Over and Out.

(Warning: this entry requires some knowledge of, or interest in, cricket)

Holding to Boycott. Warne to Gatting. Ambrose to Jones. Flintoff to Ponting.

From time to time a single over in a cricket match is so sensational, so reflective of the best of game, so packed with incident that it moves immediately from cricket field to cricketing fokelore

Well, kindly add to the list : Fergusson to Paterlini.

To those of you, and there can't be many left, who haven't read about it, or heard about it already, from the mouths of taxi drivers or landlords or soothsayers, here's the full story, straight from the Hurlingham Horse's mouth.

The context.

Hurlingham v San Albano. Traditionally a meeting of gentleman and hoodlums, where the blood runs high and the insults fly, where Northern grit overcomes Southern spite. This occasion, a First Division Declaration League match, was to be no different.

San Albano wins the toss and bat.

Opening the batting is a figure of controversy, one M Paterlini, perhaps Argentina's most talented batsman: a man whose strokeplay is as sweet as his mind is sour.

I came on to bowl the 11th over, with the score 43-1 (Paterlini 19no), of a game that was moving along surprisingly quitely and sedately. The key word in that sentence: was.

This is what happened next.

The Over

Ball 1: The loosener.
Paterlini has clearly seen this bowler before. First ball he dances down the wicket and smashed a straight drive down the ground, over the ropes, through the trees and half way across the fairway for 4. "Go fetch your sheeeet, Englishman," he thinks. 47-1

Ball 2: The reply.
Straight drive that! You can't. Cause it's a wide outside off stump. Bowler has a polite word to the umpire. 48-1

Ball 2: The second reply.
Short and wide, hit into the ground to the fielder. No run. Order restored to the kingdom. 48-1

Ball 3: The beamer.
High full toss, mistimed to cover. Called 'no ball' for height. Bowler has another polite word to the umpire. "Shut up and bowl," Paterlini tells Fergusson.

Fergusson shuts up and bowls. Paterlini not ready. Various comments pertaining to "Shut up and bat" are heard. Some verbal sparring.

Bowler is still whinging about the no ball.

Umpires meet, tell everyone to calm down. Bowler told to shut up and bowl, this time by his team mates.

It was never a no ball. 49-1

Ball 3: The mis-field.
Short and wide again, batsman mistimes to cover. One R Butta, combative Australian, fails to stop a ball that is barely moving. 1 run taken. Batsman laughs at fielder. 50-1

Ball 4: The single.
All round good bloke Tommy Frances drives a full toss to mid off and takes a single bringing the far more interesting Señor Paterlini back on strike. 51-1

Ball 5: The mis-field: Part II
Short and wide, Paterlini again mistimes a cut but picks his fielder. Ball once again passes through hands and legs of one R Butta. Paterlini, laughing, says words to the effect of, "You are sh*t" to fielder. Bowler agrees. Fielder goes mental (and white, and a little scary).

Umpires intervene. Paterlini and Butta involved in verbal sparring. Captains intervene. 53-1

Ball 6: The straight one.
Not only straight, but swinging, and fast, as Paterlini tries to flick it through the off side, off and middle stumps are splayed by a Younis-like inswinging yorker. Bowler screams like a happy, yet angry dog. Batsman walks off. Slowly. 53-2

Folklore people. Tell your grandkids.

Fools

I've just been invigilating an exam.

 

Some of the questions asked were stupider than a fictional American tourist at the Edinburgh Festival. "What time is the 1 o'clock cannon fired?" and all of that. 

 

One question in particular seemed to baffle them, for no reason I could fathom.

 

Rather than, as usual, give you the Top 5 Howlers, I prefer to describe in full the behaviour of one of the fringe members of the group, who rather nicely encapsulates the idiocies of the rest. If he were in a wildlife documentary, he would be a wildebeest; but one of those wildebeasts lagging behind, a little slow on the uptake whilst his wildefriends scarpered, the one with the flummoxed expression, about to be devoured by the predatory lions.

 

The question they were struggling with reads as follows:

 

A friend is coming to visit Argentina for two weeks. Write a letter recommending what he could do. After a couple of minutes, a hand went up. Tomás, it seemed, was confused. 

Do I need to put an address? he asked. I said, Yes. He said he didn't know his address. I said, Make it up. 

He sat there for many minutes, before writing

Buenos Aires.

in the top right corner.

Returning to my desk, no sooner had I started my marking before, out of the peripheries of my vision a little but now familiar hand go up again. 

Yes, Tomás? I ventured. Sir, what is the date? I pointed to what he had just written on the exam paper - 12th November - next to the word Date. Ah yes, he said, like some kind of academic who'd experienced a Joycean moment of epiphany.  

