Tag: Laurence Elderbrook (page 2 of 3)

Laurence Elderbrook acclimatises

Having arrived in Perth, I quickly find myself a cricket club. The grade system is meritocratic and I will have to work my way up from the bottom, but that should be no trouble for Laurence Elderbrook.

At my first net practice, few if any of the players appear to have heard of my exploits. Is Australia really so backwards? It would appear so.

Most of my new teammates don’t even dress properly for practice. Resplendent in my cream flannels, I look immaculate, but many of these chaps are wearing short trousers and sleeveless shirts that lack buttons.

I march into a vacant net and take my guard. As the bowler approaches, I wave him back with my hand. Something is amiss.

The bowler looks displeased but I have realised that I am thirsty and the matter needs attending to immediately. I instruct him to bring me a gin and tonic, but he refuses and I am forced to take the only option available to a man in my position. I let fly a huge, bestial roar and hurl my bat at him forcefully.

Some gentlemen who are waiting to bowl react angrily to this, despite the calm manner in which I have delivered the dressing down and despite the fact that it was entirely righteous.

As I am stretchered off by the paramedics with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few, I can see that I have impressed my new teammates. They admire my British grit. They admire me.

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Laurence Elderbrook departs

Laurence Elderbrook is beginning his Odyssey and Laurence Elderbrook will return as king of Ithaca. After an unexpected issue with my flights, I instead opt to travel to Australia by ship, the way all the greats did.

The long hours during the trip give me plenty of time to practise, so I mime drives in the nude in front of the mirror. Devoid of my cream flannels, I still look immaculate.

I find the experience liberating and feel that my technique is improving rapidly. This can only be down to the lack of clothing. Clearly clothing hampers my movements. I make a note.

Later in the trip, I plan an evening of cricket with a couple of fellow passengers. They at first seem reluctant, but I eventually manage to persuade them. I laugh heartily when one chap’s wife says I have browbeaten her husband into it. She admires my keen debating skills. She admires me.

I prepare for the match as I would prepare for a crucial league fixture. I drink gin for several hours beforehand so that I’m good and limber when the time comes to bat.

Glen is bowling. Derek is fielding. I heft my bat from one hand to the other. It feels good. I feel good. Glen’s first ball is full and wide. I aim a drive, but fail to make contact.

I feel restricted. I disrobe.

With the air buffeting my downy pelt and the moonlight glistening on my taut adonis flesh, I am ready.

I launch another drive at Glen’s next ball, but the humid sea air has rendered the grip of my bat slippery. The bat soars into the air, describing a high parabola with its destination being over the side of the ship.

I throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar before exploding from my position. As I throw myself headlong to take the catch, I feel a hand on my bare ankle, hauling me back.

I choose to allow several members of the crew to drag me back to my cabin by my armpits, departing the scene with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few. A crowd has gathered and every last person has a look of astonishment on their face. They admire my restraint. They admire me.

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Laurence Elderbrook takes stock

Despite the captain’s promise following my moment of triumph, I was not called upon to bat at three the following season. In fact, I was not called upon to bat at all.

Having spent the entire season resplendent in my cream flannels on the wrong side of the boundary, I decide to take stock. I speak to Mrs Elderbrook about my cricket career and see what advice she has.

Mrs Elderbrook says I should take the hint. She says that if a team’s happier to pick a wooden barrel than me on the grounds that it can be placed at fine leg where it might occasionally stop a four then maybe there’s a message in that.

I say that she is right, that all the greatest players lose form and that it is how you respond that matters. I thank her for her subtle wisdom and inform her that I am going to go to Australia to play grade cricket. I will claw my way back to glory.

Later on, the lady on the phone tells me the price of a flight to Sydney and I take the only option available to me. I throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar, after which I bellow my credit card details at her.

Mrs Elderbrook looks on with a tear in her eye. She admires my restraint. She admires me.

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Ask the ‘expert’: How do you keep your flannels so immaculate?

If you’ve a question for Laurence Elderbrook, email us.

Suave writes:

I would like to ask how he keeps his flannels so immaculate? Being a fellow suave fella, I need to know these things, so I can look impeccable whilst missing a straight one.

