I've not written a word here during my holidays and yet have acquired five new followers - welcome to you all. That's an increase of 13 per cent per week, so if I write nothing more all month I'll be up 37 per cent or something. Excellent.On reflection I've just blown that, or "choked my duck" as I believe the cricket-fancying English have it.
Ha, so now you must play also your so-called national summer game in unser glorious kapital of Welschlichkeit along with your sogenannte Winterspiel of football, eh Tommy Atkins?!
For you, the humiliation is complete!
I'm having to babysit Bendigeidfran while Mrs Boyo is over in Switzerland having her annual blood transfusion, so blogging has to fit in the gaps between curry, ales and Ukrainian pop videos. But here's a preview of this month's coming attractions:
1. Ten reasons for living in Wales.
2. Turks taught me to be a man.
3. The next chapter of Anti-Danube, the thinking man's Metropole.
Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
20 comments:
Svetlana Lobodo, eh? You'd need to be as rugged and as Ukrainian asthis and this to attract her attention.
The humiliation works both ways, Boyo, given that Welsh cricketers have to play for England. I hear that Tony Lewis is one of the spectators. Pay my respects to his bushy eyebrows if you're at the ground.
Yes, this is all very boastful. Very boastful indeed. I am in Rimini, and can be found on the arm of Arrigo Sacchi's brother, which is a 13% increase in my popularity in anyone's language. Luckily, he speaks nought of football (although, imagine the stories he could tell!) and is punctilious to a T, oft-times speaking German to reinforce formality.
Herr Sacchi bringt mich in das Gastezimmer und ich sage Gute Nacht. "Frau Pouncer, wir konnen ja morgen weitersprechen, aber jetzt ist es Zeit, ins Bett zu gehen".
Why is an English summer sport named after Criccieth?
I believe the name 'cricket' is derived from the surname of the Jiminy character in Disney's Pinnochio, who is forever thrashing at things with his little umbrella.
Truly now, Kardiff ist eine Weldstadt.
I'm a new follower - I like following things which don't move, it's, like easy.
I accused a couple of Norwich denizens in my local pub of being Australian the other day; they were very polite about it. I'd never heard a proper urban East Anglian accent before and I guess the enclosures kicked in early on the flat land and they were handy for Millgate Pennitentiary round that way.
Although everyone calls them England, they really ought to be called England and Wales (or Cymru a Lloegr) as their governing body is the England and Wales Cricket Board - all thanks to plucky Glam. Should you wish to fill up Feeback's inbox with rather inconsequential pedanticisms you might like to start a campaign against all BBC sports announcers who continue to use ECB as the abbreviation - harrumph.
Yours tediously,
The Cardiff Drunk.
Nur "ins Bett", Froy Pouncer? Urge this ingrate Arrigo to show a 13% increase in imagination or get Byzantine on his buffed behind.
As for being boastful, we Welsh have notorious big heads. And our shafts take some negotiating too. Ask the NCB.
This whole Englandandwales business is so 1950s. We Welsh want nothing to do with a game that the Dutch can win even on dry land, whether named after Lleyn villages and mouthy grasshoppers. "England (feat. Glamorgan)" does the trick for me.
Drinker, are you a member of this exclusive Welsh club?
http://alfanalf.blogspot.com/2008/02/cyfres-y-ceirw-iv-diotwyr-y-sul.html
As it happens, a genuine East Angular web blogger is coming to Boyo Villas for dinner on Tuesday. I'll transcribe his comments using the Shavian phonetic alphabet and compare notes.
Frau Pouncer, besser ein Spatz in der Hand, als eine Taube auf dem Dach. Be grateful you're having any holidays at all. I've only got a week in a septic tank just outside Glasgow to look forward to.
It's a blood infusion, and I'm in Slovakia. Thanks for caring.
And where's Arianrhod (the female child)?
They've got a big, knowledgeable crowd at Cardiff this week. Just imagine: they could have started with a big crowd and a spinner's wicket at Cardiff and ended with a big crowd and a spinner's wicket at Old Trafford, but no we can't celebrate Shane Warne's retirement by having two good wickets for the home side could we?
