The Great British Bake Off and Walking With Dinosaurs

As our world has evolved rapidly in recent times there are many species that have become endangered to the point of extinction. As a result of what man calls "progress" we see things that we once took for granted drift towards extinction –consigned to memory and mythology.
The Black Rhino (DICEROUS BICORNIS) with its brute strength and savage beauty has a worldwide population of less than 5000. Hunted to the brink of extinction, according to the Daily Mirror way back in 1961 by "man's folly, greed & neglect". Recent success in conservation is heartening but a lot of work remains to bring the population up to even a fraction of what it once was.

Man’s folly. It also applies to an increasingly rare sight of The Tea Lady (TEALADIUS FANTASTICUS) – as numbers dwindle at the pavilions of the Wheatsheaf County.

Unlike your average village slogger (CRICKTUS IGNORANTE) which is essentially a pack animal Tea Ladies can be solitary or operate as part of a group due to their high level of social skills. But now they are increasingly rare, while the Great British Bake Off becomes a national institution, a home-made Victoria sponge on match day is now rarer than a Black Rhino saying how happy they are with the customer service at Npower.

It’s a lot more COSTCO than GBBO these days.

It’s not that they are not around anymore – occasional sightings are still reported – and they remain easy to identify, fiercely protective of their territory, outwardly jovial but not to be crossed over the strength of the tea or the availability of jam other than strawberry – and ready to strike – a cobra coiled waiting to hear a certain phrase, usually from a younger player daring to start a sentence with ‘have we not got…’

Fleet of foot and dexterous she is more than a match for the pack in white meandering to their weekly the feeding ground to devour sandwiches of various flavours, sausages, quiche (its Cheshire after all), strange cold pasta accompanied by salad and the obligatory bowls of cherry tomatoes and sliced onion. These guys are not looking to hand out Michelin stars but no one can doubt their commitment their favourite sort of cuisine.

As they  feign good manners and then push in at the very front saying ‘Opposition first guys’ you can hear the regular trade mark cries of delight. Simple creatures in their natural habitat.

‘I do love a good pork pie’ This phrase is often accompanied by Crickitus Ignorate holding the pork quarter up to the light like the man from Del Monte would an Orange .

‘Drumsticks!’ and he’s misty eyed looking at the tea lady like a man who’s watched Toy Story 3 on the eve of taking his son to Uni for the first time.

‘Much better than your lousy effort last week [insert team members name]’

There is always mayonnaise – this is provided primarily to give someone a chance to ask if we have any salad cream and for their card to be marked accordingly.

For those with a sweet tooth Tealadius Fantasticus produces delicious homemade varieties of scone served with clotted cream, cake (Lemon Drizzle & the aforementioned Victoria Sponge are in the Pantheon) and ideally the kind of flapjacks used by Polar explorers to help them to 10,000 calories a day - with a the added bonus of a few sultanas that, for the Villager is one of his five a day (among the other four are spring onion crisps flavoured crisps).

For you average villager it’s essentially quality ballast. The tea is integral to the experience – it’s cultural, ceremonial and calorific.

What other sport could see its nutrition have a pork pie as its centrepiece?

But maybe these days are numbered unless Walking with Dinosaurs becomes Baking with Dinosaurs.

We didn’t help with the washing up, we left our plates outside and took offence when we asked for 4 sugars and were given one (for our own good). Maybe we just haven’t evolved quickly enough and the world has moved on.

Are the halcyon days behind us? Are the flapjacks and scones that provided the foundation of the nation slipping into history?

At the selection meeting one of the major dilemmas the committee has to face is not "will he slot in nicely at 4?" But "do you think he would do a tea?”

Post meeting, the player is told , he will slope away home with the heavy heart of a man condemned to the gallows as he ponders how he’s really going to man up to such a big job.

If he’s one of the younger players his devotion to the game means that he is, perhaps unlikely to enjoy regular female company – but if Mum is nearby he is not quite on his own. But while he’s watched the Bear Grylls box set and thinks he could cut it on a desert island, the truth is he doesn’t know a frosting on a cake from a frosty morning.  

If he’s further on in his life he might be able to wangle wife/girlfriend help which he will shamelessly abuse by saying those tell-tale weasel words ‘I did most of it myself’.