While Jo-Fitz asks the same question, adding:

Is this done by his valet/butler or does he have a bespoke professional service?

Over the years I have refined this process to something of an art. I use a three-pronged approach.

(1) Ensure you possess many sets of cream flannels. I would recommend 400 outfits as a bare minimum.

(2) Carry out a thorough recruitment process to ensure you get the right calibre of loyal manservant.

(3) Regularly admonish said loyal manservant to keep him on his toes. Whether it’s warranted or not, a good bellow in a chap’s face builds character. It’s a give-take relationship. Give bellows to the face and take immaculate cream flannels off him each morning.

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Ask the ‘expert’: Should I wait for an apology?

If you’ve a question for Laurence Elderbrook, email us.

CS writes:

May I start this email by telling you how much I admire your restraint.

After being run out by an inferior colleague who failed to make any kind of call, I left the crease (with my dignity preserved, of course) informing my former batting colleague he was a ‘c*nt’.

So I ask, should I wait for an apology or shall I march round to his house and insist on one?

If I need to tell you the answer to that, you won’t get far in this world.

As the old saying goes: ‘You can’t get a grovelling apology without first letting them know how wrong they are.’

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Ask the ‘expert’: Is your genius as admired on civvy street?

As promised, here is the first installment of our new feature where readers ask delusional sociopath, Laurence Elderbrook, whatever question they want and he rambles on about himself for a bit in response.

If you’ve a question for the turgid buffoon, email us.

First up, Lisa:

Is your genius as admired on civvy-street as it is on the field of play? Does your bestial roar work as well in the boardroom as it does in the changing room?

In this age of flimsy paparazzi celebrity it would be cruel not to give us some insight into the life and achievements of Laurence Elderbrook when in bespoke Henry Poole three-piece rather than immaculate cream flannels.

Sometimes the truly exceptional are not appreciated in their own time. Fortunately, I have always made it my business to make each and every person who encounters me entirely aware of the full extent of my genius.

As for my achievements in industry, you should know that a gentleman never lowers himself to working for a living. I spend the majority of my time at my gentleman’s club, drinking gin and engaging in wagers with fellow members, all the while resplendent in my cream flannels.

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Laurence prepares for a nailbiter

It is the final match of the season. We have to win and I have been entrusted with the pivotal number 11 slot. As the last batsman, all will hinge on my performance.

Our opponents bat first and I am permitted to field from the dressing room, where I can gather my thoughts and get myself prepared for the task in hand. I take a G&T to stimulate my mind and sharpen my reflexes.

Our reply gets off to a good start, but a flurry of late wickets leaves us needing five to win off the final ball with eight wickets down. In this most important of matches, Laurence Elderbrook is not going to grace his stage.

However, the final delivery is a massive front-foot no-ball. The batsmen attempt to take a single, but the non-striker is run-out before he can make his ground. I hear the crowd silently chant my name.

I take a moment to compose myself in the mirror. Resplendent in my cream flannels, I look immaculate. It is time.

Moments like this are decided in the mind. Fortunately, my mental strength is unsurpassed. As the bowler runs in, I already know that I, Laurence Elderbrook, will win this match. It is my stage. It is my moment. Four to win.

Like all great batsmen, I have always picked up length early. On this occasion, I am perhaps a little too early and am well into my follow-through before the bowler has released the ball. The delivery is fast and straight and it takes a bail off.

Foolishly the fielders celebrate. Maybe they know that I had a free-hit due to the front-foot no-ball, maybe they don’t. Whichever it is, they still think they have done enough.

But I know better.

As I played a shot, the ball is not dead. I watch it bounce over the rope and the umpire signals four byes. We have won the match.

I have won the match.

It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. I discard my bat, throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar. It is a roar of superiority. It is a roar of victory. It is the roar of Laurence Elderbrook.

Later that night, as we celebrate, I suggest to the captain that I might bat at three next season, so that the team may make better use of my abilities. He concurs.

He admires my prowess. He admires me.

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Laurence shows his mental strength

I am due to bat at number 10. How can I impose my will on the game from there? What is the point?

