Despite today’s anticlimactic end to Somerset’s final county championship game, we can look back on what has still been a very enjoyable season. So here, in no particular order, are 20 things we have learnt this summer.
1. It came home! And brilliant as Tom Banton (468 runs, SR 149.04, HS 84) and Will Smeed (523 runs, SR 175.5, HS 94) are at the top of the order, it’s clear that T20 trophy’s are won by an all round team performance, one that is characterised by superb fielding every bit as much as aggressive batting and tight bowling.
2. New Zealanders are our friends – Kiwi’s may not be the only fruit, but they might just be the best! Thank you Matt Henry, Ish Sodhi and Neil Wagner!
3. James Rew can bat, Tom Abell can bowl, and Craig Overton can catch. As well as keep wicket James Rew scored five championship hundreds this season, including one double hundred and equaled the record for the most scored by a teenager. It was great to see Tom Abell picking up wickets (4-54) against Kent and Craig ‘Bucket Hands’ Overton’s 22 catches in this season’s Blast was a tournament record.
4. But James ‘Butterfingers’ Anderson is only a mere mortal after all – even so, it’s probably best not to shout about it too much on social media platforms.
5. Andy Umeed likes to bat in one day cup games – 613 runs at an average of 87.57 with a HS of 172*.
6. You should never give up. Wins can come from the the least promising of positions – and even after the most disappointing of starts to a season you can still end up the match winner on T20 finals day. It’s been good to have you on board this year, Sean Dickson!
7. As well as being a 17th century theologian, Matt Henry is a mighty fine cricketer – and if he says he wants to play T20, you should just nod your head and give him a contract. Part of a devastating opening bowling attack with Craig Overton, he saved his best T20 performance for the final taking 4/24 to sneak past Ben Green and end as the competition’s leading wicket taker with 31 wickets at a strike rate of 10.13 and an economy of 7.83. And then there were his 32 wickets in the county championship at an average of 16.18 including 6-59 against Notts. A great overseas signing.
8. Irrespective of how much sand there is about the place, work is no day at the beach for the groundsmen. They’ve worked wonders this year. And so have those involved in delivering what must be the best livestream in the country. Great to have had Vic Marks, one of my childhood heroes, joining the always excellent Pete Trego and Sophie Luff this year.
9. Lammers and Golders have still got what it takes and we can look forward to lots more runs from both of them next season.
10. The future is bright with the likes of Shoaib Bashir and Alfie Ogbourne in the ranks and, given the chance, the youngsters in the squad can give Hampshire a run for their money – and very nearly beat them. As for Kasey Aldridge – his hand is still smarting from the brilliant and crucial catch he took to dismiss Adam Rossington in the T20 Final.
11. It’s easy for some to criticise – but easier still for everyone else to find things to praise in this Somerset squad – 350+ first class wickets for Lewis Gregory for example. And he had a baby too. Congratulations Louie G!
12. Stumpy’s efforts in the gym last winter proved ineffective in this year’s mascot race – which is disappointing in one sense but actually quite reassuring for all of us couch potatoes!
14. Decisions on when to declare and when to enforce the follow on can safely be left to the captain. Well led Tom Abell!
13. Jack Brooks (for his constant enthusiasm as well as his bowling) and Steve Davies (for his wicket keeping and elegant batting) will be sorely missed next year. Likewise George Bartlett, a youngster with great potential who will make Northants a stronger team next season. Wishing each one of them all the very best in their respective futures.
15. Party organisers at Surrey long for Somerset players to respond positively to the invitations that they constantly send them.
16. Predicting the weather for Edgbaston in mid July can be tricky.
17. Severe haircuts don’t prevent you taking trophy winning catches. ‘TKC take a bow’. The lad can bat too! (489 runs, SR 160.33, HS 72) Hearty congratulations on being called up to the England one day squad.
18. Enjoyable though hospitality is, it’s not a patch on watching Lewis Gregory (57*) and Ben Green (35*) secure the teams place at T20 finals day with an unbeaten 96 run partnership.
19. It’s all too easy to injury your finger playing cricket. Break one (Peter Siddle) and you’ll sadly be forced to return to Australia early. Dislocate one and you could always try to reduce it and play on – at least you could if you’re Roelof van der Merwe. And on the subject of injuries, with so many this year we know the team physios must be very busy people. It was good to have Josh Davey back at the end of the season and here’s to Craig O, Sonny Baker and Alfie Ogbourne being fully fit soon. And let’s not forget Jack Leach – hopefully we’ll see a lot more of him next year than we have this.
20. Cricket’s only a game – but what a truly wonderful game it is. And as is clear from reading about young Bodhi Atterton, the good it does is both on and off the field. If you haven’t done so already, you can read 6 year old Bodhi’s story here. We wish him well.
So thank you to all at Somerset CCC who have been involved in giving us another six months of terrific entertainment. I look forward to doing it all again next year.
Until then, enjoy the Cricket World Cup and winter well!
On Wednesday it rained in Taunton. So much so that not a ball was bowled at the County Ground which was a little disappointing for me as I had hoped to spend my day off watching Somerset build on the strong start they had made in their match against Kent. But it was not to be – the covers remaining on the square throughout the day, something I saw for myself as I stole a glance through the Vivian Richards gates as I drove along the Priory Bridge Road late that morning.
I was in town to do a bit of shopping and having failed to find what I was looking for on the virtually empty shelves of Wilco I found myself in a coffee shop looking down from an upstairs window on the boarded up and increasingly tatty frontage of Debenhams, yet another victim of the economic downturn. And all the while the rain continued to fall from an unrelentingly cloudy sky.
The world seemed a rather grey place that morning. It was all a far cry from the blue skies and warm sunshine I’d enjoyed when I had last made it to the county ground for a championship game at the end of June. Since then work, life and a certain franchise competition had meant I’ve not seen as much four day cricket as I’d have liked.
Much has already been said about the squeezing out of what really should be the jewel in the crown of county cricket to the least suitable months of the season for playing what is, after all, a summer game, but it does seem to me a shame that the slow burn satisfaction of the longer format has been sacrificed on the alter of instant gratification supposedly provided by manufactured teams sponsored by potato based comestibles, a packet of which you barely have a chance to consume in the limited time afforded by the truncated games duration.
And so I sat and wondered if this ‘must have it now’ attitude, so ubiquitous in the ‘Amazon Prime’ world in which we live, is the one that drives the discontent that too frequently manifests itself in the criticism that pours out of those who seemingly cannot wait for good things to develop.
This week I experienced another example of such complaining after posting something positive on the Somerset supporters Facebook page. On Day One of the game against Kent, Tom Lammonby, somebody I described as ‘a fine player who has had more than his fair share of criticism this year’, scored a century in difficult conditions and under what must have been intense personal pressure. I was rash enough to suggest that his had been a superb performance.
Tom Lammonby on his way to making 109. Photograph used by kind permission of Matthew Cleeve.
As previously, I had not expected this to be a controversial point of view on a forum for Somerset supporters but once again I was wrong because, apparently, I had failed to understand that Tom Lammonby isn’t as good an opening bat as former Somerset players like Jimmy Cook and Marcus Trescothick.
What a sad world we live in if we can only praise those who are the very, very best. This is the attitude that leads to instances such as occurred a few years back when an athlete who had just missed out on a place in an Olympic final felt it necessary to apologise for letting everyone down. How tragic when being ninth or tenth best in the world is considered failure.
Who knows if Tom Lammonby will one day be remembered as one of the very, very best but currently he is just 23 years old and is, I imagine, somebody who would readily accept that he has a way to go before being classed as one of Somerset’s greatest. But let’s give the lad a chance, let’s give him and others like him the time it takes for genuine class to emerge. And let’s give credit where credit is due because withholding any encouragement until someone reaches legendary status isn’t going to motivate anyone to keep on trying.
In the afternoon, with no prospect of the covers at Taunton being removed, I took the opportunity to visit a small show put on by three local artists in a village hall just a short drive away from Taunton town centre.
The most striking piece on display was a self portrait of one of the artists wearing her mothers wedding dress, the bright white of the gown a vivid contrast against the painting’s pitch black background. But there were many other fine pieces to enjoy – a herd of cattle huddled together in the corner of a field, a scenic representation of rural Dorset and an impressionist depiction of a gentle game of village cricket. Each painting, all no doubt the result of many hours work, enriched my day and I was glad to have been able to see them.
Now there will no doubt be those who, had they been there with me, would have seen fit to complain that the standard wasn’t that of a Pierre-August Renoir or a Leonardo da Vinci but to have done so would have served only to discourage those who had tried to create something of worth.
And how we need such folk today, those who keep on trying to make this grey old world a little more colourful. We need those who play, be it with a paintbrush, a cricket bat or with some other means, and in so doing bring about a little happiness in the lives of those who are sometimes sad. We none of us need to be the best to do something of value and we must not allow others to discourage us from doing the best we can by raining on our, or anyone else’s, parade.
And so my watching cricket is over for another season but there will be more games to enjoy next year. Rain or shine, I for one, am looking forward it, confident that it’ll be well worth the wait.
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Leaving all that aside and on an altogether lighter note, somebody who seemingly is always ready to play is Hector, our new Labrador puppy. Even so, rain does dampen even his enthusiasm for outdoor activity as you’ll see in the clip of him below:
Still unvaccinated he can’t yet accompany me to Somerset games but in preparation for next season, I thought that, with the weather forecast for Taunton being what it was, I could usefully spend some time explaining to him how you can be given out LBW. He seemed keen to learn, understandably, I suppose, given how he’d be vulnerable to a ball pitching in the ‘ruff’!
He still lacks full understanding of the command ‘Wait’ so I suspect he may also be liable to getting himself run out. More concerning still, however, is his long tail – something which may also prove a problem in the future.
Even so, as this next video shows, he was wholehearted in expressing his delight at the news of Tom Lammonby’s century!
This is an extended, theologically minded, version of last week’s blog entitled ‘Only a game’.
Last week I posted on the Somerset cricket supporters Facebook page. I said a few, admittedly optimistic, words about Somerset’s prospects for the upcoming day’s play and said that, win, lose or draw, I was looking forward to seeing them play Kent this coming week adding that, for me at least, there are few more enjoyable things than watching Somerset play at the county ground in Taunton.
You would have thought that this would have been an uncontroversial view to express on a forum specifically set up for Somerset supporters – but you’d be wrong! Alongside those who ridiculed my suggestion that, given past batting performances, the team might yet do well, others presumably disenchanted by the teams recent batting performances and who clearly think Somerset are only worth watching if they win, responded by suggesting that I should ‘get a life!’
Which got me thinking about what ‘a life’, for some, entails.
As a doctor I regularly sit with those whose mental health is so poor that all they want to do is die – and those who mourn the death of those who meant the world to them.
I spend time with those whose cognitive functioning is declining – and those whose chemotherapy hasn’t delivered the cure that had been hoped for. Furthermore I speak to those whose cancer is so far advanced at presentation that an attempt at curative treatment isn’t even an option for them.
I visit those, some of whom are just a few years older than me, who, having suffered a stroke or the progressive effects of some other debilitating disease, find themselves in a nursing home – and I console those who, having geared themselves up for surgery only to have it cancelled at the last minute, have to endure their pain or anxiety for even longer than they already have.
And then there are the events like those that have recently occurred in Morocco and Libya.
Such, to a greater or lesser extent, are all our lives and so, in a world characterised by suffering, we all sometimes feel the need to be distracted by something we enjoy. So yes, because of the life I have, spending a day watching Somerset playing cricket at Taunton is one of the things I like doing most.
It saddens me then when a small minority seem to find it necessary to spoil the pleasure we have in supporting the teams we do by denigrating individuals who have entertained us so wonderfully for so many years. Do they not know how fortunate they are to watch what many are denied the pleasure of because of their life situation? And in a world where we are constantly told we have to be better, where the pressure to prove that we are a success is a constant burden, it’s a shame that they can not enjoy sport for what it is, an opportunity to play, to take part in what is after all just a game, without having always to win.
Of course there’s disappointment when results don’t go the way we might have hoped – but unkindness and rudeness are never justified. And they make the world, cricketing and otherwise, an even sadder place than, for some, it already is.
But having said that, watching cricket is, of course, only a distraction – at close of play, the problems remain. And so, whilst I am grateful to God for the pleasure I get from watching cricket, if I, or anyone else, wants any lasting comfort it is to God that we must turn. For he is the God of all comfort – the God who comforts us in all our affliction. [2 Corinthians 1:3-4]
Notice though that it doesn’t say that God will always act to immediately remove our affliction. No, for now at least, he comforts us IN our affliction. The writers of the psalms recognised that this was the case. As King David famously penned, ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. [Psalm 23:4] And the less well known writer of Psalm 119 is even more explicit when he says, ‘This is my comfort in my affliction, that your promise gives me life…Let your steadfast love comfort me according to your promise to your servant. [Psalm 119:50,76].
Here then is hope for the afflicted. A hope that comes from believing God when in Revelation 21:4 he promises that a day is coming when he really will wipe every tear from our eyes and death will be no more. A promise which, as all the promises of God, finds its ‘Yes’ in Jesus Christ and is, therefore, guaranteed to be kept. [2 Corinthians 1:20].
To continue on a cricketing theme, on July 15th a man caught a ball. I’ve watched that catch dozens and dozens of times. Why? Well the man who took the catch was Tom Koehler-Cadmore and every time I see it I marvel at both his agility and superb eye-hand coordination. ‘TKC – take a bow’, the commentator intoned recognising the catch was one that was worthy of praise. But I watch it most because of what that catch achieved. For with it Somerset won this years T20 competition.
