoping those same reviews could also have been a bit more mindful of previous triumphs. I don't know if schadenfreude causes dyslexia, but there's no excuse for reading BCCIDRS as SRTRDVVS.

Despite my living abroad, the riots at home and the fact Nadine Dorries has not yet been sectioned, I'm still happy to confirm I am English. I've not, however, quite set full sail on the waves of euphoria which have greeted my nation's ascent to number one.  I'm can't quite put my finger on why, but it's probably something to do with spending so many years starved of victory and basic professionalism and having to train your heart to be satisfied with the few cherished moments of success that did occasionally turn up. Being an England fan in the 1990s was akin to being a maltreated puppy. You craved love and pedigree chum, rarely got it, but when you did you wagged your tail like buggery and licked your bastard owner's face ever more readily. Then the next day he'd kick you in the poodles really hard.

It's not great having to occasionally lick Keith Fletcher's face while your balls ache, but being taken for a walk twice a day, fed prime cuts of steak and being allowed to watch cat-chase based porn all day from the comfort of a velour basket isn't quite all its cracked up to be either. England have looked as taut and steadfast as Shane Warne's eyebrows. India have been more like their coach's wattle, but neither state has left me feeling particularly overjoyed. I suppose I'm just more of a grouchy Dougal than a Zebedee.


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