Long-serving King Cricket contributor, SimonC, writes:
Twenty20 being the all new whizzbang format that appeals to even the most curmudgeonly of non-cricket fans, we rounded up twelve grumbling malcontents to see this completely dead rubber at the Oval. Many were the piercing questions we were forced to field from our eager friends: “When is all this over?” “How much did you say this cost again?” and “So, who won?” were just some of the finer points of cricket that we covered.
Waiting for latecomers outside Hobbs Gate, I accosted a complete stranger and demanded of him: “Are you a left-arm chinaman?” since I could’ve sworn I had recognised the Atheist of viddy-blog fame. “No,” he said, but in a slightly shifty-looking manner. He then ran off casting glances back at me, presumably to make sure I wasn’t carrying a knife (I was, as it happens, but just a fruit knife so he was safe unless he has a particularly thin peel). I remain convinced that it was him and that he was just playing hard to get.
Later, in the middle of an animated discussion about zero-gravity coitus, two obliging pigeons decided to mate by the boundary in front of an embarrassed-looking steward, raising the loudest cheer of the evening. I won’t reveal what part of his anatomy the steward was then asked to “give us a wave” with; suffice to say he did not oblige.
After the match I lost my friends in the Fentiman Arms and ended up discussing Maltese rugby with a civil servant who had just returned from Afghanistan. Then I went home and had two cups of tea and a bit of shisha (apple flavour). I pondered bringing the shisha to the cricket next time, but realised that our draconian anti-smoking laws forbid it. I briefly considered writing to my MP, but instead went to bed. I dreamt of Lego batsmen and (alarmingly) Boris Johnson, who bowled a bit of off-spin but went wicketless.