Kevin, I can honestly say that I've no idea what you're talking about, and that's not something I readily admit to - I, who understandeth the Schleswig-Holstein Question.
That's what makes cricket a sublime game - an unreal Mornington Crescent.
My apologies krokhmalochka. Arianrhod is still in Wales. The law is the law, and she must answer.
Daphne, am I to understand that Maroon has redecorated?
Cricket's the Englishman's universal metaphor for life: you spent five whole days wondering "what the fuck is going on?" necking warm lager, stale sarnies and coming to no result in the end.
I have one cricket story to share, Kevin. It's not mine, and I try not to write up other people's stories on the reasonable grounds that the Papists are right, there is a Purgatory, and I'll end up there for doing so. But I'll ask the Sacred Heart of Baby Jesus of the Seven Dolours etc to make an exception in this case.
Tale to follow shortly, once I'm back at work and can spare the time.
Dr Moron *hawks and spits* is not on my itinerary. I am making yet another attempt to return McChe to his natural habitat, going to see a man about a cake, having a tryst with my old paramour Arthur Smith and fainting with ecstasy at the World Pipe Band Championships - all those men in kilts! My hand itches at the thought.
Have you listened to the Test Match? The racket! You can hardly hear the thwack of willow on leather for people talking, eating, mobile phones ringing, a bloke playing the trumpet, it's sheer pandemonium. Whatever happened to the reverent hush?
My apologies, Daphne, I didn't realise you went beyond the minimum single Scotchman quota. Good one you!
Like all red-faced Brits, I lament the silencing of the thwack of willow on skull.
The only clubs I've been a member of NoGood are Watch, a children's nature club and the so-called mighty Tibberton United and finally the cup-winning (North Camden Junior League Challenge Cup - take that British Library B! Karl Marx, Oscar Wilde, George Orwell, Vladimir Ulyanov, your boys took one hell of a beating!) North London Olympians.
Saly, as I currently style myself, The Cardiff Drunk (recovering alcoholic) clubs involving anything stronger than sasperily are off the agenda for the moment.
Cricket is a Welsh game, it's origins in the Agincourt-winning Taffy longbowman, who once out of shafts - or shafted - would hurl leathern Criccieth balls containing gravel and crushed beetles. It's in the missing Swansea-set act of Henry V.
Flewellyn: All the water in Wye cannot wash out your majesty's well prepared sward. Let us see how our foe do play the Criccieth ball on such a Brisbane sticky as this.
Roots man, roots.
Choked your duck? Well, them English. I hope it is not and activity directly related to this:
http://www.satirewire.com/news/jan02/choking.shtml
In any case, your duck will recover, I'm sure.
I've heard of the Swansea scene, Drinker. It's set in a tavern called the Jack, and features such characters as Razor Gwil, Megan the Jayde and Pyssepott. "Look you, Frenchyes, beholde my soyle...". is a speech of which one would like to hear more.
The balls used in the early Welsh game of Crycciaethe were recently alienated from the codpieces of Barbary pirates, and modern cricket balls are still red and clammy in tribute.
A slur, Snoop, a slur. I was peeling the orchid.
Since moving to the land of my mother's fathers, the most I have learned about said Abertawe is, "never turn your back on a Swansea Jack!" Is this true, and how does one spot such a creature - I thought it was a dog or something which barked when the Scarlet hooded denizens of Llanelli were about to burn down the poetry works in which the Dylan Thomases toiled under the imperial cosh of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch and his terrible like.
Swansea Jacks are the salt of the earth, in that they can usually be found scattered around pub tables, chippies and the beaches of Gower.
In my day their uniform used to be short-sleeved check shirt, with Tie Track skinny tie on formal occasions (conception, childbirth, magistrates court), stone-washed jeans, mid-80s Botham mullet, ditto moustache, lovebite, stubble, can of something, pack of Embassy in breast pocket, white socks and loafers.
Their approach was heralded by the screech of "Waaaayne!" from the sharp-chinned peroxide blonde in miniskirt and white stilettoes clamped to one arm.
Very dangerous when even thought about, let alone approached.
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