How much more then should we all continually look to the cross. For every time we consider what took place at Calvary we see something of the character of Jesus who hung and suffered there. We see his amazing bravery, we see his great humility and we see his overwhelming love for those he came to save. And we recognise what his death achieved – our reconciliation with God. For by dying for us, paying the penalty for all that we have ever, and will ever, do wrong, Jesus secured the forgiveness of our sins. Furthermore it brought about the death of death itself. As such Christ’s obedience to the point of death, even death on a cross, is worthy of our everlasting praise.
The cross then demonstrates how seriously the Christian faith takes, not only sin, but suffering too. It provides the solution to both the cause and the consequences of the fall.
And so it is at the cross, that we find real comfort – even in our affliction. It is at the cross we are made right with God and where we truly ‘get a life’. More than that it’s where we get ‘eternal life’.
And so I am grateful that in the Garden of Gethsemane when Jesus, mindful of where he was heading, was greatly distressed and troubled, so much so that his soul was ‘very sorrowful even to death’, [Mark 14:33-34] he did not waver from obeying the will of the Father. Because when the going got tough, Jesus kept on going – to the cross – to die, for you and for me.
Some people tell us that we need to step out of our comfort zone. And maybe sometimes that’s true. Even so, as Jonny Bairstow recently discovered as he wandered out of his crease, our comfort zone is exactly where we need always to stay. For it is in Christ that we are safe. God is our comfort zone – he is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in times of trouble. [Psalm 46:1]. Hear his words:
‘Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that her warfare is ended, that her iniquity is pardoned. [Isaiah 40:1-2]
‘Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing! For the LORD has comforted his people and will have compassion on his afflicted. [Isaiah 49:13]
In these troubled times therefore, come and be comforted – trust in the atoning death of Jesus and know that each and every one of your sins is forgiven and that the sufferings of this present time are but temporary – for they are light and momentary compared to the eternal weight of glory that is being prepared for you. [2 Corinthians 4:17]. And without minimising in any way your current sadness, if you are grieving today take heart – ‘The LORD is near to the broken hearted and saves the crushed in spirit’ [Psalm 34:18] – ‘a bruised reed he will not break, and a faintly burning wick he will not quench’. [Isaiah 42:3].
For if you mourn your indwelling sin and the consequences of living in this fallen world, there is hope because ‘blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven, blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted’ [Matthew 5:3-4].
And hear too what the Book of Common Prayer calls the ‘comfortable words’ of our Saviour Jesus Christ who says to all who truly turn to him, ‘Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. [Matthew 11:28]. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. [John 3:16]
What a comfort it is to know that our sins are forgiven. And what a comfort it is to know that though our weeping may tarry for the night, joy will come with the morning. [Psalm 30:5]
Related posts:
To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here
This week I posted on the Somerset cricket supporters Facebook page. I said a few, admittedly optimistic, words about Somerset’s prospects for the upcoming day’s play and said that, win, lose or draw, I was looking forward to seeing them play Kent the week after next commenting that, for me at least, there are few more enjoyable things than watching Somerset play at the county ground in Taunton.
You would have thought that this would have been an uncontroversial view to express on a forum specifically set up for Somerset supporters – but you’d be wrong! Alongside those who ridiculed my suggestion that, given past batting performances, the team might yet do well, others presumably disenchanted by the teams recent batting performances and who clearly think Somerset are only worth watching if they win, responded by suggesting that I should ‘get a life!’
Which got me thinking about what, for some, a life entails.
As a doctor I regularly sit with those whose mental health is so poor that all they want to do is die – and those who mourn the death of those who meant the world to them.
I spend time with those whose cognitive functioning is declining – and those whose chemotherapy hasn’t delivered the cure that had been hoped for. Furthermore I speak to those whose cancer is so far advanced at presentation that an attempt at curative treatment isn’t even an option for them.
I visit those, some of whom are just a few years older than me, who, having had a stroke find themselves in a nursing home – and I console those who, gear themselves up for surgery only to have it cancelled at the last minute meaning that their pain will continue for longer still.
Such are all our lives to a greater or lesser extent and so, in a world full of suffering, we all sometimes need to be distracted by something we enjoy. So yes, because of the life I have, spending a day watching Somerset playing cricket at Taunton is one of the things I like doing most.
It saddens me then when a small minority seem to find it necessary to spoil the pleasure we have in supporting the teams we do by denigrating individuals who have entertained us so wonderfully for so many years. Do they not know how fortunate they are to watch what many are denied the pleasure of because of their life situation? And in a world where we are constantly told we have to be better, where the pressure to prove that we are a success is a constant burden, it’s a shame that they can not enjoy sport for what it is, an opportunity to play, to take part in what is after all just a game, without having always to win.
Of course there’s disappointment when results don’t go the way we might have hoped – but unkindness and rudeness are never justified.
And they make the world, cricketing and otherwise, an even sadder place than, for some, it already is.
There’s a saying that goes, ‘New house, new baby’. Less well known is the one that goes: ‘New job, new puppy’!
A dog, as we all know, is for life, not just for August Bank Holiday Mondays when no county cricket is being played, a day which, though considerably less joyful than the one that marks the pinnacle of the festive season, appears now to be a date fixed in the calendar just as surely as Christmas Day itself.
Even so, with the One Day Cup semifinals unaccountably being played the day after the Bank Holiday, when many supporters would, regrettably, have been back at work, I took the opportunity afforded by a Monday without gainful employment to pick up our new puppy. And so, in one fell swoop, I foiled the nefarious plans of those who seemingly wish to bring about the demise of county cricket by their bizarre scheduling of this year’s fixtures.
Meet Hector!
Because, of course, my action means that, in addition to the countless men, women and children who, with or without canine accompaniment, have enjoyed county cricket this season, there’ll be at least one more man and his dog enjoying the simple pleasures of the summer game when April comes around again next year.
So ha!
But leaving all that aside, here are some other things you need to know about Hector.
1. The son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, he was, apparently, the least annoying of all Greek heroes and the greatest of all the Trojan warriors. He was eventually killed by Achilles. In Greek mythology he was famous for wearing a particular sturdy helmet, so he shouldn’t be fazed by any short pitched bowling should Somerset, or any other team significantly depleted teams by The Hundred, ever come calling.
Butter wouldn’t melt…
2. His middle name is ‘Watching the gathering crowds’ – a reference to Debden Jubilee, the erstwhile news reporter from ‘On The Hour’, that wonderful radio comedy of the early 1990s. Though the moniker is, perhaps, a bit of a mouthful, it is still considerably shorter than that of our last dog, Barney, whose middle name was ‘Don’t drive that Rhino up a tree, it’s fallen death will shame your people’. Chris Morris, Steve Coogan and Armando Iannucci have a lot to answer for!
It may be a flowerbed, but that’s no flower asleep in it!
3. He’s the third dog that we’ve owned since getting married, and he thus fulfils the promise strangely omitted from our marriage vows that stated that we would have a dog for every child that was born to us. Our son, the youngest of our three children is now 25, so it’s taken a bit of time to make good on that particular pledge!
In the correct bed – well very nearly!
4. 14 months on from when we said ‘a farewell to Barns’, Hector has very big paws to fill – even so, as the newest member of our family, we think he’ll be every bit as lovely.
The always smiling Barney.
So far Hector has settled in extremely well. True he needs to be reminded not to help when it comes to picking the flowers in the garden, and does, when excited, have the occasional accident – but hey isn’t that true for all of us as we get a little older! He has also been the much needed incentive to kickstart the decluttering of our home – this is on account of how adept he is at commandeering sundry items we’ve left lying on the floor and then finding them more helpful than the teething toys we’ve bought him, at some expense mark you, to cope with that particular issue.
I’ve heard of read, learn and inwardly digest but this is taking it too far!
For all that though he’s a happy, playful soul who is great company and a joy to have around.
Another ‘jolly old Hector’ – this one from the children’s TV series of the 1960s ‘Hector’s House’ though I recently discovered that the original was in French and called ‘La Maison de Toutou’
I shall enjoy taking him to watch Somerset play. Sadly he won’t be fully vaccinated in time for their final game of the season against Kent next month – but at least, having already mastered the rudiments of the game, he’ll be able to watch the match via the livestream on YouTube!
Already expressing a preference for red ball cricket!
Mind you there have, of late, been some strange things taking place in the town where I live. Crime has plummeted this past week with reports coming in that a caped vigilante has been seen patrolling the mean streets of Wellington throughout the hours of darkness. Furthermore, contrary to our expectations, our sleep has NOT been disturbed by the sound of a puppy crying because he has been left alone in the kitchen overnight. It’s like he’s not even there.
Coincidence? I think not.
By day, the mild mannered Hector, by night… Batdog™ !
Hanging upside down – as every good Batdog™ should!
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The problem with black Labradors is that they don’t show up terribly well in the dark. That’s why we’ve supplied Hector with these rather natty occular accoutrements. Not only can we now see him at reduced lighting levels but he’s also in with a chance of winning ‘The dog with the most appealing eyes’.
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And then, looking down at the sinister creature that she had once again been forced to drag from the very much out of bounds settee, Little Red Riding Hood said:
‘Oh what wild staring eyes you have Hector!’
‘All the better to strike fear into the hearts of those upon whom I fix my gaze, my dear’
‘Oh what inky black fur you have Hector!
‘All the better for lurking in the shadows, my nefarious deeds to pursue unnoticed, my dear’
‘And oh what tiny sharp teeth you have Hector!’
‘All the better to rip the flesh from your invitingly exposed upper limbs, my dear’.
Little Red Riding Hood paused a moment to reappraise her feelings on the issue of canine couch convention and then, having plumped up the two soft cushions of the aforementioned three seated sofa, proceeded to invite the hound to make himself comfortable.
And that, she knew, as she curled up in the long since abandoned dog basket in the corner of the room, was the beginning of…
THE END.
Little Red Riding Hood subsequently took ill – you can find out how she got on seeking medical attention by clicking here
To read ‘The Return of a Dog Called Hector’, click here
Other dog related blogs – several featuring Barney our much loved old Labrador who died last summer.
This is an updated version of a blog which first appeared in January 2023.A link to the original, entitled ‘Whither tomorrow’ along with other related blogs, can be found below.
‘The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps’ Proverbs 16:9
I don’t know if it’s because of my ever greying hair or simply the result of wishful thinking on the part of those who are posing the question, but for the last year or so a day hardly seems to go by without one of my patients asking me how long I think I’ll remain a GP. Recently, and for a number of reasons, the idea of retirement has grown increasingly appealing, so much so that it now feels right to seriously consider the possibility of moving on.
When I think of how many times in my career I have considered giving up medicine, it is in some ways remarkable that I have lasted as long as I have! The first time I thought about chucking it all in was about a month into my A Levels. Back then I was hating Physics so much that I decided to give up studying science and with it the idea of one day being a doctor. But after a few wise words from my Dad I dropped Physics in favour of Biology and so continued to pursue the career I had set my heart on ever since the couple of weeks I’d spent in hospital at an impressionable age. And for a time things got better.
And so I clambered aboard the conveyor belt of medical education and got a place at Bristol. After a wobbly first couple of terms during which I again considered ending my medical career before it had even begun and I was briefly prescribed ‘prothiaden’ which, back then, was a fancy new antidepressant, I eventually settled into university life. But after failing to enjoy the third year which brought with it my first experience of clinical medicine, I intercalated, unconventionally late, in Psychology with the specific intention of leaving university with a degree that would offer me the possibility of a job outside of medicine. For a while I flirted with the idea of accepting the offer I was made to do a PhD but returned instead to Medicine and eventually graduated in 1991.
My year as a houseman wasn’t a happy one either and my wife will tell you how low I was during what, purely coincidentally you understand, was also our first year of marriage. She sometimes had to literally feed me breakfast in the morning, and put my shoes on to get me ready to leave for work. I even temporarily opted out of the NHS pension scheme, so convinced was I that I would not remain a doctor for long, But in time things got better again and I somehow survived my first year as a doctor.
GP training was also an initially miserable time, so much so that, before completing my training, I lined up a job in Psychiatry thinking I might follow this as an alternative career path. Six months of that though was more than enough and so, with my MRCGP now safely under my belt, I became a GP locum. One practice I spent three months at asked me to apply for the partnership that they were then advertising and, having done so, I was fortunate enough to get the post.
And so, in January 1997, I began what thus far have been 26 largely happy years at East Quay Medical Centre, the practice at which I still work. Initially I hated it though, and was genuinely convinced that, as well as being useless, everybody regretted taking me on a partner. But then things got better once again proving that, at least on occasions, things can, and do, improve over time.
That said, I’m not sure that medicine is getting better. On the contrary, I am concerned that the world of medicine has lost it’s way. I’ve been writing about this for well over a decade now but the situation only seems to be getting worse with every passing year. With the medicalisation of normal life and the overemphasis on clinical parameters rather than the individual to whom those parameters refer, modern medicine has begun to diminish what it is to be human. And it has diminished too what it is to be a doctor. What’s more, medicine has, for far too long, arrogantly acted as if it believed it had the power to bring about eternal life and never ending happiness. It spends far to long trying to do what it can’t and too many of those charged with that particularly task have been killing themselves and making themselves unhappy in the attempt.
And perhaps as a consequence, whereas once doctors were considered their patients’ advocate, it seems now that patients are too often perceived as problems, made up of those who have to be managed rather than those who ought to be cared for. But whilst I like to think that I and my colleagues at East Quay have tried not to fall into this way of thinking, it remains the case that doctors in general have, in recent years, been forced to work more remotely from their patients and, as an inevitable consequence of this, have, I believe, found themselves beginning to care for patients less, even as their patients have begun to care less about them.