From this point the tea solution goes one of two ways.... There is the No Expense Spared "I'm only doing one this season" Tea.

Purchased sandwich platters with party sized cakes and buckets of biscuits. Chicken legs bulk bought and cooked on the morning of the game alongside 300 party sausage rolls and accompanied with numerous bowls of prepared green salad stripped from the shelves of the supermarket as a last minute concession to the healthy eater. If melons are two for one in Morrison’s he might add something healthy. He might just pass muster with a throw the kitchen sink at it approach. If in doubt, increase your portions.


Alternatively there is the "They won't ask me again after this effort" or "I'm not going over the £35 budget" Tea. The signs that we are getting one of these is the sighting of 6 French sticks that you need to cut yourself and bags of crisps that stay in the bags for serving.


Jammy dodgers are then washed down with black tea because the pillock because he didn’t even buy the milk.

So how do we cling on to the last remnants of the golden age of cricket teas? Can we wind back the clock?

We can sweet talk and try to establish a relationship between ‘volunteering’ and little Johnny getting picked, we can start a national campaign, get Tea Ladies on some sort of endangered list and get Greenpeace to chain themselves to something (out of the batsman’s vision). We need to a strategy to avoid extinction, we need to look after them, nurture them and most importantly create an environment that matches their high standards. Now we have never known a village club that has listed the purchase of cleaning products on their annual accounts, but re-population probably needs a few antibacterial sprays being bought – and used. The alternative..

…and this is going to shock some people.

We could give it a go ourselves.

The world has moved on. We need to evolve or die. When you say Ladies now the word that follows is Team not Teas.  A woman’s place is on the field.

So if you are ready, grab your Hairy Bikers cookbook and we’ll begin.

CORRECTIONS and CLARIFICATIONS

In a previous blog we referred to Collis King and the 1975 world cup final. We had of course nodded off during the committee meeting and not noticed that you tube had jumped forward to the 1979 final. Thanks to an eagle eyed fan who corrected us. As well as signed photo of Farmyard and Crofter he also asked us to publish a picture of the vehicle he drives to away matches in. It’s called Roxy - amazing how life imitate art sometimes.

A QUESTION OF SPORT: Home Boy or Away Guy?

In the 1980’s, A Question of Sport (not QofS as they insist on calling it nowadays) was one of the highlights of the week at Farmyard Towers. Crofter claims to have been a Mastermind man ‘before it got dumbed down’.

Coleman was in charge of the esteemed captains.  Emlyn Hughes being mates with Princess Anne, a highly excitable Willie Carson, the gravitas of Gareth Edwards and Big Bill Beaumont and a pre knighthood Beefy Botham complete with a blonde mullet.

Even the individual rounds had names that could have graced quiz shows on their own: The Picture Board, Mystery Guest and What Happens Next –and whenever it was a cricket one the average village cricketer was genetically pre-disposed to say ‘that once happened in a game I played in’.

What ‘floodlight failure?’

All of it enthralled. But the round that got the juices flowing was always "Home or Away?" It was a classic conundrum - safety at home where you know all of the ins and outs of your undoubted area of expertise or to go for the unknown and chance your arm "Away" for the kudos of a big win?

They may as well have asked are you a shire horse or a show pony?

A typical home question would regularly include reference to an event the contestant was actually in – but no one claimed it was University Challenge – it was like cricket back then – meant to be entertainment.  There were players who always preferred to stay at home and others who revelled in the danger and the thrill of going "Away" – and like a junior breaking into the senior ranks they’d consult their captain for advice if the team was in a hole. …and it would be as unhelpful.

Much is the same with humble village cricketers and within any club there are those who prefer to travel and those who don't: Home Boys and Away Guys.

Some they want to maximise the day out, but the home lover knows his patch and is comfortable there.

He has his own seat in the changing room that comes complete with a broken coat hook (snapped off by a flying Slazenger in a fit of pique in 1994 after a particularly poor LBW decision) and a single old and twisted metal hanger on which to hang trousers that were a perfect fit when he bought them (along with a lottery ticket for the very first draw).

He has his home game rituals - bacon sandwich for breakfast (brown sauce) a sneaky pre-match pint at the local (don't tell the skipper or the wife) – and this is justified by peering at the percentages on the hand pump and saying’ I better go for that at 3.8%!’

