Pie Chucker

As a some time club skipper, it was once pointed out to me that my ideas were unusual and dangerously eccentric. But is this not the thinking that we must all undertake at some point in our lives? Were it not for my weakness for internet dating and strong European lager, I could have captained England.

I dreamt only last Tuesday of Freddie Flintoff, having hardly picked up a bat these last few months. I was relaxing in the dressing room, Alan Donald mixing me a Dacquiri. I sent out a note to the middle, briefly detailing two of the better known laws of the game regarding how to score without running. Immediately Fred began scoring fours. Not merely dissecting, but diagnosing the fieldsman. You can’t dive, you can’t throw, none of you can stop me!

In these dark months I dream that there is always summer to come, with archery and brass-rubbing, and it will be warmer then. Summer will again arrive for club cricketers in Middlesex, and so often it is the smell of the A40, the super-screech of 737 jet engines, the gum of egg mayo and the scouring pad Sunblest which tells us this. In New Zealand then let’s hope for bright things. A taste of what’s happening there can be found below - a short interview afforded me by wicket-keeping hopeful, Timothy Ambrose.

This last weekend I took a girl out. I’d noticed her on the dating website for two reasons, she looked terrific in a bikini and she described a profound effect men dressed in cricket whites had on her …. making her feel “funny”. It reminded me of my old friend Liberace, who I used to play the arcades with. Few people realise that Lib’s other passion, when he could be persuaded away from the ‘Pump it Up’ dance games, was to surround himself with look-a-likes.

Lib was a useful left arm spinner, with a devilish and prodigious amount of dip, which made up for his sometime lack of turn on damp pitches in the Sussex League. Most of the 1971 East Grinstead third eleven had, at one time, been sequinned envoys of Lib in Vegas. They were equally happy in fresh pressed flannels and cricket boots.

Tea time was greeted with a great deal of warmth by these American players - the quaint spreads, lashings of jam scones and beautifully finished sandwiches, crustless and pristine white. Liberace himself would not take a cup of tea. He preferred to drink cups of fresh-boiled water. Savouring the difference in taste from club to club.

Wicket-Keepers … an essential part of the modern game?

As England prepare to cap another Australian born wicket-keeper, in the aftermath of Geraint Jones and Matthew Prior, can we manage without one?

The area immediately behind the wicket may be given a new lease of life, if the England Selectors take the brave decision to enter the First Test in Hamilton without a wicket-keeper. The prospect of New Zealand amassing 650 in byes is unnerving. But standing behind the wickets is a job done only with finesse. Take away the fluidity and economy of movement, the softest gloves, and you have nothing but a wooden imposter. If this person then insists on bellowing inanities all session, dropping routine chances and making observers question if he has opposable thumbs, you have England’s unfortunate situation of the last 45 months.

Tim Ambrose granted me a short interview, insisting on seeing my questions first.

Are you related to Curtly Ambrose?

“He is my younger brother, yes.”

What one song would feature on the soundtrack of your life?

“Edith Piaf’s Je Ne Regrette Rien. I first heard it as a teenager and thought, yes, I agree. It’s great to perform to: I use it to sweep down a staircase.”

In the film of your life, who would play you?

“Cate Blanchett”

Are you fashionable?

“I dress to suit my shape. If fashion happens to suit my shape, then yes I am fashionable. Not all fashion is stylish”

If a wicket-keeper is deemed necessary, the Selectors turning their backs on a brave new world, it may be better to recall Phil Mustard from his holiday on South Island, brass-rubbing, archery and kayaking. His malevolent strokeplay will be welcome. And as we have heard, Ambrose is more interested in his burlesque dancing, and has an Australian accent, the like of which we haven’t heard since Geraint Jones was squatting and pouting beside the stumps.

As the old adage goes, if a man is on fire - don’t give him a mirror.