I returned to my desk. A minute or so later, the hand went up again. Confidently. 

 

Sir, can I invent a name? Which may actually have been rhetorical. I said, Yes. This time I waited by his desk, morbidly fascinated by where this would go. 

Once again, he sat there for an apparent eternity - like Oscar Wilde agonising over whether to add or remove a comma - before writing:

Dear Friend,

Reading this, I affirmed that he could invent a name. 

Yes, Sir, said Tomás, and then added, rather cryptically, I thought of one. 

Tomás continued: 

Dear Friend. 

It's Christian here. Your friend. 

Unfortunately the test was only half an hour, and that's as far as he, and the comedy, got. Pens down. 

Ah, the disappointment on his face. The genius he was about to unleash.

Cry for me, Argentina

So I've been in Argentina now for nearly two years, and, mostly in the desire to write about stuff that's original, I think this is the first time I've written about big Diego. It seemed a bit obvious, really. 

 

But sometimes you just have face the wobbling-bellied drug-addled inevitability that is Maradona in your daily life. So when the national team loses a few games, accusations of in-fighting amongst the squad are rife, you need a calming influence, right? A wise 'un who can cool the hot headed youngsters down with somesage advice.

 

Well, that's what most countries would do. In England they'd find a died in the wool racist, with whispy blond hair; a man who would talk fluent football, refer to the days pre shin pads and keepers' gloves, and he would do nothing at all except weather a media storm long enough for the FA to do exactly that, and then employ another foreign manager to do the job properly. 

 

Here in Argentina, you weather a crisis by calling on a man who is probably the worst behaved sportsman in the world. He's shot at reporters, he's single handedly responsible for 4/5th of Latin American deforestation (cocaine plants and cow-burgers), got so many drug offenses that even the Chinese couldn't keep up (hence his presence throughout the Olympics... in the changing rooms of Argentine Olympians, noticably the women's hockey team)

 

Many people in the UK have asked, is it like Gazza coaching England? Well, yes, it is exactly like that. Except he wouldn't be famous for crying, cause everyone cries over football here. I'm crying right now.

It is different here. In the UK, you can only be one thing or the other. Either you are idolised or vilified, sometimes in the same week (Rooney, Flintoff, Beckham, Corry etc). But Maradona is yet another Argentine paradox; he exists in both contexts - villain and hero, God and fool - simultaneously. Rather like living here itself: it does your head in, but you find you love it. 

 

And the guy is everywhere: his TV Parkinson format (but not style) show doesn't run anymore, which is a shame cause who wouldn't want to see Fidel Castro interviewed by a footballer? Pretty much every department store replays golden Maradona moments; the tourist favourite 'Maradona lookalike' down in La Boca must be a millionaire by now; even the British Embassy function room, with commendable wit, is called the 'Hand Of God' room, sporting a massive photo of 'that goal' opposite the bar. And last week he was shown on the tele wildly celebrating a Boca's victory. This is the national team coach, let me remind you, who openly talks about how much he hates River, and could 'never wear a River shirt' (cause there aren't any big enough, is the usual reply). 

But, the people who know their footy say the problem with the national team is that they're the 11 biggest egos in Argentina, and none of them listen to the coach. The only guy in the country that they will listen to is big Diego, so they want to use Diego as the mouthpiece to communicate the plan. 

 

Obvious problem is the guy, clearly, cannot help himself... He'll walk into the room with the tactics explained and agreed before hand, get carried away with emotion, do a quick line of coke, be 'inspired' and then you'll see the keeper playing centre midfield second half... (I'll be extradited within one hour of sending this email!)   

 

First match Scotland! How do you fancy their chances? 

My bet: we lose 2-3. 

Keeper to score second half hat-trick. 

Headlines. 

Brave Scots Felled By Mara Magic.

Ferber meets Ferglar

Katie didn't take too well at first to the sleep deprivation of motherhood.

BBFC comments: Content contains mild references to children and moments of parental in-joking. However, as intention is harmless 

 

As any new parent will tell you, it's all about sleep. You talking about '4 hours unbroken' as the holy grail. If you head to sleepdeprivation.com it'll mentions a number of otherwise hilarious side effects such as excess clumsiness and slurred speech, side effects one associates with much more enjoyable past-times, such as drunkenness.

 

But as a sleepadled guilt ridden new parent, you will inevitably find your way Dr Ferber.

 

Ferbs introduced, essentially, an idea that provided a middle ground for getting their kids to sleep. Parents in the 80s, who until then had had 3 options to get their kids to sleep.

Option 1. Holding the child indefinitely to achieve silence, usually so that judgemental I-raised-you-during-a-war-inlaw types wouldn't think they were failures.