Early arrival at the ground allows him to sneak in the rope at cow corner and increase his chances of double figures.

He enjoys the familiarity of his customary 10 minute gentle throw down net (Lane 1 of course) provided by the juniors who have been pressed into service due to the on-going (i.e. never ending) selection crisis (his rank pulling is second to none). He then sits and inwardly chuckles at the arriving opposition's expressions of incredulity when they see the state of the away team changing room.

One major hurdle our homeboy has to negotiate is the avoidance of having to provide the tea - he told the selection committee that he may be late after resting after a hard night shift; the task is invariably given to some other poor bugger.

If he performs well and in the unlikely event that he gets a sweat on, the homie is near home. He knows that a hot and refreshing shower is available 5 minutes away. The alternative, and much as he loves the home fixtures, are showers that have featured on Horrible Histories – and Spingwatch – and that’s some double.

The bar (a technical Village term for a hatch) has his familiar and favourite brews. He knows this as he personally contributes by writing out a list for whoever goes to Costco. He can take his fill, stagger home with his tales of heroic deeds and pick his car up in the morning.

For the away-boy almost every trip is a Jolly Boys outing - He is a maverick. He loves the thrill of the less familiar and either;

(1) Loves the elaborate chess game that is the avoidance of having to drive. He positions himself expertly and deftly into the most luxurious travelling vehicle available (passenger seat, of course, after shouting "Shotgun”) He's down with the kids to a degree but takes charge of the audio equipment and selects TMS (naturally) and avoids any ‘banging tunes’.

Typical conversation in this car ‘anyone want the low down on the oppo?’ followed by ‘No’ followed by Passenger boy carrying on regardless.

Typical back seat comment ‘I am just texting Dave to see if I can go back with him’

Or;

(2) Loves to drive, has picnic stuff and drives a non-mainstream vehicle that he has a name for. Mildly eccentric and talking to himself he gives the passengers the sense that they are actually being kidnapped.  

Typical conversation ‘why are we listening to TMS when rain has stopped play? Reply ‘That’s the best bit’.

Typical backseat comment ‘It feels like we are in a Coen Brother film’

When it comes to navigation and the journey itself, there are a number of scenarios that apply regularly – and here we have non-drivier away guy in mind….

“We will go to the pub en route" - It's his day out away from the stresses and strains of work & family and he will not let the small matter of a cricket match and the missing of the warm up drills get in the way of a some old school hydration at the country pub with the notoriously attractive bar staff.

"It's not my fault that we appear to be gridlocked in the centre of Stockport with no real clue as to where the ground actually is." - Tardiness does not overly concern him as, if they are batting first, their late arrival will push him down the order and give him a stay of execution from their rampant quick who took 7-12 the previous week. He will also, again, miss the warm up.

“We will go straight there, I know the way as I have played there many times before" - This reaffirms his seniority in the group as he recounts his (alleged) match winning unbeaten 89 at the same ground in 1996. He still won't take part in the warm up as he still has a bad back.

The game itself will follow its usual pattern... He will either a) get the best ball of the day, b) the only poor decision of the day (it definitely pitched outside leg AND was going over the top) or c) the one that misbehaved unbelievably as it leapt off a length off the dodgy track (on which the opposition racked up 303-2 from their 45 overs batting first)

Despite all of this, there are things guaranteed by an away trip... He will enjoy his tea and will not have to suppress his guilt about not helping with the washing up AND if it is one of those on-off rainy days he will be able to relax and observe the mopping up operation from a near horizontal position in the pavilion with no necessity to make any excuses for his laziness. As a true village player he can enjoy his afternoon almost regardless of playing content.

On completion of the match our away day coordinator will insist on revisiting the Dog & Parrot in that small village near Knutsford.  He will do this because he has a delusion that afflicts Villagers regularly

‘You know that Brenda behind the bar at the Parrot? She was giving me …..’ and at this point there is a perfectly timed groan from the rest of the travelling pack who 20 minutes later are talking in a civilised fashion with said Brenda and asking how the cataract operation went.

