A new fan at the London Spirit v Southern Brave washout – a match report

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Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. We’re only really interested in your own experience, so if it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. (But if it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.)

Irrepressible King Cricket match reporter Ged writes…

I have known Olaf the Buddhist Viking since the 1990s, when we both used to write comedy for NewsRevue. Until very recently, I had no idea that Olaf was interested in cricket. Nor did Olaf. He is a perfect example of The Hundred uncovering potential cricket supporters.

Apparently Olaf has been attending Hundred matches regularly at the Oval. I needed to do something. I invited him along to Lord’s.

Olaf greeted me with a firm man hug outside the pavilion. He’s a big unit, is Olaf. I felt my back go click. Ouch. “I’d better book an appointment with the chiropractor,” I thought.

After I showed Olaf around the pavilion and the tennis court, we started work on my picnic: cashew nuts, smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, salad-in-a-cup, grapes and salami bagels.

At one point I noticed Olaf cheering for the Southern Brave Women with some enthusiasm. I asked about that. “Half Norse, half Dorset,” said Olaf, gnomically.

The weather was positively Mancunian in London that day; near constant drizzle, delayed starts, interruptions to play and all that. We even wondered whether there is a word for rain that is even less than drizzle or mizzle, yet it still prevents cricket – fizzle, for example. We decided that there should be.

Olaf was keen to take a double-selfie to record our gathering for posterity. He generously took the selfie at such an angle that I look like the big unit and he looks smaller than me. Was I duped?

I forwarded the double-selfie to Daisy, who promptly replied, “You both look pretty… stupid!” which seemed a bit sharp.

Soon the umpires did the inevitable – calling the men’s match off. Olaf and I retired to the Long Room bar – partly in the hope that the rain would stop while we downed one for the road. But the rain didn’t stop.

“No matter,” said Olaf. “Suffering is inevitable. We Norse folk don’t fret about voyaging through a bit of wind and piss. Anyway, I had a great time.”

With that, Olaf gave me another crushing man hug. I felt my back go click again. The pain was gone. “No need for that chiropractic appointment,” I thought, as I skipped merrily home through the fizzle.

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  1. Top reporting as ever Ged, although with the level of practice you do you really should be good by now.

    Re: the double selfie, taken as you suggest by Olaf. HOW LONG ARE HIS ARMS? He’s a good three feet behind you, and yet still able to get what certain specialist magazines call a full-frontal shot.

    Daisy was indeed being a bit sharp, and grossly unfair I might add. Only one of you looks pretty stupid in that photo.

    In general, steer clear of chiropractors. And Vikings. As for Viking chiropractors, as it says on those bars of Cobalt 60, drop and run.

    1. Strangely, Bert, I did once visit a Viking chiropractor, a Dane named Per Rehn, in 1990 or 1991, when he stood in as a locum for my regular chiropractor.

      Even more strangely, I have easily managed to track him down, now working with Swedish Olympians when he isn’t practicing in Cape Town.


      The picture is him, looking 30 years older than he did in the early 1990s, accompanied, presumably, by the recipient of one of his less successful treatments.

      Nice chap. Good chiropractor. Terrible jokes.

  2. I like Olaf, seems like a top guy. Can pass for Jack Nicholson if all you take is a fleeting glance.

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