# 122 aka Here we go, here we go, here we go...

See if you can spot my main point with this one.

The sentence I did not want to read today has appeared in black and white. What's more, I went and read it. Who's the dickhead now?'

Andrew Flintoff wins the toss. England will bat.'

Hoo-fucken-ray... Another day of limited Limited Overs ahead of us. The question I will pose, yet again, he adds with the bold function for emphasis, is what makes England think the best way to defeat Australia is to bat first?

Hasn't anyone showed the Poms the clause that states they are supposed to be ENTERTAINERS? Give the crowd some entertainment, you bastards, by letting the Aussies, aka the team that knows how to bat, fucken bat! Chase 555 and stumble 450 runs shy of it for all I care but DON'T BAT FIRST. PLEEEEEASE!

Making 110 when batting first (on Australia Day no less) was hardly entertaining cricket by these English cricketers, and by "hardly" I mean get out of the fucken country you non-entertaining cunts, fuck right off and stop fucken batting fucken first.

FUUUUUUUCK!

Let's collectively hold our breath and make that holy cross movement across our beating chests no matter which demonic god we happen to believe in.

Maybe, just maaaaaaaybe, this one will last past 6 pm local time.

Stay tuned...I know that I will.


UPDATE:
An SMS of this post was sent to the England manager seven seconds after it was posted which prompted the English side to post 292 runs for the loss of seven wickets in response; their highest ODI total since 1877. I expect a swift and professional approach to the run chase from the Australian top order which has been carving opposition bowlers without their signature culinary flair during the past few games. Perhaps they're fucken sick of chasing mediocre totals.

Wah?

I thank de Jesus for sending the coin to the turf the way that Andreus Flintoffush called it, for now I am at home with a Cooper's pale ale betwixt my man boobs licking my lips and anticipating a swashbuckling response to an ok total (remembering that 550 on this pitch would have been a pretty all right sort of total).

Stay tuned...I know that I will.

UPDATE:
Gilchrist out first ball of the run chase. Australia now 7/180 with Andy Symonds as the eighth unofficial out in the club rooms nursing a punctured bicep. Walking heel to toe to defeat has never looked so good as the Aussies shuffle quietly forwards while England's lion triplets roar from the shadows of the Sydney Cricket Ground's mammoth lights.

Stay tuned...I know that I will.

UPDATE:
Australia wasn't bowled out tonight but but still lost the match having fallen 92 runs shy of the English lions' spirited showing of 292.

I'd like you to meet my nephew, Stan. >>

# 119

...


'Twas back to the grind this week when January von Sekond rapped his boney knuckles against the bell of financial relief.

As I've said many a time, and I'm quoting myself here for the umpteenth time: 'To be burdened with work is one thing; to be slack for a fortnight, watching the cricket on the telly with a few beers in and on ma belly, without the cumbersome cloak of monetary security to cover my fat-tastic God-inspired vessel of mere mortality is a fucken great big bloody travesty. Someone hand me another ale.'

Quoting me, quoting you, a-ha...anywhere, any time.

The other thing of note - and thanks to all two of you for the BCC email of concern to my inbox - is that I am, by way of rationale, probability and definition, still alive. That notwisthstanding, it is but a bare existence with all too few key sub-players in this stage production of sleep deprived reality of the 2007 mould.

As a New Year's resolution, the youngest member of the clan proved what a contender for Baby of the Year she was when she declared, on the stroke of the new year, that a three-hour non-feeding, non-crying period be imposed unto the household henceforth. Her delighted parents were delighted moreso when they jumped at the chance to reek havoc in the Land of Nod, awaking at 9:30 on New Year's Day sans baby induced hangover and with a fucken great big smile each across their faces.

The resolution was broken shortly thereafter as old habits regained consciousness, and the fragility of said baby's parents' nervous systems was, again, placed on public display.

Apart from that, work's kicking into gear again and will be a contributing factor to the mental and physical anti-aching mechanism of the male member of the Kaufman household for at least the next five weeks (hello electronic pay cheque); the Christmas pudding and its low-browed associates are slowly prying themselves from the upper echelon of my internal underpants regions thanks to some well-timed lifting of dead weights via pulleys, cables and limbs, and the occasional yet brisk overland adventure with the kid and her all-terrain pusher; sleep me no enough have; England is putting up a fight in the cricket while Australia is left to contemplate how to best achieve a five-blot rating from the judges of historical significance; God save our Queen.

- Kaufman


PS For evidence that this blog is the source of many a juicy and contentious issue in the world of international cricket, please consult the last comment in the #117th post (left by me) and then dart the memory stick into reverse as you ponder what happened last week, when Australian cricket coach John Buchanan and South African defect Johan Olaf Pietersen exchanged jaw movements about the Great White Ego's invaluable contribution to team morale. I say unto Buchanan: leave my thoughts alone, bub! I say unto Olaf: your mind is mine!

PPS Ooroo for now.

PPPS Photos of recent events will be next.


...