Because absence does not always make the heart grow fonder.
It also seems to me that medicine has priced itself out of the market – with all that medicine can potentially do, it is now simply too expensive, not only in terms of the burden it imposes on the tax payer but also in terms of the personal cost paid by those who work in healthcare. The toll is too high and something really does need to be done about it.
I’ve been writing on a regular basis now for a little over four years. I find it helpful – so much so that this website is far too cluttered with posts. In his essay ‘Why I write’, George Orwell gave four reasons, suggesting that, to a greater or lesser extent, each one is present as motivating factors in all those who put pen to paper.
The first reason he gave, was SHEER EGOISM. I don’t deny it. I enjoy writing for writing’s sake but if occasionally someone likes what I write, if perhaps I manage to raise a smile or somebody finds something I’ve written helpful, I find that that brings with it a little extra satisfaction.
Next came AESTHETIC ENTHUSIASM. And once again I put my hand up to that one. I enjoy writing because I enjoy writing, even when no one else enjoys reading what I write! I like playing with words, finding an arrangement of sounds that rolls off the tongue and which is pleasing to at least my ear.
Thirdly on Orwell’s list, was HISTORICAL IMPULSE – the simple desire to write about how things are, to record for others what the truth is. Again mea culpa! I feel a responsibility to write about the state of the world, or at least that part of the world that I inhabit. And writing helps me think about what is going on around me, it helps me understand the realm in which I operate.
And the last reason Orwell gave for why writers write was POLITICAL PURPOSE, by which he meant a desire to influence others, to move others to think in ways that the writer themself thinks. And I suppose that’s true of me too, at least to some extent. Indeed it would, I suspect, be odd if it were not the case.
But there is, I think a fifth reason for why I write, one which is, perhaps, at least slightly different to those given by Orwell. And it’s this. The NEED TO BE HEARD.
There are some things that are so important to us, that we need them to be important to others. And for that to happen our concerns have to be heard, and felt, by others.
In an indifferent world it’s important that we listen to those we care about, to make a real effort to hear what they are saying. We may not be able to do much about what is spoken, not in any practical sense at least, but caring enough to recognise it matters to the one who is saying it is, at least, a start. Because to share a little in the experience of others, perhaps even shedding a tear ourselves as others express their sadness, draws us a little closer to the one who suffers, and makes a connection with the one who grieves, a connection that, too often in this frequently contactless world, we fail to make.
And so I write about the things that matter to me most.
I write about cricket – is there anything more important than the domestic cricket season and the violence being done to it by the introduction of franchise cricket? I doubt it, but even so, now is not the time for me to get back on that particular soap box once more.
I write about medicine – of how the NHS is broken and breaking the people who work within it. I write of how it bothers me immensely that patients aren’t getting the treatment they need, not, at least, in a timely fashion. And I write about how it bothers me immensely that people who I care about, people with whom I work, are too often close to tears because of what the job now demands of them.
And I write about other, more general, concerns that trouble me because it’s not only in relation to the world of medicine that people suffer. And irrespective of the reasons for that suffering, and especially when, rather than getting better things seem to be getting progressively worse, I find it helpful to express in what I write some of the sadness I am sometimes prone to feel.
And I write too about my faith – because if it’s everlasting life and infinite joy we want, we will need to look for it somewhere other than medicine. Without the faith which sustains me in difficult times, I really don’t know how I’d be able to cope with all that life sometimes entails. Because like the psalmist I believe that, though weeping may tarry for the nighttime, joy comes with the morning – holding this to be true irrespective of how long and dark the night may be or how far off the day still seems.
So as working in the NHS becomes evermore difficult, have my recurrent thoughts of wanting to leave medicine finally be realised? Have I decided to retire a couple of years earlier than the average age that GPs now hang up their stethoscopes? Well the answer to that question in ‘Yes!’.
But the reason for doing so is not the same as the one that caused me to consider giving up so many times in the past. Then my thoughts of quitting were largely linked to my feelings of being an inadequate doctor. Now, however, though still inadequate to meet the needs of all that is demanded of me, I have become resigned to my inadequacy. In his 2014 Reith Lectures, American surgeon Atul Gawande spoke of our ‘necessary fallibility’ – of how we all now inevitably make mistakes because it is simply not possible for us to know all that there is to know or be able to do all that we are asked to do.
Medicine has, in some respects at least, become something that I have lost faith in. I don’t want to work in an environment which forces those in it to be more concerned for their own welfare than the welfare of others. There’s a lot of talk these days about being kind, generally accompanied with the caveat that our kindness should extend to ourselves. But if we’re to be kind to those we interact with, that is inevitably going to mean that sometimes we will need to be unkind to ourselves, to sometimes make sacrifices for the sake of others. But here’s the thing – when we do, I believe that, rather than suffering, we are enriched by our actions. Sometimes real success comes as a result of our losing everything. Given what once took place on ‘a green hill far away’, there is, I believe, historical precedent for holding such a view.
And I’ve seen a little of this in my own life too. Some years ago, on my day off, a parent phoned the practice regarding their 8 year old son who had been experiencing diarrhoea and vomiting. He was given wholly appropriate advice for home management and advised to call again in the event of any deterioration. The next day the father did indeed call back but proceeded to inform me that all his son’s symptoms were improving. But there was something about the fathers tone of voice that unsettled me and so, at around 6.30 that evening, I called him back and learnt how the child had subsequently significantly deteriorated. Though I was not on call, I offered to do a home visit, an offer that was gladly accepted. When I eventually arrived, the lad had the most obvious meningism that I had ever encountered and I duly gave him a stat dose of iv benzyl penicillin and called for an ambulance which, as they did in those days, duly arrived and whisked him off to hospital in good time.
Now as it happened, that evening I had been invited to a party of a friend who was celebrating her 80th birthday. Inevitably I was very late. When I arrived, several guests expressed their concern for me, imagining, given my tardiness, that I must have had a bad day. I hadn’t though. Though entailing an interruption to my plans, being where I was genuinely needed was hugely rewarding, it was a joy to have been able to help that evening. And today the lad is a young man, one who is still my patient, and always thanks me every time he sees me, foolishly imagining that it was me who saved his life rather than the clever bods at the hospital who did all the hard work.
I’m not sure though that modern general practice is conducive to that sort of doctor-patient relationship anymore. If it isn’t, not only is it a great shame, but it also makes losers of us all, irrespective of whether we are doctors or patients. Sadly the way General Practice used to be is now over. Whilst I would like to think we could abandon medicine by rote and return to a simpler and more thoughtful way of working, I fear that there is now no going back. The horse has bolted and the stable door has been left flapping in the wind.
But more positively, and far more importantly, my retiring from medicine is because the opportunity has a risen for me to do something that I would far rather do. And so I am delighted to announce that, as from December 1st, I will, God willing, take up the position of South West Regional Representative for the Slavic Gospel Association (SGA), an organisation which, as well as delivering vital aid to those who need it, shares my very great desire to bring the good news of Jesus Christ to the people of Eastern Europe.
Furthermore, now that the colorectal screening that I recently had the dubious pleasure of undertaking hasn’t resulted in a spanner being thrown in the works, I am at 56, of an age when I may yet be able to give 10 good years to this new chapter of my life – significantly more than I’d have remained in medicine.
Inevitably there are downsides to my moving on – I will of course miss my patients but, because of the way medicine is heading, the sad truth is that I already feel somewhat less connected to them than I once did. And I will miss those who I have worked alingside, colleagues who I am pleased to count amongst my very best friends.
Back in January I wrote of my concern that, were I to leave, I might prove difficult to replace, not because of anything special in myself, but because of the ongoing and deepening GP recruitment crises. Providentially though, after months of trying, recent attempts by the practice to find new clinicians have been successful. And so I am confident that my leaving now will not destabilise the practice which has been such a large part of my life, the practice that has cared for the many patients of whom I have become so very fond, and the practice which remains and is made up of colleagues who I am sure will continue to provide an excellent service to the good folk of Bridgwater.
So I will miss working at East Quay but I am, at the same time, tremendously excited by this next chapter of my life, one which I hope will, with God’s help, prove to be every bit as worthwhile as the years I have spent in medicine.
And perhaps even more so.
For those interested in learning more about SGA, there website address can be visited here
Furthermore, please feel free to get in touch or share this blog if you or a church group you know might be interested in me popping up at a Sunday service or midweek meeting to tell you more in person. I would be delighted to come and meet with you.
Related blogs:
To read ‘Whither tomorrow?, the original version of the above blog, click here
To read ‘Lewis Capaldi – Retired Hurt: The Need for Kindness’
In the preface to his book critiquing the effect of television on our culture, Neil Postman compares the concerns of George Orwell in ‘1984’ with those of Aldous Huxley in ‘Brave New World’. He writes:
‘What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture’
What is particularly astonishing is the fact that Postman’s book was written in 1985, long before the exponential rise in the number of TV channels and the dawn of Social Media which together have served to confirm Postman’s view that Huxley, not Orwell, was right. It is not religion, as Marx asserted in 1843, that has become the opium of the masses, but rather it is entertainment that numbs us to what is real and valuable.
It was then for good reason that Postman’s book was entitled, ‘Amusing ourselves to Death’.
Recently I heard a view being expressed that the changes being made to cricket seemed to be designed to appeal to those who had no interest in the game. Whether, as was being suggested, that is the expressed intent of those who are making the changes is up for debate, but one can’t help thinking that Postman would have recognised in the dumbing down of cricket for the benefit of a hitherto disinterested audience the same tendency towards trivialisation that he had documented so cogently in his book. Indeed, if Postman’s book was ever revised and updated, one can’t help wondering if room would be made for a chapter on how ‘The Hundred’, left unchecked, will ultimately reduce cricket to just one more meaningless pursuit, one barely distinguishable from the myriad others that seek to do nothing other than distract us from ever having an original thought ourselves.
Because, to be rendered ‘absent of thought’ is, after all, what ‘to be amused’ means.
It is of interest to me as one who walks in ecclesiastical circles, that some churches have in recent years made the same mistake that cricket is making today. Indeed, Postman rightly criticised how the church in his day was already becoming obsessed with entertaining the congregation – or should that be audience – by prioritising ‘fun’ over faithfulness to its core message. Now don’t get me wrong, the motivation for such a change of emphasis may have been well intended, but the problem is, whilst it may have swelled numbers attending services for a time, such superficial treatment of what, for many, are considered matters of deep significance, not only failed to maintain the interest of those they were designed to attract, but also alienated those who had been churchgoers for years and who longed for something of substance on a Sunday morning.
Might not the trivialising nature of ‘The Hundred’ have a similar effect on cricket?
But, you might be thinking, going to church and watching cricket are totally different pursuits. And I would, of course, agree with you. Even so there are perhaps some comparisons that might be usefully made.
As cricket races to find more ways to entertain the crowds it hopes to attract, how often do those methods provide evidence that those employing them have lost confidence in the game itself by suggesting that simply being a spectator is not a sufficiently enjoyable way to spend one’s leisure time. Because it now seems that not even reducing the number of deliveries in what was once called an over in a patronising attempt to make it easier for those who it’s presumably believed can’t count to six, is enough to guarantee that your target audience have a good time. For that, it would appear, it’s now necessary to have a merchandising T-shirt thrown in their face and the opportunity to gurn mindlessly in front of one of the TV cameras that are forever being pointed at them rather than the game itself.
Andy Warhol was wrong – it’s not that everyone will one day have their fifteen minutes of fame, now a mere fifteen seconds of infamy would appear to be enough.
It’s been said elsewhere that whatever it is that you use to draw your audience, you’ll need to continue to provide if you want that audience to remain. And so I believe that if cricket wants to survive it needs to captivate people with cricket – it needs to entice people in by displaying the games intrinsic beauty and not detracting from it glories with those superficial and ubiquitous fripperies that, whilst briefly amusing to some, will inevitably fail to ensure the game’s long term survival. And that’s the problem with ‘The Hundred’ – ‘It’s cricket Jim’, as Bones might say to a bemused Captain James T, Kirk, ‘but not as we know it’. As such it will never protect the future of the game we know and love.
This last week I’ve been holidaying in the Yorkshire Dales. It’s a beautiful part of the world which is made even more so by the many village cricket grounds that dot the landscape. But whilst I’ve taken great pleasure from walking through countryside protected by the National Trust and visiting buildings preserved by English Heritage, I’m sure that both those organisation would say that their endeavours are not merely to maximise my enjoyment. More than that there is something inherently important about these places that needs to be held on to.
Wouldn’t it be great if there was an organisation that sought to similarly preserve cricket for the good of the nation because, whilst one would like to think that there was such a body in place already, some of those in positions of power seem to be behaving like whoever it was who thought it was a good idea to build a set of tacky entertainments at Land’s End. Such amusements may have their place, but it’s not where they detract from the splendour of such a wonderful part of the British coastline.
And it’s not at Lord’s or the Oval either. Still less at the County Ground in Taunton!
This afternoon I found myself in the Wharfdale village of Hubberholm. There I took the opportunity to visit the church of St Michael’s and All Angels in the graveyard of which the ashes of J.P. Priestly were once scattered. I was reminded of some words he wrote about the Grand Canyon. He said
‘It is all Beethoven’s Nine Symphonies in stone and magic light. Even to remember it is still there lifts the heart’
For me something similar could be said about the game of cricket. Because come close of play, cricket isn’t just about being entertained. It’s far more than that. Because even when you’re not watching it yourself, and despite your team losing to your arch rival to the tune of 198 runs, it’s somehow reassuring to know that the game is still being played.
