Ashes Poetry

It could be one of those days. Dull, overcast, rain forcast before lunch, turning to stair-rods with knobs-on at tea. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve now found my way round Cardiff. After a cup of instant loess from hell at the station Burger King (where were the days that whatever filth of processed buns they served between processed buns, you could guarantee a good cup of perc at McDonalds or Burger King) yesterday, I revisited my new friends at Flavour on the High Street (02920 388551) Run by the owner, excellent latte and tomato + herb soup. “Why not sell gazpacho?” Laugh “In Cardiff – it’d have to be a tomato and herb smoothie.” Repeat order today. “Are you from Amersham?” He’s seen a letter I’m trying to post to the Treasurer of the Sports Journalists Association with a cheque to rectify a lost membership direct debit, I explain. “I write poetry” “Oh, you’re the Ashes Poet! You were on tele yesterday.” Was I? “Yeh, BBC-2 or Channel 4 What was it? Eight out of Ten Cats” (News quiz show with Jimmy Carr) “They were dishing the Ashes and said having a poet was a good thing.” Almost as good as their latte and soup. My daughter gives me the full monty. Jimmy Carr said I had to write a poem a day, which is ‘an Everest of Shit.’ From the mouth of babes.

Worked out what all the great and good gassing for England was about. It’s the ECB’s Twelfth Man Wall of Support www (The Barmy Army are also England’s Twelfth Man, which makes twenty-four, and with that number on the pitch we might just hold our own against the mighty mighty Tonkernaut) Sign up. I put “England Expects… nuff said” signed Horatio Nelson. “Just do it” is even shorter.

During this game eight squaddies have died in Afghanistan. We might lose more than a test match as Australia pile on the runs. North and Haddin makes centuries, four in all, which shrinks into curiousity value all eleven English batsmen getting into the double figures for the first time since the 19th century.

Australia declare two hundred and forty odd ahead, England bat, lose two LBWs – Cooke tries to get forward but can’t against Johnson’s pace – before rain comes down to stop play. Some Aussies two rows back are interested in what I’m doing. A Welsh Boyo inbetween declares “Girls write poetry.” Clearly they do, but that’s not what he meant. Already cheesed with Jimmy Carr – would you like what you did called an Everest of Shit, even if it was? – I realise the lad also has some difficulty with poetry, so I tell him what he just said is a good start to a poem. No comment. He yacks to his mates about rugby….

Girls Write Poetry

“Girls write poetry,
that’s all they’re fit for,
that and fucking,
but probably those who write poetry
aren’t that tasty: slags, bints and whores.
To be quite honest with you,
I’d rather have a wank,
(to tell you the truth, I often do,
if I can get it up.)

“Girls write poetry. Us men,
Us Welshmen, Us Welshmen
from the Valleys who follow the British Lions
through thick and thin, knowing how they could win
from the comfort of our tellies,
we know what we’re talking about

“For we are men, Welshmen,
from the Valleys and proud of it.
We can hand-off those girly-men who write poetry,
side-step the meaning of words when they don’t suit,
ruck and maul verbal inconvenience,
drift defence every awkward sentence,
kick into touch all our possession
to kill off listening stone cold dead

“Girls write poetry. Us men,
Us Welshmen, proud Welshmen from the Valleys,
when we have to get emotional,
we let the beer do the talking.
Girls write poetry.”

eight squadies died yesterday,
boys at the hands of other boys
playing big boy games
while girls write poetry 

 If you come to Wales, to Cardiff to watch the cricket, trekking past the Millennium Stadium each day, you have to end up writing a poem about rugby…. Watching the rain dapple the river I realise the gap between England and Australia in this Test is still at least as wide and as deep as the Taff, and nothing Connie Huk can say will alter that. Tomorrow I shall return to Gates 4 and 5 to give them their poem with thanks:-

To The Good People at Gates Four and Five

Not the hardest of tasks, perhaps, at first sight
to guide the throng to their appointed places,
scrutineers of belonging and belongings
of pilgrims who close soon their journeys.

An order of friars, day-glo orange habits,
forbidden by vows and observance
(with promise of sustenence)
to enjoin and enjoy the pilgrimmage.
Theirs is not the way, mere waymarkers

To control forbidden pleasures,
the softest censure of sinners,
most of all those who sin for sinning’s sake,
those who trouble make.

This they do with humour, charm and delight,
pleasure and pride in their task,
not its effects or power.

Ushers, sextons, beadles and wardens
of a later-day church worthy of praise.
Saint Simon de Hughe penned God invented the game;
If Saint Peter takes five from the heavenly gates
to watch play, he knows who to call.

The day’s play, tweet by tweet:-

1. npower ashes poet thumbs up/down from eight-out-of-ten cats dishing of series. Play starts on time Freddie champs at bit, no worries for Oz.
2. 5-502 Anderson and Broad stare at the ball Is it out of shape or their team? Billy the trumpeter heralds Barmy Army US Calvary long on Alamo
3. 5-502 Billy, embouchure’s in fine fettle, hitting top G, plays ‘Neighbours’ as English in the crowd don’t talk to each since they’ve not met
4. web @saltpublishing – publish with audio downloads (mp3 bit old hat) You wouldn’t want to go to the game and only hear the crack of Haddin’s bat
5. 5-523 England need but not set up to take wickets. Round wicket North two slips for slips on the drive. Easy game when you’re not playing it
6. 5-537 Swan spins it like a top, enough to topple Aussies before England face batting last on a spining tekciw
   about 10 hours ago from web England expects – nuff said Post yours on http://bit.ly/aVVmd Nelson H RN
7. 5 – 549 Haddin’s ton, four in all, matches the light stanchions as Albion’s beacon’s glimmer dim. Put out the light, then put out the light.
8. 5 – 559 Right said Fred, bowling with another new ball under his belt. North belts it square towards his ton which comes anno domini
9. 5- 575 Stop Press The Sun castigates England breaking through expected rain in time for lunch. England now looking to survive four sessions.
10. 5 – 603 Haddin bottom edges Prior spills on the bounce a Knott, Taylor Russell, Stewart even would catch. Haddin lofts Swan into Barmy Army
11. 5 – 635 two ton ahead Collingwood back of length twiddly field changes skies lighten darkening over England where the urn’s a pandora’s box
12. 6-674 Haddin caught in the deep. Captain Ponting in the driving seat views from the bridge to bring them in. Albion adrift, left out to dry
13. 18 – 2 Cooke and Bopara lbw, maybe iffy, under the lights, tea and spotting. As the #BarmyArmy says “Only rain can save Australia now.”