Of course our driver is now bouncing of the walls in a sugar induced frenzy following the consumption of so many non-alcoholic fizzy drinks. But our non-driving away boy is afflicted by another Village Curse – Driver Care Blindspot. DCB is typified by phrases such as ‘I’ve just been bought another’ and ‘we have only just got here’ and ‘what do you mean you’ve booked a table.’

But eventually he is pulled away – and all the guys he was laying into on the way over are now long lost brothers bonded in combat on the fields of Albion. Yes even this lump can get teary.

So the travelling cricketers eventually return to their home ground the Homeboy and Away Guy are reunited and complete their Saturdays in an identical fashion: overstating their contribution and the standard of the opposition - They have one more for the road, they ruminate about their good play or poor fortune at great length, and they stagger home. They are two sides of one coin

….and you know the guy with a name for his car….He walks past, strokes her and says ‘See you tomorrow love’.

Who you looking at?

Lots of interest in where we get our inspiration and play our cricket – but as qualified life coaches we’d be in danger of breaching client confidentiality if we said anything about it….but as long as you don’t tell anyone the guys at www.kingsley.play-cricket.com  think we are talking about them. We couldn’t possibly comment – but we have taken a look at their site and know it’s a great club to join, support or sponsor.
We have already reserved our tickets for their world famous beer festival in September – and are catching up on their match reports on line as part of our own pre-season training.

Cricket Committees: Lessons for World Peace

Well we’ve been inundated with feedback – and as a result have struggled to respond to your requests for advice and guidance. To be frank the score-hut looks like the Donny Osmond Fan Club office circa 1975 and we’ve just not been able to get on top of it.

While we have quite a few overnighters in the score hut (with just a few scented candles left over from Christmas and Scrabble) we have not had time to read all your fan mail.

As well as the letters we have been trying to keep on top of the day job as life coaches (Sale now on: 15% reduction for our Twitter followers).

Quite a few letters have been seeking advice on the successful running of Clubs and asking whether we’d be willing to get involved in sorting out some of the world’s tougher geo-political problems. A recurring theme is effective Committee meetings. Well earlier this week Farmyard and Crofter did some field work and slipped un-noticed into The Oddfellows* to look at a Club Committee in action – and share our thoughts on the good, the bad and the away dressing room.

Now the Club Committee is pretty much as it has been since they sat down in The Bat and Ball in Hambledon back in 1750 and discussed whether the scarifier was beyond repair. The only difference between then and now is the arrival of laptops and ipads which in theory allow you read the meeting papers – but in the hands of an expert can allow you to feign intense interest while watching the 1975 work cup final…and let’s face it, working through the league rule amendments or watching Clive and Collis go mad isn’t a contest.

At the meeting we observed there was plenty to, well,  observe – from where we sat everyone seemed to have a go at being Chair, the toilet break was cancelled because the Secretary’s laptop was running out of power and everyone took a turn at doing something daft with a sample of artificial turf.  The main worries seemed to be that the President’s retirement would free him up to do more odd jobs round the ground – and whether the new kitchen design could handle two beer barrels – but in the great tradition of Committee meetings it ended after exactly 1 hour 45 minutes. Like all Committee meetings at every club, they pretty much last the same length of time. If there is nothing on the agenda, it gets spun out, if there’s too much on the agenda then you just thrash through the death overs and get on your way.

But in the end it all gets sorted, a rattle of the laptop before the battery runs out and hey presto all the people who were going to do the things they were always going to do are going to do them.

So what lessons should we take out into the wider world – the boardroom, the cabinet office, the main assembly of the United Nations? What could world leaders learn from the cricket committee – well, Tuesdays are good, if there’s a lot of you pull two tables together, having a list helps, and with a bit of a team effort things can get done.

So over to you guys, don’t say we didn’t tell you how to do it.

*name changed to protect the innocent

DO TRY THIS AT HOME

FARMYARD AND CROFTER’S  GUIDE TO THE WINTER BLUES

Mid-winter, the rain is hammering on the Velux and the wind rattles the ridge tiles, the ageing Village Cricketer sits at home pondering. For some the lack of sunshine leads to Seasonal Affective Disorder, for our grumpy Fortysomething its Close Season Affective Disorder. For the first you can get some sort of lamp – for the second there are clips from You Tube from the era when it was all so much better.