And if one day it’s not, if one day the game dies, I for one will not be in the least bit amused. Because I can cope with Somerset losing, but not with losing Somerset.
And now a couple of cricket blogs with a theological flavour
To read ‘Somerset CCC – Good for the soul’, click here
To read ‘Longing for the pavilion whilst enjoying a good innings’, click here
And finally, to read ‘Something to feast your eyes on’, a theologically minded blog unrelated to cricket but which reflecting further on Postaman’s book, click here
‘I went to the doctor, guess what he told me Guess what he told me He said, “Girl you better try to have fun, no matter what you do” But he’s a fool’
Sinéad O’Connor was found dead on July 26th. I was saddened when I heard the news – like me she was just 56 years old.
Her best known song is without doubt ‘Nothing compares 2U’. In it there is a line when she describes her doctor as a fool for not appreciating the depth of her distress and imagining that she could climb out of her sorrow by simply having herself some fun. I can’t help but feel the pointedness of those words every time I hear them.
Tragically one can’t help wondering if life has mirrored art in the case of Sinéad O’Connor. Did the depth of her distress go similarly unnoticed? Either way, I just hope that I haven’t been so insensitive myself with the words I have spoken to those who have brought their sadness to me.
Because whilst I’m pretty sure that I’ve never told somebody that the answer to their problems was to simply to go out and enjoy themselves, I do wonder if I have sometimes been guilty of imagining I do have an answer to an individual’s genuine distress when the truth is that I don’t – not in any medical sense at least – not by way of a wholly inadequate and oftentimes inappropriate prescription for an antidepressant, nor in the form of an overly optimistic recommendation for a too highly valued psychological technique.
Well I remember witnessing a young woman who was experiencing a panic attack being encouraged to think of four things she could hear and then being helped to do so by her therapist tapping his feet! Irrespective of how well intended the advice was, rather than somehow lessening the sufferers very real anxiety, it was, in actuality, as embarrassing as it was woefully ineffective.
Because the truth is that sometimes nothing we have to offer ourselves comes close to being able to benefit those who come to us for help. Sometimes the sadness can not be just medicated or rationalised away.
As I write the cause of Sinéad O’Connor death has yet to be determined* but if, as many suppose, it was by her own hand, it will no doubt have come on the back of the years of poor mental health that the singer had been open about having suffered, an openness that extended to how she had, on more than one occasion, attempted to kill herself. Furthermore she has spoken freely about how impossible she found having to somehow come to terms with her son’s suicide last year. Her’s then was an undoubtedly difficult life. What, I wonder, would I have suggested to her had she come to me for help? And would my words have proved that I too was a ‘fool’?
Leaving aside medicine’s ineffectiveness, it was heartening to see the outpouring of affection at Sinéad O’Connor’s funeral. I won’t pretend that I loved her – of course, I never knew her – I simply enjoyed her music, but it would appear she was remembered fondly by the thousands of people who lined the streets along which her funeral cortège travelled. I wonder though if Sinéad O’Conner herself knew the warmth of the affection in which she was held. And if not – why not? Was it that the traumatic experiences of her past were too painful for that affection to penetrate, or was it perhaps because too often, the kind words that could have been said to her, simply weren’t?
But of course Sinéad O’Connor is only one of the many, many people who find their daily life too hard. And, as well as those who struggle, there are those who have given up, those for whom the fight has gone on too long, and who now, with still no end in sight, find everything just too much. And many of them aren’t the recipients of even unspoken affection. Unlike Sinéad O’Connor, nobody knows of their unhappiness. And nobody cares. So alone are they that no one will even ever have the chance to add to their distress by advising the impossible.
So what is to be done about the huge issue of the nations worsening mental health that we all too often try to conceal beneath an imaginary veneer of everything being OK? I won’t make the mistake of the doctor referred to in the aforementioned song but suffice to say that medicine must at the very least stop pretending to have the answer. Not only because it hasn’t, but because by doing so it absolves the responsibility of society as a whole of being a part of the solution.
In short we need to learn how to love and be loved. The plight of those who are desperate needs to be recognised – by all of us. And since ‘nothing can stop lonely tears from falling’, we need to find not only a way to come alongside those who find themselves downcast, but also a way to allow others to come alongside us when it is we who are struggling most.
Because a sorrow shared is a sorrow shared. And though no less sad, it is surely better than one that is encountered alone.
*On January 9th 2024 a coroner judged that Sinéad O’Connor died of natural causes. Though in some ways this changes nothing, it is nonetheless heartening to know that her death was not a result of poor mental health. Even so, poor mental health is a present reality for many that needs to be better understood by all of us.
Related posts:
To read ‘Eleanor Rigby is not at all fine’, click here
To read ‘Professor Ian Aird: A Time to Die?’, click here
A man enters a shop, in the corner of which an accordionist is inexplicably playing ‘I am a Cider Drinker’. Several members of the Nempnett Thrubwell Young Farmers Club are also present. Dressed in the traditional attire of the Morris dancer they are waving their handkerchiefs and sticks in the air. The man, who is the chair of the selectors [CS] for the Somerset cricket team, approaches the counter behind which stands a shop keeper [SK].
CS: Good morning
SK: Morning, sir. Welcome to the Somerset Cricket Players Emporium.
CS: Thank you my good man.
SK: What can I do for you sir?
CS: Well I was sitting in the top tier of the Marcus Trescothick Pavillon, skimming through the latest edition of Wisden when suddenly I came over all perturbed.
SK: Perturbed, sir?
CS: Discomfited
SK: Eh?
CS: Aye, I was roight worried loike.
SK: Ah, worried.
CS: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, I’ll ease my anxious rumination as to how I might make up a full team of players for Somerset’s next outing in the Metro Bank One Day Cup by visiting your establishment. So I curtailed my scrutinisation of the aforementioned Almanack, executed a quick single and and took up my guard in your place of purveyance to enquire upon the availability of a individual distinguished in the art of either batting or bowling.
SK: Come again?
CS: I want a player for an upcoming cricket fixture.
SK: Oh, I thought you were moaning about the accordion player.
CS: Oh, heaven forbid, I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Adge Cutler benefaction.
SK: Sorry?
CS: Ooh ah, I loike the Wurzels my lover!
SK: So he can go on playing, can he?
CS: Most certainly, now then, a cricketer my good man.
SK: Certainly, sir, who would you like?
CS: Well, how about a Tom Banton.
SK: I’m afraid we’re fresh out of Tom Banton, sir
CS: Oh, never mind, how are you on Will Smeed?
SK: I’m afraid we never have Smeedy at this point of the season sir, he’ll be back in next year.
CS: Tish tish, no matter, well stout yeoman, a full portion of Tom Lammonby if you please.
SK: He’s been on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting him to be made available this morning.
CS: T’s not my lucky day, is it, aah, Roelof van der Merwe?
SK: Sorry sir.
CS: Lewis Gregory?
SK: Normally, sir, yes. Today, though, no.
CS: Ah, Tom Kohler-Cadmore?
SK: Sorry.
CS: Jack Leach?
SK: No
CS: Craig Overton? Ben Green?
SK: No.
CS: Josh Davey perhaps?
SK: Ah we have Josh Davey, yes, sir.
CS: You do? Excellent.
SK: Yes sir, he’s ah, not entirely match fit.
CS: I’ll be happy if he has two legs and a willing spirit.
SK: Well, ah, he is rather a long way from being fully fit actually.
CS: No matter, fetch hither the all rounder from Aberdeen, mwah.
SK: I think he’s more unfit than you’ll like, sir
CS: I don’t care how unfit he is, hand him over with all speed.
SK: Oh!
CS: What now?
SK: He’s suffered a side injury and is unfit to play.
CS: Has he?
SK: Yes, sir.
CS: Kasey Aldridge?
SK: No.
CS: You do have some Somerset cricket players, do you?
SK: Of course, sir, it’s a Somerset cricket player shop, sir. We’ve got…
CS: No, no, don’t tell me, I’m keen to guess.
SK: Fair enough,
CS: Alfie Ogbourne?
SK: Yes.
CS: Ah well, I’ll have him.
SK: Oh I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mr Alfred Ogbourne, that’s my name.
CS: Sonny Baker?
SK: No.
CS: Aah, how about Matt Henry?
SK: We’ll, we don’t get much call for him around here sir. Not these days.
CS: Not much call, he’s been Somerset’s stand out overseas player this season.
SK: That’s as maybe sir. But he’s sadly returned now to New Zealand. So he’s no longer available – not round these parts at least.
CS: Tell me then. Who is the most sought after player round these parts?
SK: Tom Abell.
CS: Is he?
SK: Oh, yes, he’s staggeringly popular in this neck of the woods.
CS: Is he?
SK: He’s our number one most reliable player
CS: I see, Tom Abell, eh?
SK: That’s right, sir.
CS: All right, okay, ‘Have you got him?’ he asked, expecting the answer ‘No’.
SK: I’ll have a look, sir…[the shopkeeper has a good look round]…um, No.
CS: It’s not much of a Somerset Player shop is it.
SK: Finest in the district.
CS: Explain the logic underlying that conclusion, please
SK: We’ll it’s so clean.
CS: It’s certainly uncontaminated by Somerset players.
SK: You haven’t asked me about Peter Siddle, sir
CS: Is it worth it?
SK: Could be
CS: Have you Peter Siddle?
SK: No, suffered a nasty hand injury and was only ever contracted till the end of July anyway. Back home in Australia now I’m afraid.
CS: That figures, predictable really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place. Tell me?
SK: Yes, sir
CS: Have you, in fact, got any Somerset players here at all?
SK: Yes sir.
CS: Really?
SK: No, not really, sir.
CS: You haven’t?
SK: No sir, not a single one. As well as a number of unfortunate injuries, it’s the consequence of so many players being drafted to The Hundred, sir – nine at last count.
CS: Well, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to complain about the state of county cricket.
SK: Ah, yes, county cricket… What’s wrong with it.
CS: I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. It’s dead. That’s what’s wrong with it
SK: No, no, sir…it’s resting.
CS: Resting? Then why is red ball cricket being sidelined to that part of the year when the weather is at its least agreeable for playing the summer game? And why has the much loved one day competition been downgraded to a development competition to make way for a dumb-downed and wholly unnecessary second competition in the shortest format of the game?
SK: Ah, that’s to ensure a ‘strong, high performing, domestic game the fans will love’.
CS: A domestic game the fans will love?! The domestic game is no more. It has ceased to be. It’s expired and gone to meet its maker. It’s bereft of life, it’s kicked the bucket, it’s shuffled off its mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible. It is now an ex domestic season.
SK: Sir?
CS: What is it?
SK: We appeared to have slipped into a different sketch
CS: So we have. I’m sorry.
[The chairman of selectors turns, tells the accordionist to stop playing and, with head bowed low, leaves the shop. Behind him the shopkeeper opens the iPlayer app on his phone and out of curiosity starts watching coverage of The Hundred.]
SK: What a senseless waste of human life.
With apologies to life long Somerset supporter John Cleese and all the other members of Monty Python’s Flying Circus.
This is an updated version of a blog first posted last year and is meant only to highlight the adverse effect of ‘The Hundred’ on what was once a highlight of the domestic cricket season – namely the one day cup. It is in no way meant to criticise those players taking part in ‘The Hundred’ or indeed undermine the efforts of those who remain available to play for Somerset.
And for any unfamiliar with Monty Python’s original, you can view it here
Today sees the end of our Austrian adventure, one in which Christopher Plummer has proved as elusive in Mayrhofen as Julie Andrews was in Salzburg! Still, though we may not have climbed every mountain, we are exceedingly grateful for the many happy memories we can look back on. Here then are some more of our favourite things…
Views from high altitudes that are amazing, Cattle in meadows contentedly grazing, Austrian homes that to mountainsides cling, These were a few of our favourite things.
Rafting a river replete with white water, Eating more kuchen than one really oughta, Dining al fresco on sunny evenings, These were a few of our favourite things.
Walking upstream in a valley that narrows, Practicing Austrian accented ‘Hallo’s, Seeing a cow with a neck bell that rings, These were a few of our favourite things.
Visits to places where welcomes were real, Glasses of schnapps at the end of a meal, Birds overhead with their fine feathered wings, These were a few of our favourite things.
Searching for clues with a GPS thingy Climbing a tree on a rope ladder swingy Die Tasse Kaffee die Kellnerin brings, These were a few of our favourite things
Austrian Spätzle – it’s like macaroni, Drinking red wine on our top floor bal-co-ny! Sounds that a yodeller makes when he sings, These were a few of our favourite things.
When it’s time to, say farewell to, Tyrolean skies, We’ll simply remember our favourite things, And then say our last goodbyes.
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
To read ‘Salzburg: some favourite things’, click here
Early in our stay in Mayrhofen, we took a cable car up a mountain whereupon we came across a man whose job it was to look after goats. His was a solitary existence, a consequence, at least in part, of the curious way he spoke and the excessive volume of his utterances.
But it was from him that we learnt of a significant improvement in the health of the hills on which he stood. The hills have apparently benefited enormously from melody based therapy and so it appears that earlier reports of their death have been greatly exaggerated.
And as you’d expect, so excited was I by this heartening news, I couldn’t help but share it with others!
The hills are alive with the sound of music!
*****
‘Zwei adler bitte’
Imagining that I had by now developed a degree of proficiency in the German language, it was with some confidence that I said these words to the young lady who was sat in the mountain top kiosk outside where yesterday’s open air falconry display was about to take place.