When the time comes for Laurence Elderbrook to take his stage, I am fast asleep. Roused by a team mate, I lash out with an arm to teach him some damn manners, but I make contact with nothing but air. As I peer out through my glazed eyes, I see that he is yards away. My reflexes have dimmed.

Before I walk out, I take a moment to compose myself in front of the mirror. I can’t see much through the fog of misery and can only presume that I look immaculate.

As I lope towards the centre, there is a tap on my shoulder. I turn slowly, stumbling a touch. It is a team mate. He is holding my bat. I take it from him, though I shan’t be needing it.

I don’t know if I momentarily lose consciousness or something, but the next thing I know, I’m looking at two feet either side of a white line. They are my feet. I glance around a touch and realise I am on strike. As I gaze towards the bowler’s end for the first time, he is already into his delivery stride.

I emit a weak murmur and move to recoil, but the ball has already hit my bat. At this point someone shouts “run!” It seems that person is me.

The ball rolls into the covers and suddenly I am alive. My legs feel like pistons as I bound towards the other end. I am moving like the wind and the adrenaline is starting to flow. This drama will unfold according to my script.

The fielder scoops the ball up and shies at the stumps, but in this mood I am unstoppable. I dive for the crease, full-length, with my bat extended before me. The ball strikes the stumps. As I land, I already feel hollow.

It is vital that you never show the opposition any sign of weakness. With this in mind, I keep my face buried into the dirt so that they cannot see my tears. After some minutes of this, people seem to be getting a little impatient, but Laurence Elderbrook gives ground to no man, so I sob on, face on the floor.

As I am dragged off the field by ankles with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few, I ponder my next move. There is still time to do something to help take the initiative in the mental battle before these sides next meet.

It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. I twist and roll over, throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar.

I let things wash over me. Everyone admires my mental strength. They admire me.

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Laurence embraces the lower order

For some reason I am being asked to bat at nine. I don’t know why.

I sit and watch our innings with the haunted air of the disenchanted. After what seems like weeks, it is my turn to bat. The time has come for Laurence Elderbrook to take his stage.

Before I walk out, I take a moment to compose myself in front of the mirror. In my creased, off-white flannels, I look dishevelled. But still, it is time.

I don’t bother to take a guard. I just blink slowly and await the bowler. My captain is at the other end. I fix him with a languid, surly gaze before returning my attention to the ball. It pitches on middle and straightens. I leave it.

The pitch is hard and the ball whistles over the top of the stumps. It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. With a huge backswing, I knock middle stump clean out of the ground.

I watch it cartwheel away and then discard my bat. I pull out the two remaining stumps. With one in each hand, I drop to my knees and hit them against the floor in unison. I do this repeatedly. I do it maybe 20 times until they’ve made dents in the pitch. As everyone looks on in admiration, I toss the two stumps away, throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar.

Pausing only to lower my trousers and moon my captain, I depart with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few.

Everyone admires the stand I have taken. They admire me.

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Laurence embraces the modern way

Modern sides bat right down to number eight and as no-one else is up to the task, I step up.

It’s deep into our innings before I am called upon. The bowlers will be flagging by now. I will take advantage. The time has come for Laurence Elderbrook to take his stage.

Before I walk out, I take a moment to compose myself in the mirror. Resplendent in my cream flannels, I look immaculate. It is time.

I watch the bowler run in and immediately spot that he has overstepped. I can attack with impunity. Unfortunately, I am not accustomed to facing such a soft, old ball and I’m through my shot before the ball has arrived. The ball strikes me on the pad and it is at this point that I realise the no-ball has not been called.

I look up at the umpire and implore him with my eyes. As his finger rises, those same eyes turn fierce.

It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. I discard my bat and extricate the knife that I have concealed inside my bat for just such an eventuality.

I get within two steps of the cad who has affronted me before the fielders reach me. For a moment I maintain my forward momentum, but then the wicketkeeper leaps on my back and I fall. I feel the knife torn from my grasp.

As I am escorted off the pitch with my arms held tight behind my back, I throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar.

After the match, I see the umpire in the bar, enjoying a beer. I approach, catch his eye and then gob into his pint with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few.

Everyone admires my restraint. They admire me.

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