Yes Forest Grump has hit middle age, it’s not chronological, it can’t be measured by your pulse rate, cholesterol level or hair loss. It’s when you get to that point when you start to say ‘it’s was better in my day’.

Now everyone knows that a creaky 45 year old has 20 years of village cricket left in him but it seems an age since he felt the sun on his back and the ball snicking off the edge for another 4 runs he will claim came from a pre-meditated dab behind point.

Winters are becoming more and more difficult as he progresses gracelessly through middle age. A lack of physical exercise (standing at slip for 45 overs in the summer is now his idea of a marathon) and the sheer delight that is a fine pint of foaming ale have caused his waistline to grow steadily since mid-September.

He has had begging calls from the indoor skipper looking to utilise his "extensive experience" to help him out of a selection crisis (they really MUST be short!) but the idea of playing his beloved, relaxing game indoors in a frantic fashion with a plastic ball makes the cantankerous lion in his soul roar one more time.

He comes up with numerous implausible excuses and settles down with his chocolate digestives and ponders major issues of state (like the potential inconveniences of changing his mobile number).

Add to this inactivity, the built in compulsion to consume carb rich stodgy food as his winter fuel (no one wants a prawn salad in January) and wall to wall sports coverage on his recently purchased Sky & our village cricketer is doing his best to add to the nation’s obesity epidemic.

His physical state is a symptom; his mental state is the cause.

Riddled with self-doubt as he observes the athletes on TV, he wonders whether he will play again. Can he still cut it? (Let alone pull it, drive it, see it, run it or scamper it?)

Is he too old to don the peaked maroon cap again or should he leave the representation of his club to the up and coming cavalry - The Young Bucks? After all, they are forever telling him that his reactions are shot; his quick singles are now leisurely ones that should be twos and that this velcro thing for pads is here to stay.

If he falls on his sword though, how will he spend his Saturdays in the summer?

He ponders this and every time it enters his mind he sees himself arriving at IKEA.

He could happily turn up at the ground on days when it is warmer than 18C , drink some beer with the other Old Timers and laugh heartily at the Young Bucks as they struggle to manoeuvre the covers on the arrival of the inevitable thunder shower. He could even go to the extreme and do the sporting equivalent of a trip to Dignitas and take up golf again.

However, as he ponders this thought, he realises that there will be so much to miss... The camaraderie, the team ethic, the ribbing (what an old school polite term that is) , the banter, the togetherness, the sulks, the tantrums and the jolly days out to sample the "money no object" teas in the posh bits of the County like Wilmslow.

He perks up a little and starts searching YouTube for clips to relight his fire...Hadlee, Richards, Khan, Dev, Bedi, Botham, Border, Marshall, Holding, Garner - Names which made him fall so totally in love with the sport in the first place are now enticing him to continue and are drawing him back from the brink.

He is now standing up, the Christmas cardy falls to the floor and he’s into his batting stance in front of the TV and as he plays along with Kapil Dev hitting 4 consecutive sixes he says out loud "I'm too young to retire... I can still be my team's hero" just as his passing spouse catches him mid hook shot and uses the remote to replace ‘Big Hits and Flying Stumps III’ with Cash in the Attic. But even the appearance of a bright orange TV presenter in place of a proper cricket legend can stop the recovery process that has now taken hold. The blues are being banished – and next up he turns to the club's website and manipulates the criteria for batting statistics from 2013. Given the correct parameters, he could have finished top of the averages, runs, catches. Now he’s not just feeling a bit better he’s almost cured.

Then he say’S the words that confirm a full recovery.

“Hello, is that Barringtons? Can you tell me what time you are open to on Saturday?”

So, invigorated, he resolves to, once again, look forward to another season on the Rollercoaster. He looks out for the first daffodil of Spring which always indicates that outdoor nets are only just around the corner. He vows not to become disenchanted when he hasn't got into double figures by mid May.