But despite the politeness of my request, she handed me the pair of adult tickets I had wanted rather than the two eagles that I had, I realised later, erroneously just asked for!
Which was probably just as well. For not only would I have struggled to squeeze them into my suitcase, close as I already am to my 10kg baggage allowance, but they’d also have posed a problem when it came to passing through airport security as some overzealous officer would, likely as not, classify their talons as a disallowed sharp object and then insist that they somehow flew themselves home instead!
Steppe EagleSiberian Eagle Owl
Just garnering opinions. Does anyone else think that the ticket machines for Austrian ‘Pay and Display’ car parks shouldn’t be located quite so close to bus stops?
I only ask as I can conceive of a situation whereby a hapless non-German speaker thinks he’s bought a couple of tickets for a trip, let’s say from Ginzling to Mayrhofen, only to find that, when the bus eventually arrives, he’s actually paid to park his nonexistent car.
Twice.
Just a thought!
A Mayrhofen bus.
If my time in Austria has taught me anything it’s just how much Mozart and me are alike!
Here then are three things we have in common:
Both short in stature – Mozart is estimated to have been just 152 cms in height.
Because of our appearance, both best viewed in dim lighting – Mozart is said to have believed his nose looked like a potato, hence his apparent preference for being painted in profile
Both past our best by 35 – the age at which Mozart died.
But despite the last of these similarities being particularly striking, it was nonetheless a little disappointing to be asked by a bus driver this morning whether I was a senior citizen! Unless of course I misunderstood, and ‘pensionär’ is the German for musical genius.
No, I didn’t think so either!
W.A. Mozart Parsley, apparently, in case you were wondering!
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
To read ‘Salzburg: some favourite things’, click here
Today was our last full day in Salzburg, the city where the Sound of Music was filmed. As yet we’ve not bumped into any of the cast but…
Flute playing buskers, pleasing to the ear, One litre flagons of Austrian beer, Fresh drinking water from high Alpine springs, These are a few of our favourite things.
Visiting places discovered on Google, Anywhere serving their own Apfelstrudel, Mountain top castles for bishops not kings, These are a few of our favourite things.
Finding out what from the menu we’ve chosen, Locals out walking in their lederhosen, Hearing the bell that on each hour rings, These are a few of our favourite things.
Oversized pretzels and cool river cruises, No time to spare for those afternoon snoozes, Scenes from the movie in which Julie sings, These are a few of our favourite things.
Grand architecture with fine art augmented, Viewing the houses that Mozart frequented, Music performed on piano and strings, These are a few of our favourite things.
When it’s time to, say goodbye to, Salzburg city streets, We’ll simply remember our favourite things And smile as our trip completes.
So its ‘so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye’ to you and it’s ‘Adieu to yieu,’ Salzburg too!
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
When in Salzburg do as the Salzburgians do – so today we went in search of Mozart.
Having seen where he was born and, later, where he was bought up, we hurried past the McDonalds where he once ate. Never mind the fact that it was there that he reputedly wrote Eine Kleine McNachtmusik for today we were after more than a Mozart Megameal or a Wolfgang Waffle. And given yesterday’s gastronomic disaster, not even a Amadeus Apfelkuchen was likely to tempt us.
Eventually though we were successful in our quest and we were privileged to enjoy a wonderful concert of Mozarts’s music in the Marble Hall of the Mirabell Palace. However, despite his regularly performing there, the night we attended we were disappointed to discover that it wasn’t Mozart himself who was playing but a rather impressive tribute band instead, one that was, however, wonderfully adept at capturing the sound of Mozart’s original recordings.
Mind you, I thought the band would have come up with a sassier name for themselves than Ensemble 1833 – something like ‘Recce-M’ perhaps!
The photograph above is of what purports to be the smallest McDonalds sign in the world. It hangs outside the restaurant which is conveniently located just a couple of crotchets away from where Mozart was born.
Which must have proved handy when the musical maestro’s mother and father needed to find something for tea presto!
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
To say that the seating arrangements were cramped would be an understatement but the fact that every seat was taken suggested to us that the food on offer would be worth sampling.
The waitress did her very best to ensure that we were seated comfortably but her explaining how the restaurant should be evacuated in the event of any untoward incident did nothing for our appetites. Furthermore, her proudly pointing out how every table had its own emergency oxygen supply and her insistence on demonstrating to us how it was to be used was surely over attentiveness on her part.
Oddly we were then asked to temporarily fold our table away. Noticing how our fellow diners complied unquestionably and imagining this was some kind of local custom, we followed suit and took the opportunity to peruse the menu. It’s contents were not as imaginative as we’d have liked and I was left to choose between penne arrabbiata, a hot bacon baguette or the overpriced pea and falafel wrap I’d bought previously and had managed to smuggle through the rather excessive security arrangements that the establishment had in place.
I opted for the latter – and wisely so given how the dishes placed before less wary customers bore little resemblance to how they had been pictured on the restaurant’s website.
We can only hope for a more positive experience when we return in a fortnight having, foolishly perhaps, already pre booked a second visit to the eatery.
Rating: 1 star
The restaurant I attended was Flight LS1841 from Bristol to Innsbruck located at the time of our meal somewhere over Belgium.
[The picture above is from the establishment’s online advertising]
Related autobiographical blogs, some more tongue in cheek than others:
To read ‘Sharing the important things – on introducing your grandchild to cricket’, click here
To read ‘The green green leaves of home’, click here
I’ve always been drawn to magicians and the tricks that they perform. It is, I think, not just the mystery of magic that intrigues me but also the magic of mystery itself. Because whilst it’s fun to try to work out how they do the seemingly impossible, the greatest pleasure comes when the skill of the performer leaves you utterly perplexed. Understanding how the illusion is achieved is invariable disappointing since, in so doing, the extraordinary becomes the commonplace and the unbelievable becomes mundane. We all need a little mystery in our lives – speaking to us as it does that there is something beyond the ordinary that each and every one of us needs. As such there is comfort in the incomprehension.
I was thinking about this again this week after James Rew scored an unquestionably magnificent double century in Somerset’s game against Hampshire. Just 19 years old Rew is a prodigious talent who has already scored six first class centuries and it’s little wonder therefore that his innings is being talked about by many who, looking on admiringly, are already talking about him as a future England player. But as I read more and more of his performance I began to wonder if the extent of the associated analysis might ultimately be detracting from the performance itself. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a statistic as much as the next person and, apparently, considerably more so than my wife, but perhaps there comes a point when we would do better to understand less and marvel more at what it is we are watching. Because, just as the enjoyment derived from a Beethoven symphony is not magnified by knowing the number of notes it contains, the beauty of one of James Rew’s cover drives is not enhanced by knowing the percentage of runs he’s scored in front of square on the off side.
A similar problem exists in the world of medicine where attention is focused on a patients clinical parameters without sufficient thought being given to the individual to whom those parameters apply. The result of this micro management is that too often patients become cases to be managed rather than individuals to be cared for.
And so I find myself asking why this might be the case. Perhaps it’s got something to do with our overwhelming desire to be in control and imagining that with complete understanding of the world in which we find ourselves, we would be like God. But here’s the thing. ‘Overwhelming’ is exactly what that desire is since, finite as we are, we simply aren’t able to know all that there is to know. There is simply too much information out there and we are, as Atul Gawande describes, ‘necessarily fallible’ as a result. Furthermore, in pursuing the infinite our finite minds are deprived of the joy of stepping back and marvelling at the whole.
Because sometimes the wood is more beautiful than the trees.
Perhaps, therefore, science is in danger of trying to do too much. C.S. Lewis had some interesting things to say about how the focus of what science seeks to do has changed over time. In his ‘The Abolition of Man’ (1943) he wrote how, whereas it used to seek knowledge in order to understand how humankind conformed to reality, science now seeks ‘to subdue reality to the wishes of men’. Lewis contended that there were dangers inherent in such an ambition. He realised that it would be those with power who would impose their wishes on the weak and maintained that any attempt to subdue reality to the wishes of the powerful would require nature to be conquered in order that it conformed to their desires. That, he said, would require a reducing of all of nature to nothing but it’s component parts, denying anything beyond the merely physical and quantifying everything only in terms of what we can measure. Lewis believed that, since humanity is itself a part of nature, this diminishing of the whole would ultimately diminish humanity and bring about what he called the ‘abolition of man’.
If Lewis is right, therefore, not only does our perceived need to be in complete control deprive us of the pleasure that comes from simply accepting our position of spectator and marvelling at what there is to see, it also leads to our ultimately diminishing all that has been put in place for us to enjoy. This is not to suggest that we should abandon all attempts to discover the truth – far from it, the truth is out there and is to be pursued – but it is to recognise that there are some things that we can not know and that there is wisdom in accepting that this is indeed the case.
But as well as being content with mystery, perhaps we might find some comfort in it too. Take suffering for example, that aspect of life that eventually enters into all our lives and frequently leaves us wondering ‘Why?’. Some say there is no answer to that question, that suffering is utterly meaningless. But whilst understanding how some are drawn to that conclusion, there is no comfort in it. Furthermore the inference that many go on to make that there is no God reinforces their hopeless position. But just because we cannot understand something doesn’t mean that it has no meaning. It means only that, wrapped in mystery, the meaning is beyond our understanding.
So if there is a God, why does he sometimes chose to allow us to suffer? Given what I have already said about this being mysterious ground, we should of course step carefully – the answer may never be ours to know. The wisest counsel when asked to give a reason for why a person is suffering is almost certainly to keep silent because there is certainly no easy, concise, one size fits all answer. But we could do worse than listen to what God said when Job asked him why he was made to suffer. The answer that God gave may not satisfy everything for what he said from out of the whirlwind was this:
“I will question you” (Job 38:3)
G.K. Chesterton writes:
‘…God comforts Job with indecipherable mystery, and for the first time Job is comforted…Job flings at God one riddle, God flings back at Job a hundred riddles, and Job is at peace. He is comforted with conundrums. The riddles of God, Chesterton writes, are more satisfying than the solutions of men’
In the prologue to the book of Job we see that Job was tormented, not because he was the worst of men, but because he was the best. There is a sense, therefore, in which Job points us to one who later suffered on a cross. Job is not told that his misfortunes were due to his sins, or part of any plan for his self improvement – but we are, none the less, told that he was allowed to suffer under God’s sovereign care. That a good man should suffer at the hands of a loving God is a paradox. Chesterton calls it ‘the very darkest and strangest of … paradoxes’ which is, he says, ‘by all human testimony the most reassuring’.
We cannot then know everything – neither are we meant to. We need mystery in our lives – to be both thrilled and comforted by. As such rather than seeking to understand it is sometimes better to step back and marvel – and most specifically of all at the infinite mystery of God which is both necessary and sufficient to inspire us all to trust in his sovereign goodness.
Wishing you all a magically mysterious day!
By way of light relief, here’s Hugh Laurie singing about ‘Mystery’
Related posts:
To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here
To read “Why do bad things happen to good people – a tentative suggestion”, click here
It’s coming home It’s coming home It’s coming Cricket’s coming home
Everyone seems to know the score They’ve seen it all before They just know They’re so sure Somerset’s Gonna throw it away Gonna blow it away But I know they can play Cos I remember
A [Mythical creature of disputed nomenclature]* on a shirt Games on YouTube streaming All those years of hurt Never stopped me dreaming
So many jokes, so many sneers But all those oh-so-nears Wear you down Through the years But I still see: Smeed and Banton unleashed A TKC run feast Matt Henry running in And the Green machine
A [Mythical creature of disputed nomenclature]* on a shirt Games on YouTube streaming All those years of hurt Never stopped me dreaming
Now for the third time in a row To Edgbaston we go We can win We all know Because we have Louie G keeping calm Sodhi turning his arm Tom Abell in the field And Craig O’s big hands
A [Mythical creature of disputed nomenclature]* on a shirt Games on YouTube streaming All those years of hurt Never stopped me dreaming
I know that was then but it could be again
It’s coming home It’s coming home It’s coming Cricket’s coming home
*For better scansion please insert ‘Dragon’ or ‘Wyvern’ depending on your position on this most contentious of issues!
This week Somerset played Hampshire at the County Ground in Taunton. An epic performance deserves to be immortalised in verse. Until such time as it is, this will have to do…
‘Twas the week of the final and though some protested, TKC, Henry and Craig O were rested, Leaving the likes of Bashir and James Rew, To show to the faithful just what they could do.
‘Tis true that their start against Hampshire was poor, (With forty one runs scored, those out numbered four!) But though one or two, on a loss may have betted, It soon became clear that we needn’t have fretted!
The fifth wicket fell with the score on just eighty – The pressure on Aldridge it must have been weighty – But with the aforementioned, cool headed, Rew Together the pair put on one ninety two!
More then were added from the welcomed back Bess, And Shoaib Bashir, with the bat, did impress With the innings completed a glance at the board, Showed us that five hundred runs had been scored.
The man known as ferret then with his first ball, Took the first wicket of Hampshire’s to fall, And fans of that county all started to wince When Lammers, off Ogbourne, caught captain James Vince.
And though for a while they still had a shout Of avoiding the follow on, Hants were all out Twenty runs short of the total they’d needed, And so to enforce it, Tom Abell proceeded
Two wickets fell ‘ere the end of day three, And all who were watching they had to agree, That now, with a wicket conducive to spin, This was a game that the youngsters could win.
But though on the final day, wickets did fall, The bowlers’ best efforts could not take them all, But one thing is certain, yes one thing is clear, They’re talented: Aldridge, Ogbourne and Bashir.
The match it thus ended, the result was a draw, But those who spectated enjoyed what they saw, Cos there’s no denying what everyone knows, the Future of Somerset cricket is rosy!
Other ill-advised attempts at cricket verse:
To read ‘On passing a village cricket club at dusk one late November afternoon’ click here
To read ‘I’ve got a little CRICKET list’, click here
To read ‘How the Grinch stole from county cricket…or at least tried to’. click here
To read ‘My love is not a red, red rose , click here
My first memory of watching the Ashes was in 1977. I was 10 at the time and don’t remember a great deal about it other than seeing Derek Randall taking the catch that meant that most famous of little urns would once again return to England. Oddly enough, what I seem to remember most, is Randall’s rather jaunty walk after he took the catch!
Looking up the scorecard now, I see that the match in question, the fourth test played at Headingly, was a far from close game with England winning by an innings and 85 runs – Rod Marsh, the Australian wicket keeper, being the last man out, caught by the aforementioned Nottinghamshire favourite off the bowling of Mike Hendrick. But in addition to those two greats of the game, there were also many other legendary English players on the team sheet back then. Mike Brearley captained the side that, as well as including the Kent trio of Bob Woolmer, Alan Knott and Derek Underwood, was made up of the likes of Tony Grieg, Bob Willis and Geoff Boycott who, I see, scored his 100th first class hundred in that game. I don’t suppose Geoffrey would be too happy if he ever learnt that I found his greatest achievement less memorable than Randall post-catch gait!
And of course there was also a certain I.T. Botham who made his England debut that year. I remember being at Weston-super-Mare that summer to watch Somerset and being exited to hear some in the crowd singing that all time classic, ‘Botham plays for England, Botham plays for England, La, la, la, la – La, la, la, la’, and being prompted by its imaginative lyrics to wonder who this new young player might be, a novice as I then was to watching Somerset. I soon, of course, found out!
If memory serves me right we were staying at my Great Aunt’s in Teignmouth when the Ashes were regained – the south Devon seaside town being a regular holiday destination for our family in those days. What is certainly true though is that it was there that I first saw Test cricket – watching some of the 1976 series against the West Indies on her, novel for us at the time, colour TV. My parents must have noticed my burgeoning interest in cricket as it was the following summer that they first took me to see Somerset in a game played against Northants. It was played at the Clarence Park ground in Weston-super-Mare and I remember being thrilled to see David Steele, England’s hero of the previous summer, fielding just on the other side of the boundary rope from where we were had laid out our picnic blanket and made ourselves comfortable.
I’m so glad my parents took me to that game for it was the beginning of what has been a life long love of cricket. And that’s why I’ve been so keen to introduce my grandson to the game.
Earlier this summer I took him to see his first game, also, coincidentally enough, a county championship game between Somerset and Northants though this match, played on the day that King Charles was crowned, took place at the county ground in Taunton.
A view from the boundary at the County Ground in Taunton
At just 18 months old, though he had already mastered the necessary oral acrobatics to vocalise, when prompted, not only ‘T – K – C’ but also ‘La, la, la’, he was still unable to combine the latter with ‘Som-er-set’ in a way that would wholly endear him to the Taunton faithful. It was however an undoubtedly formative experience for him even if it is just possible that he was more interested in where Brian the club cat lived than spending time watching England stars of the calibre of Jack Leach and Craig Overton performing out on the playing field. Furthermore, despite my going to some considerable trouble to explain to him the details of how you can be given out LBW, his favourite bit of the evening session that we attended, seems to have been the opportunity he was afforded to splash in the puddles he found in the family stand.
Even so, if he is asked in years to come whether he remembers Coronation Day, I hope he’ll reply ‘Ah yes, that was the day I first watched Somerset’
Having then ticked the box for his first experience of championship cricket, I was looking forward to when I would have an opportunity to expose him to a little Test Match cricket. And this weekend, with him yet to reach the grand old age of two, my chance arrived when his visit with his parents coincided with the most recent encounter in this Ashes series. Unfortunately my plans were temporarily thwarted when on Saturday the match at Headingly was affected by bad weather. As such his cricketing education had to take the form of a game played in our back garden instead. The day’s play ended with me on 1658 not out. It was a hugely worthwhile afternoon since, as well as achieving my own highest ever score, I think I also taught the youngster a valuable lesson about the importance of good line and length when bowling. Especially when playing with a kookaburra ball!
I did consider declaring and putting him in for a tricky 20 minutes in fading light but unfortunately he got called in for his bath and bedtime! What’s more, caught up in the excitement of my belligerent batting display, we missed the opportunity to watch Australian wickets fall late on Saturday afternoon but I, very magnanimously, decided to forgo the chance to press home my advantage by making him field again on Sunday morning and together we watched a little of England’s run chase instead. As you’ll imagine, he was absolutely enthralled, as was all too evident by the fuss that he kicked up when his Dad had to drag him away for a nappy change!
Like me then, his first experience of Ashes cricket was watching a win for England over Australia at Headingly and I’m sure that one day he’ll delight in telling his grandchildren all about it. And perhaps he’ll also wax lyrical about the way his grandad played the cover drive!. Either way I hope it is the beginning of a life long of cricket for him too.
Woakes and Wood walk off after completing the run chase to win the third teat at Headingly
Other cricket blogs:
To read ‘Is Cricket Amusing itself to Death’, click here
To read ‘Safe and Sound at the County Ground, Taunton’, click here
My wife, by way of an early anniversary present, has bought two tickets for us to enjoy a hospitality package at Somerset’s quarter final game against Nottinghamshire on Friday.
The question then becomes, was her shelling out the necessary spondulicks*:
a) a reflection of her undying love for me or
b) an indicator of the proficiency with which I adopted my sad face once I had discovered that I had left it too late to buy cheaper tickets?
I did ask her if the gift should be considered a joint one, thereby negating my need to buy anything in return to express my affection for her. Apparently, though, it should not! On that she was very clear!
Ah well. I suppose I’ll just have to enquire as to what hospitality packages might still be on offer for next weekend at Edgbaston!
I’m sure she’d be thrilled!
*POI she used my debit card!
After
Well we had a splendidly hospitable evening at the county ground watching Somerset beat Nottinghamshire in yesterday’s T20 quarter final.
Highlights for me were:
The nature of the win – all the most enjoyable games are those where victory is snatched from the jaws of defeat and, whilst it would have made for a less stressful evening if our top order had fired, it was terrific to see Lewis Gregory and Ben Green do the business when it was required. A particularly fine innings by Gregory – a great batsman, a great bowler and a great T20 captain.
Having Craig ‘Bucket Hands’ Overton fielding just in front of us. As well as his consistently superb opening bowling, he has now taken 20 (TWENTY) catches in the Blast this year! Two of them last night.
Seeing Tom Abell walk when he edged a ball from Harrison to the wicketkeeper. Perhaps he would have been given out by the umpire anyway but it was nonetheless heartening to see him behaving in the sportsmanlike manner that I have come to expect of Somerset’s red ball captain. And it was all the more honourable given what a precarious position Somerset were in when he was out. Good for you Tom!
Oh, and the company was quite good too! Still apparently willing to put up with me after nearly 32 years of married life – even, it seems, when I’m singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ like the best of them!
And so for all you cricketing Philistines out there, and anybody else who, by severe misfortune, may have allowed said events to pass them by, here’s what you missed.
My advice? Watch on repeat!
Other cricket blogs:
To read ‘Cigarettes, Singles, and Sipping Tea with Ian Botham: Signs of a Well Spent Youth!’, click here
Three weeks ago, having returned to my car and found that my offside wing mirror had been pinched by a person or persons unknown, I was forced to drive home without a clear view of what was going on behind me. And as I did so, I discovered how important it is to be able to look back if one wants to move confidently forward.
Sometimes, when everything is going to plan, life can seem simple. In the good times we find it easy to follow the path that we like to think is laid out for us and we are able to eagerly anticipate the future without ever having to worry too much about the past.
But what about when things go wrong and we struggle to be able to put one foot in front of the other? What about when life is hard and we fear that things will never get better? And what about when, recognising our weakness and our propensity to fail, we fear that nobody could possibly love us anymore? What are we to do then?
For me at least, the answer to these questions is to look back, to an event that reassures me that, however difficult my present circumstances are and however unclear the way ahead might be, my future is no less certain.
Because the crucifixion and subsequent resurrection of Jesus Christ speaks to me in my darkest moments reassuring me that there is one who knows the ‘end from the beginning’ [Isaiah 46:10], one who will not ‘break a bruised reed or quench a faintly burning wick’ [Isaiah 42:3], and one who remains by my side even as ‘I walk through the valley of the shadow of death’ [Psalm 23:4]. And it reassures me too that he is the one who can bring order out of chaos, joy out of sadness and life out of even death itself.
The cross of Christ reminds me that things can and do get better. Because even death is not the end. Furthermore the God who raised Jesus from the dead has promised that a day is coming when ‘every tear will be wiped from our eyes and death will be no more’ [Revelation 21:4]. And confident that God can be trusted to keep his word, I do not doubt that what he promises he will one day bring about. That is the essence of christian faith.
For whilst it is true that ‘faith is the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things not seen’ [Hebrews 11:1], that does not mean, as some suppose, that faith is blind. On the contrary, faith, as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, is belief based on evidence, testimony or authority. As such, my sure and certain hope that after death I will one day be resurrected and go on to experience endless pleasure in the presence of God [Psalm 16:11], far from being just wishful thinking on my part, is, in fact, an entirely rational belief based on compelling evidence for the historicity of the empty tomb, credible eye witness testimony of those who saw Jesus after he had been raised from the dead, and the authoritative word of the one who spoke the universe into existence.
Furthermore, the cross assures me that, however great my failure, there is redemption through the one who died for me, the one who bore the punishment that I deserve, not only for all that I have done wrong in the past but also for all I will ever do wrong in the future. Because ‘when I fall, I shall rise; when I sit in darkness, the LORD will be a light to me’. And though ‘I will bear the indignation of the LORD because I have sinned against him’, even so I know that he will one day ‘plead my cause and execute judgment for me – he will bring me out to the light [and] I shall look upon his vindication’. [Micah 7:8-9]
Why so sure? Because that is what God has promised.
Finally, and most wonderfully of all, the reason that God has gone so far as to send his much loved son to suffer for my sake is down to the fact that he loves me. Yes, even me! But this is not because of anything in me. Since God is love [1 John 4:8], rather than being a response to who I am, his love for me originates from within himself. God loves, therefore, because it is his nature so to do. And so, whilst I hope on occasions my actions will have pleased him, God’s love for me is not dependent on my performance. My security comes, therefore, from knowing that God’s love doesn’t change – that I am loved by him irrespective of how unlovable my behaviour sometimes sadly is.
Some of you may have read a piece I wrote last week about how, having broken down on stage at Glastonbury, Lewis Calpaldi experienced the affectionate support of the huge crowd that sang for him the song that he could not. I wonder if that was the moment when Capaldi felt for the first time the full extent of the love that his fans have for him. Because it is, I suspect, only when we are at our lowest point that any of us are able to recognise the extent to which others care about us. I think that’s true of my experience of God’s love for me. It is only when I fail and feel seemingly beyond redemption, it is only when I am broken and feel seemingly beyond repair, that I know for sure what God has said is true, that his steadfast love never ceases and his mercies never come to an end [Lamentations 3:22].
If then today, you find yourself struggling, and if, for you, the future is something only to be feared, why not try taking a look back to what has already taken place and see if it helps you, like me, to move forward with a degree of confidence.
For if God can love me, then he can most certainly love you – even if you are the one who is now harbouring the wing mirror you nicked from me three weekends ago!
For those who are interested a summary of some of the evidence for the resurrection can be read here and here.
Other related posts:
To read ‘The Resurrection – is it just rhubarb?’, click here
To read “Hope comes from believing the promises of God”, click here
Forget Bazball! Forget the high performance review! New data published today reveals how counties can be guaranteed to attract larger crowds to cricket matches played over four days.
Two post reflecting a typical day spent at a county championship game were posted on social media platforms. One was a fascinating* essay detailing the childhood memories of a now middle aged white male, the other was a photograph of an ice cream obscuring an otherwise out of focus view of the outfield.
Post OnePost Two
Whilst all right thinking individuals within the friendship group of the author of the posts responded positively to his extended reminiscences of his now long distant youth, the post containing the picture of an ice cream attracted significantly more ‘likes’ [p < 0.01] and generated considerably more engagement by way of comments.
At a hastily arranged press conference held this afternoon at the County Ground in Taunton, the author of the study claimed that for clubs to survive they now had no option but to provide more in the way of frozen dairy base comestibles.
Somerset’s Chief Executive conceded that careful consideration would have to be given to the reports findings but refused to be drawn on speculation that the clubs current sponsors would be dropped and that, as from next year, Somerset home games would be played at the ‘Mr Whippy County Ground’.
*Please note, the ‘fascination quotient’ of the posted essay could not be independently verified. But you can judge for yourself by following the link to it that appears below.
Other cricket blogs:
To read ‘Cigarettes, Singles, and Sipping Tea with Ian Botham: Signs of a Well Spent Youth!’, click here
‘I’m going under and this time I fear there’s no one to save me This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy I need somebody to heal Somebody to know’
from ‘Someone You Loved’, by Lewis Capaldi
OK, so I’m 50 something and more likely to be found listening to Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen than a young Scottish singer songwriter crooning about lost love, but before this week I genuinely didn’t know who Lewis Capaldi was. Sure I’d heard the name but, up until now, I had imagined that he was either an actor or a formula one racing driver! It turns out though that he is a talented musician who last weekend performed on the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury. And it was there that he reached a whole new audience, one of whom was me.