He re-dedicates himself fully as a Village Cricketer once more after banishing the blues – he’ll don his maroon cap with pride and, come June, will be stomping around having been dropped telling anyone who will listen that ‘it was better in my day’

[If you are affected by any of the issues covered in this posting please contact Farmyard and Crofter via Twitter, as a general rule we recommend 15 minutes of 80s cricket legends six time a day]

TANG: WHAT NICKNAMES TEACH US ABOUT SPORT AND LIFE

Societies across the world mark the transition into manhood in a range of ways – and the world of the village cricketer is no different. For the emerging village player there is a point when you move from being one of the youngsters and start to be recognised as a person and player in your own right. It’s that time when you get your nickname.

It’s an exciting time – but one where a young player needs to proceed with caution. Your nickname will say with you until they lower you into the ground or scatter your ashes at long-off.  It will be shouted at you across the outfield and will spread like a virus beyond cricket to work and college, girlfriends and siblings.  

Nicknames say a lot about you, more about your friends and a lot about Cricket. Farmyard and Crofter are firmly of the view that there is a strong relationship between the quality of your team’s nicknames and on-field performance.  When Super Cat led out The Master Blaster and Whispering Death you just knew what you were getting.

More on this below as we explain England’s capitulation down under.

It’s a thinking man and woman’s game with scope for creativity – so if the best you can come up with for a mate is Smithy, then perhaps you are not the man to work out how your left arm wrist spinner should be using the breeze. When you hear a skipper shout ‘get loose Dave/Simon/Imran’ to his bowler you should be sniffing blood. If the call is ‘get loose Bullet/Simple/Immers then you know these guys hunt in a pack.

To some extent the first rule of nicknames is the team that’s cruel together stays together.

But how do we get them in the first place? For many it marks the transition to manhood. The young ‘uns who break into senior cricket are typically referred to by the first names for a year or so. Anything too cruel or crude needs to be explained to dad (usually not an issue) or mum (potentially more challenging) so for a while first names prevail…and then out of the blue something sticks, sometimes obvious and sometimes so warped and tangential to any sane person’s thinking that virtually all of your future introductions are spent explain while you are called Dingo or Slasher or Cupcake.

There are 3 species of Nicknames.

The first are based on what you are already called and are subdivided into to two sub species:

Obvious: add a Y or IE (as in Trotty) or shorten (as in Carbs or Bres)

Associative: where a name is used in conjunction with a another word – The late Graham Dilley was known as Picca, and very few Rodneys get to play without being called Plonker every week.

The other two species are ‘Appearance’ (which could be physical or clothing related) – such as Beaky; and ‘Event’ when you are named after something stupid you have done (brain yourself on the low beam in the home dressing room, come round and you are forever ‘Hard Hat’).

For a young player making his way on the team they play every week knowing that their name – the transition to manhood could happen. They need to think about the story of Tang. A young man keeping wicket with orange pants putting in an appearance every time his gets set to take the ball. Long leg predictably shouts ‘We have got an Orang-utan keeping wicket’.

Actually that would be unpredictable – the actual version is cruder and he says ‘Orange -u-tang’. Of course long leg really should have said we had a baboon keeping wicket – but two overs later our young keeper is forever ‘Tang’. You can run through the eternal looped conversation yourself now ‘Why do they call you Tang?’

‘It’s to do with some pants’.

It so often is.

So what is a young man to do? At a club where there already quite a few animals so to speak, eating your tea with two hands would almost certainly mean you’ll be ‘Squirrel’ and the guy with the big nose crawling around looking for his contact lens will become ‘The Anteater’.

You could, off course, try to set the agenda. If your surname can take it, add a Y or IE and slowly start to use it.  Answer your phone with a casual ‘its Jonesy’. You can even try to grab yourself a name like tiger – wear a few stripes, go for black and orange – but get it wrong and remember – it’s a life sentence. For every ‘Tiger’ there is a ‘Deckchair’.

Maybe it’s best to take what the cricket gods have for you, whatever it is, it means you have arrived.

…and now back to the international game. England’s ‘bowl dry, percentage cricket’ is reflected in the names they use for each other – Cookie, Swanny, Broady, Bres, Carbs. The coach Andy Flower is called Andy Flower – while the Aussies have replaced Micky Arthur (known as Micky Arthur) with Boof. It explains a lot and it’s no wonder that England might look to Ashley Giles – and man with two nicknames in the Hall of Fame: Wheelie Bin and King of Spain.

[footnote: Orang-utans are classified in the genus Pongo]