Not that I was at Worthy Farm in person to see him in person you understand, nor indeed had I tuned in to watch the BBC’s coverage of his performance. No, I came across Lewis Calpaldi as a result of the media attention garnered by his rendition at the world famous music festival of what I gather is his most famous song – ‘Someone You Loved’
For those of you who don’t know, Calpaldi’s rise to fame has been accompanied by his suffering increasing anxiety as a result of the intense pressure on him to perform. Furthermore, in 2022 he revealed he had been diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome a neurodevelopmental disorder characterised by motor and vocal tics. And at Glastonbury last weekend his problems became all too apparent, so much so that he struggled to keep on singing.
But what was so lovely to see was how, as Calpaldi stopped singing, the huge crowd recognising his predicament, didn’t – instead they sang the song for him in a very evident display of support. It was genuinely moving to watch.
Oh that we were all so supportive of those who find themselves struggling. But the truth is we’re not.
Evidence suggests that the more remote we are from them, the less we care for those with whom we interact and this, as well as raising important questions as to how lockdowns and our increasingly remote existence will affect us as a society, goes some way to explaining the insensitive comments that are too often made on social media platforms and elsewhere.
Because it’s easy to criticise from a distance.
In stark contrast to the crowds supportive response to Lewis Calpaldi’s less than perfect performance at Glastonbury, it’s a pity that we are so quick to condemn others, even those we consider our heroes, when they fail to deliver in the way that we would like.
Many of us struggle with the pressures of our everyday lives, how much more difficult must it be then for those in the public eye who have their every act scrutinised by a hypercritical audience who all too often seem intent on bringing down those who have risen to the top, those who not infrequently have had to pay a very high price for any rewards that might accompany their success.
Anyone who has seen ‘The Edge’ * a film that chronicles the England cricket team’s climb to the top of the world’s Test rankings will know, not only how hollow the team’s success felt to many members of the squad when it was eventually achieved, but also how costly it was, in terms of the adverse effect on the mental health of a number of the players, when winning became mandatory. Perhaps that’s why Ben Stokes, the current England captain and someone who has himself struggled with anxiety and panic attacks, wants to play the game in such a way that the manner in which it is played is more important than the result itself.
Because intense rivalry needn’t descend into unpleasantness as was so pleasingly demonstrated by the good humoured exchange, characterised as it was with broad smiles, between Stuart Broad and David Warner after the latter scooped the former in the opening overs of the Test currently being played out at Lords.
Life is frequently hard and kindness is absolutely necessary if casualties are to be kept to a minimum. We mustn’t close our eyes to the hurt that others sometimes feel. And we must not add to their pain by our own insensitive comments. Because though cricket is a game, the life of an individual player is not.
How sad if compassion towards those who struggle is withheld until they break – and how tragic if it isn’t shown until someone is dead. Because whilst the likes of Marcus Trescothick and Jonathan Trott, whose struggles with poor mental health are well documented, have come through their difficulties, not all have been so fortunate. The last Test cricketer that I am aware of to commit suicide was David Bairstow, the father of the current England wicket keeper. Some years before him, the former Somerset player, Harold Gimblett, also took his life. And there are far too many others.
And what is true for well known sportsmen and musicians is just as true for ordinary folk like you and me. Because few of us will make it through our lives without sometimes being overwhelmed. The truth is that it really is OK for us to sometimes be needy. After all, if no one was ever needy, how could our genuine need to be needed ever be realised? Furthermore, isn’t it good that our need to be needed can be so easily fulfilled if we simply take the time to notice those who need us to be kind to them today?
Being outward looking isn’t always easy of course – we do, after all, have our own problems with which to contend. But if we manage to look out for others we may find that though, for now, Lewis Calpadi has had to retire hurt, he and others like him may one day be able to return to the crease and continue their innings. And as is always the case when the wounded take up the fight once more, there will be an almighty cheer from those who are looking on when they do so.
So next time someone representing your team, sporting or otherwise, is out for a literal or metaphorical golden duck, when they drop a catch or leak runs to such an extent that the game is lost, rather than adding to their already significant dismay by commenting about your perception of their weakness in ways that, even if true will never be helpful, why not be a little more like that Glastonbury crowd that metaphorically wrapped themselves around Lewis Calpadi and showed him that they cared.
Because why wouldn’t you do that to ‘somebody you loved’.
Lewis Capaldi sings ‘Somebody You Loved’ at Glastonbury 2023
The Edge’ is currently available to watch on the BBC iPlayer as is Lewis Capaldi full performance at Glastonbury. His rendition of ‘Somebody you loved’ is the final song of his set.
‘Cricket will exist as long as Test Cricket does; when Test Cricket falls, so will cricket; when cricket falls, so will the world.’*
So might the Venerable Bede have said had he ever been asked his opinion on the importance of the longer formats of the game we call cricket. Sadly for him though, having died in 735AD, he never knew the joy of watching the culmination of a game played over the course of an afternoon, a day, or the best part of the week. But he’s not the only one who has missed out on some great cricket contests as a result of getting his timings all wrong. I have too. Because just as timing is the secret of great comedy so it is the secret of great cricket too. And not just for the execution of a glorious cover drive. Timing is all important for those watching cricket as well. And irrespective of how amusing one’s wife may find it, it really isn’t funny when you miss great games.
Take 2019 for example, a year that, like 2023, saw both an Ashes Test series and a Cricket World Cup. But equally exciting for one who supports Somerset, 2019 was also the year in which Tom Abell’s team made it to Lord’s for the final of the Royal London One Day Cup.
Somerset hadn’t made it to the climax of what once was the cricketing equivalent to the F.A. Cup since 2002. That occasion had been my second visit to Lord’s having made the trip the previous year to see Somerset triumph over Leicestershire. The 2001 final had been a memorable day, one that had started with the unfortunate Scott Boswell bowling an over of 8 wides to, if memory serves me right, a 25 year old Marcus Trescothick. Five of those wides came on successive deliveries and I remember cheering the first and second of those wayward balls in the good humoured way one does when one’s team is afforded a free run and an extra delivery. But I remember too how, as the nightmare over continued, one couldn’t help but feel for the man who had been Leicestershire’s hero in their semi-final win over Lancashire. Then he’d taken 4-44 with all of his wickets being those of England internationals. But after this performance in the final, a seemingly broken Boswell barely played professional cricket again. The game, it seems, can be a cruel one.
The match was eventually won when, to complete a wretched day for him, Boswell was clean bowled by Stefan Jones with Leicestershire still 41 runs short of Somerset’s total of 271-5, an innings which had included 60 not out from Man of the Match, Keith Parsons. Reviewing the scorecard I notice that Parsons was scoring at a rate of 115.38 runs per hundred balls, a somewhat modest one in todays terms for what was had been a match winning innings. Only Leicestershire’s Shahid Afridi scored faster and at a rate worthy of note today. He, though, only managed to hang around for 10 balls and had scored just 20 before he skied one so high off the bowling of Richard Johnson that wicket keeper Rob Turner must have had time to boil an egg before it came back down to earth. As a result he was well positioned to take the catch safely.
Andy Caddick with captain Jaime Cox and the C&G Trophy in 2001
The 2002 final was not so memorable. Unlike 2001, there was not the added enjoyment of listening to the football commentary on the radio in the minibus on the way home and hearing Michael Owen score a hat trick as England beat Germany 5-1 in a World Cup qualifier. More importantly though, Somerset that year were well beaten by Yorkshire which is, perhaps, why my memory of the game, is so sketchy. What I do remember is the good natured atmosphere in the crowd that day. Ainsley Harriott, of ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’ fame, was there, seated a few rows back from me and was warmly received by those around him when his presence was noticed. And warm too was the applause offered by the Yorkshire fans in response to the Somerset faithful when they sang new words to the tune of Cwm Rhondda that reflected the northern club’s then team sponsor: ‘We drink cider, we drink cider, we drink cider, you drink tea!’
The erstwhile sponsors of Yorkshire CCC
But I digress, this is not a blog about the relative merits of Yorkshire Tea and Thatchers Gold, rather it is a blog about how I missed three epic games in one year due to bad timing. Because whilst I would have loved to have been at Lord’s on May 25th 2019 to see James Hildreth score the winning runs as Somerset beat Hampshire, my sister-in-law had chosen that day to mark her 50th birthday and invited me and my good lady wife to the party she was organising which, she informed us, would run ALL DAY!
The fact that it was to be an occasion for fancy dress did nothing to lessen my dismay though I did take the opportunity to clothe myself in cricket whites thus providing me with an excuse for discussing the events that were simultaneously unfolding in St. John’s Wood with all who were foolish enough to ask me what I had come as. That anyone had to ask was, of course, an indication of their lack of interest and so I resorted to sending a message to my colleagues via our work WhatsApp group every time a Hampshire wicket fell or Somerset made another 25 runs when their time came to bat. My efforts to generate an excited response were not, however, successful and so, reflecting on how I was surrounded by Philistines, I was left to celebrate Somerset’s eventual six wicket victory alone, with only my mobile phone for company.
The Somerset team celebrate their winning the Royal London One Day Cup in 2019
But as I’ve already intimated, that wasn’t the only time that year I was unable to experience great cricketing moments in the way I would have liked. Once again my timing was at fault when, some months in advance of the date in question, I’d agreed to speak at a church on the evening of Sunday 14th July, not realising at the time that this would be the day of the World Cup Final. Sky had kindly agreed to make their coverage of the event free to air – coverage I’d enjoyed up to the time I had had to leave to make my way to the Bridgwater chapel where I would be leading the service. I lingered in my car for as long as I felt it was polite to do so, listening intently to another over or two of the radio commentary before finally accepting it was time for me to join the congregation who were now gathered inside and waiting for the service to begin. I left with the outcome of the match far from certain and returned an hour or so later eager to find out what had occurred. It was then I discovered how England had not only won the World Cup but done so in the most breathtaking circumstances imaginable, beating New Zealand in a super over which had itself resulted after a dramatic run out attempt by New Zealand had gifted England an additional four runs in overflows, runs which had been key in ensuring the scores of the two teams were tied after 50 overs.
Jos Buttler runs out Martin Guptill and England win the cricket World Cup
But I’d missed it – one of the all time classic cricket moments. But having resigned myself to what had occurred as a result of bad timing on my part, I comforted myself that there would undoubtedly be other great games to witness in the future. And I wasn’t wrong, within six weeks there would indeed be another classic cricket encounter, specifically the climax of the 3rd Ashes Test at Headingly.
And I was to miss that too!
Quite why I had booked our ferry to Santander for Sunday 25th August is now beyond me but so it was that as English wickets fell steadily during the early afternoon I was in a queue of traffic waiting to board the vessel that was waiting to depart from Plymouth. This did at least allow me to follow events via Test Match Special but as Jack Leach came to join Ben Stokes and the pair’s remarkable last wicket stand inched ever closer to victory it was time for us to embark. Deep within the bowels of the ship, radio reception was lost and, having left our car and made our way to the top deck, my son and I found we still had only poor internet reception. And so together we waited anxiously as Cricinfo took ages to update each nerve wracking ball. The astonishing win was, of course, eventually secured but how I would have loved to have been able to witness it, if not in person, at least on a decent sized screen rather than via a slowly updating app.
Ben Stokes and Jack Leach celebrate at Headingly
So you see timing is everything in cricket, not just for players but for spectators too. And it’s something I seem to have got badly wrong in the past. You would thought though that I’d have learned my lesson, but I’m not sure that I have. And so with that in mind you may be interested to know that I’ll be on a flight to Austria on the 4th day of this years 4th Test at Old Trafford – so please do plan for an exciting conclusion to that game. Furthermore, since I’ll not be back till after the conclusion of the 5th Test, I can confidently predict that England will reclaim the Ashes this summer, almost certainly as the result of an exceptional performance by somebody at The Oval on the final day of the series!
Having never been troubled by an overwhelming desire to wrestle to the ground one of the security guards that patrol the boundary at T20 games, the lack of discernible muscle mass in my upper torso has rarely been a problem to me when watching cricket. But for those who play the game, whilst great timing is always essential, raw power can also be very helpful. And when the two combine the result can be destructive.
Which brings me to Will Smeed who many are saying has learnt much since last year when, super confident in the power contained within his admittedly bulging biceps, he seemed to want to hit every ball out of the ground. Though he was frequently successful in his endeavours, this year he seems to have added sensible shot selection and exquisite timing to his already prodigious strength with the result that this week the Venerable Smeed has been mainly hitting boundaries. Over three innings he has scored a total of 180 runs over from just 94 balls, his tally including 16 fours and 13 sixes, a feat that has seen him maintaining a strike rate of 191.5.
That said, there hasn’t been much from him in the way of new ecumenical writings. Maybe next week – if he makes good use of his time!
The Venerable Smeed
*****
*Bede’s original quote reads as follows: ‘As long as the Coliseum stands, Rome shall stand; when the Coliseum falls, Rome will fall; when Rome falls, the whole world will fall.’. So as you can see, pretty much the same as paraphrased above!
Other cricket blogs:
To read ‘Lewis Calpaldi – Retired Hurt?’, click here
View from the Mark Alleyne Stand at the County Ground in Bristol
Cricket, like life, can sometimes surprise you. This week that has most certainly been the case. First there was Ben Stokes unexpected declaration on the opening day off the first Ashes test, then there was Harry Brook’s early introduction into the English bowling attack the following morning, and thirdly there was my attending a T20 game between two sides that I would not normally find myself spectating.
The initial reason for making my way up the motorway to Bristol in order to see Gloucestershire play Kent was because my soon to be married younger brother had arranged for a few sundry individuals to gather there by way of an impromptu mini stag do. But the trip was given additional value by affording me the opportunity to meet a cricket writer whose blogs I have been reading ever since he was mentioned in the hallowed pages of this years Wisden Cricket Almanack. However, though further surprised when, unlike most Saturday afternoon’s in summer, I was not delayed by traffic on the M5 being at a standstill, my new acquaintance was just how I would expect genuine fans of the summer game to be – it was no surprise to me at all when he was somebody who was a joy to meet and spend a little time with.*
Having arrived at the ground unfashionably early because of my less than anticipated travel time, my first task though was to get my bag checked just as it sadly has to be for T20 games at Taunton. Unlike my octogenarian mother who once had a knife confiscated from her person when I took her to a Somerset game – I doubt if ever a son ever been more proud of the one who gave him life! – the search of my belongings took place without incident and so, having received the necessary bright pink cards with which one is encouraged to celebrate boundaries, I was able to proceed and take a walk around the ground.
Just as is the case at Taunton, the walls at the Bristol ground are adorned with images of former cricketing stars and many of the former Gloucestershire greats were familiar to me, Wally Hammond, Tom Graveney and Mike Proctor to name but three. It was good to see Anya Shrubsole honoured there too, reflecting the very welcome burgeoning of the women’s game in recent years. As at Somerset, some stands are named after former players too and I took the opportunity to sit a while in the Mark Alleyne Stand which is located just along from the one named after Jack Russell. As I did so the familiar face of Marchant de Lange appeared on the big screen urging me to resist the temptation to venture onto the playing area and, though he was dressed in the yellow and black of Gloucestershire, it was, nonetheless a reassurance for one who was a foreigner in a foreign land, to see the former Somerset paceman smiling down on me!
Wally Hammond, one of many to grace the ‘Legends Walkway’
I then met up with my brother and his entourage who, given that others in the crowd had, I was disappointed to find them dressed in normal attire rather than going to the trouble to disguise themselves as Richie Benaud in the manner that any self respecting stags would surely see fit. We settled down to watch the game near to the flame throwing machines which threatened to singe our eyebrows each time a four six was hit thereby raising the possibility that those pink cards were actually issued as a safety measure and meant to be deployed to shield oneself from the intense heat.
It was a warm evening at the cricket.
To be honest I wasn’t particularly bothered about who won but out of respect to the new friend I was shortly to met and because it seemed rude not to support the club who were hosting me that evening, I decided to get behind the Gloucestershire side, yet another surprise perhaps for a diehard Somerset fan!
Gloucestershire got off to the worst possible start with Grant Roelofsen caught behind off the first ball of the match but Miles Hammond, the home team’s newly appointed T20 captain, together with Ben Wells then started scoring freely and by the end of the fifth over, the score had reached 51 with no further loss of wickets. From that high point of the Gloucestershire innings though things turned sour with wickets falling with monotonous regularity such that when the last man was out with three balls still unbowled, the total stood at only 137.
It was then that I met my blogging acquaintance who, though no doubt disappointed by his teams poor showing, was nonetheless in cheerful mood. It was good to stop to chat a while about our shared love of cricket before our brief conversation was interrupted by a lady intent on selling us samosas for a good cause and the commencement of the second innings.
Kent also got off to a bad start with Tawanda Muyeye run out in the first over with the score on just 5 but, though Gloucestershire hopes were briefly kept alive when Tom Price took a sharp catch off his own bowling to remove Joe Denly and Ben Wells produced a smart piece of fielding to run out Sam Billings, the opposition captain, Kent eventually romped home to victory with three overs to spare, Daniel Bell-Drummond, a not infrequent thorn in Somerset’s side, unbeaten on 56 and man of the match, Jordan Cox, also not out having scored a brisk 31.
With the St. Paul’s Carnival only a couple of weeks away prematch entertainment had been provided by a dance troop and a steel band who will soon be taking part in what is Bristol’s exuberant annual street celebration. But alongside these worthy offerings there were also, to me at least, those less welcome distractions that were offered in much the same way as they are at Somerset, each seemingly the result of a lack of confidence in the entertainment value of the game itself. Perhaps** I’m just a grumpy old man but for me there are few more depressing sights than spectators scrabbling for a sponsors T-shirt like a bunch of performing seals after the fish that might sometimes be similarly thrown in their general direction. As an act of mercy towards the home crowd, for whom, in light of the match situation, times would almost certainly have been better previously, we were at least spared ‘Sweet Caroline’ but given the Pavlovian response of a large crowd singing along to that ubiquitous song is regularly witnessed wherever T20 is played, doubt must surely be poured on Darwin’s theory that we are as a species inevitably evolving to ever higher levels of sophistication.
Gloucestershire’s team mascot, the splendid Alfred the Gorilla who, please note, neither bears nor apes, any similarity to my new acquaintance!
That these amusements, by which I mean ‘supposed pleasures that require no thought’, are, it seems, standard across the country’s county cricket grounds suggests that how we are supposed to enjoy ourselves is being somehow controlled in ways that aren’t entirely for the best. Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being part of a large excited crowd who is lifting its collective voice in melodious accord as much as the next man, but surely this is an opportunity for us not all to be singing from the same hymn sheet. We don’t all have to be the same. Gloucestershire might have ‘Massive Attack’ but Somerset have ‘The Wurzels’ and surely the rural charm of ‘I am a cider drinker’ should be allowed to contrast with the plaintive trip-hop*** of ‘Unfinished Sympathy’!
Leaving all that aside, though the game was not a classic, watching it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I wonder if at least part of the reason for this was that, though I wanted Gloucestershire to win, my desire for them to do so wasn’t as great as it would have been for Somerset to win had I been watching them. As such I was able to enjoy the game for what it was, appreciating each individual’s performance in much the same way that Ben Stokes has said he likes to play the game, without any worry about the result getting in the way.
But the idea of playing with a smile on your face whilst looking to entertain by trying something new and exciting isn’t new. My Dad was playing Bazchess before Ben Stokes was even born! He used to tell me how he much preferred playing when the result didn’t matter, when he could try something different, something that would be interesting to try even if it might cost him the game This was in stark contrast to when he was playing competitively for a team who needed him to win. In such circumstances he felt constrained to be cautious and found the whole thing less satisfying.
Because, as with cricket, so it is with chess: the game really is more important than the result.
All of which left me wondering if we all shouldn’t start playing Bazlife! Sport, of course, is not real life and we can’t always live just for the fun of it. For many every day is an unhappy struggle and even those who find life more straightforward have a responsibility to look out for others who don’t. This means we can’t always act as if what we do doesn’t matter. Sometimes we all, as it were, have to try and bat all day whilst pinching the occasional single when the opportunity affords. Even so, perhaps we would all do well to be more concerned about how we live our lives than about any success we might one day achieve. Not only would such an attitude lift the burden of having to achieve what we are unable to but also allow us to celebrate with those who merit our applause without our being jealous of their success.
Furthermore it might just put a smile back on all our faces. And what a pleasant surprise that would me.
* my new blogging pal’s website is called ‘Rain Stopped Play, inspection at 3’, It can be read here. So please give it a try! ** perhaps there is no ‘perhaps’ about it! *** as if I knew what that even is!
The Thatcher’s hot air balloon – timing its traverse across the ground to coincide with the break between innings.
Other cricket blogs:
To read ‘Cricket – it’s all about good timing’, click here
To read ‘Lewis Calpaldi – Retired Hurt?’, click here
‘If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two imposters just the same’
Such, suggested Rudyard Kipling, is part of what it is to be grown up.
This week Somerset lost a cricket match and hearty congratulations are due to Essex who ran out the worthy winners of what, for me at least, was still an enjoyable contest even though the result was not the one I would have liked.
Despite yet another century for Sir Alistair Cook, diehard Somerset supporters like myself were, at 12.15 on the morning of the final day, still dreaming that, even with four wickets down, captain Tom Abell and the teenage wicket keeper batsmen, James Rew might have had what it takes to pull off a remarkable win. Such optimism was, on this occasion at least, unjustified, as one and then six wickets fell for just 41 and Somerset were all out with the required target still a distant 196 runs away. I guess we can’t all be like Surrey who impressed by chasing down a remarkable 501 to beat Kent on the same day!
Predictably enough it wasn’t long before the knives were out with some on social media doing what they do best by pouring scorn on the Somerset performance.
Over the last 46 years there have only been two occasions when I have been embarrassed to be a Somerset supporter. The first related to that decision to declare a one day innings in a Benson & Hedges Cup Cup group match for just one run and thus, though forfeiting the game, hoping to guarantee progression into the knockout phase of the competition by preserving the side’s run rate. Thankfully the cunning plan proved fatally flawed when the club was, in my opinion, quite rightly ejected from the competition. Just because something can be done, doesn’t mean it should be. 44 years on, though, a lot of water has passed under the bridge and all is now forgiven!
The second was more recent and down to the particularly poor behaviour of a small group of what I’ll loosely describe as ‘supporters’ when, by late afternoon on a hot sunny day, the perhaps inevitable effects of putting on a beer and cider festival at a RLODC game came fully into effect. Banter is one thing – but this was way beyond what should be acceptable to anyone.
This week there has been a third, when it emerged that the Somerset CCC Official Facebook Group was being discussed by those outside of Somerset as being one that is particularly critical of the team that it’s members are supposed to support.
Cricket is just a game. A wonderfully enjoyable and thoroughly satisfying game, but a game it nonetheless remains. And it is meant to be enjoyed as such. As was suggested by those who were commenting on the events that unfolded at Chelmsford this week, all sport is unimportant – and paradoxically that is precisely why it is so important. It is in the end no more than a much needed distraction from the sometimes all too painful realities of day to day life. The news of the senseless death of three people in Nottingham on Tuesday, two the same age as the aforementioned James Rew and active in sport themselves, makes that plain.
But there is one thing that is even less important than sport – and that is my opinion on it – and, dare I say it, that of everyone else who also feels the need to comment.
This is not to say that one shouldn’t voice one’s thoughts on what one feels passionate about. It’s OK to express disappointment when our team loses but that should not be an excuse for rudeness or unkindness. Nor is it an attempt to limit free speech, the claim made by some who are sometimes called out for their overly critical remonstrations. But it is a plea for a little objectivity. By all means express an opinion on how a game is progressing and feel free to debate the rights and wrongs of an umpiring decision, but let’s not resort to personal comments about a players character or denigrate those doing their best to make what are often very difficult calls. Because just as not everything that can be done, should be done, not everything that can be said has to be said. Sometimes the wise keep quiet.
Here then are a few reasons why I intend to keep any comments I may make on social media about the summer game positive
1. I’m not very good at cricket! True I once captained my school house to cup success but it was the third eleven and though I opened the innings my average for the season was an astonishingly unimpressive nought. Though others on Facebook may have a better record than I, none that I see comment regularly have played for their county, still less for their country. It doesn’t seem right for me to criticise those who are a zillion times better than me.
2. Even if I did have the combined skills of Sachin Tendulkar, Muttiah Muralitharan and Jonty Rhodes, I’d not consider it appropriate to voice my criticism of someone’s seemingly reckless reverse sweep, expensive bowling figures or embarrassing misfield in public. Having once been on the receiving end of a bawling by a consultant whilst stood in the middle of a hospital ward, I can vouch for how ineffective that is as a means of receiving negative feedback!
3. I am not party to all that is behind an individual’s disappointing performance. Knowing, as I do, those who carry immense burdens which sometimes impact on their day to day behaviour, I recognise that there are often hidden factors that might explain the otherwise inexplicable. Kicking someone when they are down is neither kind nor helpful. The constructive criticism that is undoubtedly sometimes necessary, and indeed helpful, comes best from somebody who has a relationship with the one in need of help. And that’s not me. As such I’ll leave the coaching to the coaches.
4. Any hurtful comments I make won’t just affect the player, they’ll affect their friends and family too, many of whom who are part of the Facebook groups where their loved ones performance is dissected. As one with children myself, I really don’t want to see them being vilified in public, especially for something as trivial as an injudicious waft at a ball passing outside their off stump which results in them getting caught in the slips.
5. As a fan of my team, the players are important to me. They may not be family, but I do care about them. Having in many instances watched them come up through the ranks, they are more to me than employees contracted to make me happy. As such they shouldn’t be discarded the moment they don’t deliver. Though I suspect they are best advised to stay well away from Facebook groups which analyse their performance, I know for a fact that some players do read some of what is posted online. And so, because they too have feelings and I don’t doubt they’re trying to do their best., if any player were ever to come across something I’d written, I’d want them to feel better for reading it not worse.
6. Not infrequently I’ll be made to look stupid! Happily those who have come in for the sharpest criticism and been dismissed by some as no hopers have proved their detractors wrong. When things are going badly it’s important not to give up. As such posts should be encouraging for those we long to see come good, not an attempt to finish them off completely.
But over and above all, I’ll endeavour to remain positive on social media because the game is so much important than the result. What one achieves is less of an issue than how one achieves it. Furthermore we should care about our online performance every bit as much as we care about the on-field performance of our team.
Because unsporting behaviour on Facebook…we’ll it’s just not cricket.
A fine bit of fielding by Sean Dickson, the recipient of some particularly harsh criticism after a difficult start to the season. It demonstrates the importance of never giving up, something Dickson has epitomised with the result that he has had a pleasing return to form.
Other cricket blogs:
To read ‘Cigarettes, Singles, and Sipping Tea with Ian Botham: Signs of a Well Spent Youth!’, click here
Some musings 