Option 2. Letting the child 'cry it out'. Brutal (but "100% effective"). 

Option 3. Boarding School.  Brutal (but reassuringly expensive).  
 

So, allow me to introduce you to a fourth way.  Where 

Ferberisation meets Ferglarinisation. You may be able to spot where I've 'got creative' and adapted a couple of my own ideas.

 

Dr Ferber says:

Find a nighttime routine that helps calm your baby and signals bedtime. For instance, bathe, read a story, drug her quite heavily and cuddle her, muffling her screaming beneath a soothing pillow.

If baby is still nursing in the middle of the night, sell it on eBay, or begin by replacing that feeding with rocking to sleep or locking her in a cupboard, before beginning to help her find her own way to sleep.

Each night, put baby in her crib while she's still awake. Sleep where you can easily hear her, but not in the same room. (Many parents take turns camping out on the couch during "Ferberization.") When you go in at scheduled intervals, don't pick baby up to rock or feed her. Just sit there pointless while she performs Emily-Rose-style-back-snapping convulsions. Stay for 2 of 3 minutes, Say 'Go to sleep' firmly, and leave. 

Day one: Let baby cry for five minutes before going in to offer comfort. Make yourself a drink. Just a beer or something, maybe a slice of lime. The next time, wait 10 minutes, re-pour your drink, lose the lime; then wait 15. If baby is still crying after 15 minutes, keep the interval at 15 minutes for the remainder of that night until baby falls asleep, or you lose consciousness.   

Day two: Let baby cry for 10 minutes before going in. This allows you amble time to make something a little more ambition: maybe a Tom Collins, or a Mojito. Then return after 15, then 20. Keep interval at 20 minutes until baby falls asleep. 20 mins is lime enough to make some elegant concoctions; me, I'd go for a Daiquiri, or hit the Southside.

Day three: F*ck it. Let baby cry for 15 minutes, or an hour. Whatever. You'll be needing 15 mins minimum just to prepare the Absinthe; sugar, spoon, lighter, low ball glasses. My motto: three shots in before you go back in. Then give it 20 - hallucinations should be heavy by now. Talk to your baby, make it light. Once calmed bvy stories of electric-eel-sheep, leave. One more for luck. Look at the stars. Then wait 25. Keep interval at 25 minutes until baby falls asleep.

Most children will be sleeping well by the end of three days and should definitely respond by the end of a week. If not, speak with your pediatrician. After that, best check yourself out (your liver) or in (to rehab).  

Write a story about your holiday.

"Write a story about your holiday..." the teacher would say, day one at the start of a new school year. And, if you listened carefully, you could almost hear them whisper, "and leave me the f*** alone." Well, the wizards who wrote the SATs exams would have outdone themselves to set any task so coherent.

Snuck in amongst politics and business this week, you may have noticed that SATs testing - a compulsory exam in English, Maths and Science for 14 years olds - has been scrapped.

Unless you're under 23, or a teacher, you won't have experienced the exquisite pointlessness of the SATs experience. Feel like you've missed out? Worry not - let me take you there.

The only thing to be said for SATs, from a teachers' point of view, is that they were externally marked. No one cared: even the kids knew they were pointless. I think the best reason we could give them to do well - other than, of course, the much documented intrinsic desire to succeed so deeply ingrained in UK Youth Culture - was that it affected setting for GCSEs. Now that's inspiration. You'd find yourself saying things like, 'OK, good lesson needed today, your SATs are only weeks away', then later crawl into the crowded corner of the staff room reserved especially for self-loathing, avaricious sellouts who'll say anything to buy a quiet hour on a Thursday afternoon. Guilty, and guilty about it.

The other thing of note is how unbelievably badly written they usually were: invigilating a SATs exam in 2003 was a case in point. There were 4 invilgilators: two pros (oh, the glamour) and 2 teachers.

It went like this:

0900 Time starts.

0901 A handful of kids have read the writing task and already put their hands up. Idiots, I think, it's Sats, how can they not understand the question?

0903 All but 4 of the students in the room have their hands up.

0904 Invilgilators meet at front to try to work out what to tell the students.

That's because the question went something like this:

Imagine you are Macbeth, about to murder King Duncan. In pen, send an email to your wife, Lady Macbeth, telling her that she influenced you - without your knowledge - to kill King Duncan, an act you will carry out shortly. You should demonstrate both knowledge of the text and formal email writing skills in your response. You may use ideas from the reading paper. You may not use vowels.

They were always ridiculous, the marking deeply questionable, and no one - no one - cared. Except the Head, because they contributed to league tables, one of the single most hated, idiotic and divisive things ever brough to UK education.

SATs are being replaced with a teacher's report on the kids. How much better is that? It really doesn't need 3 exams, outsourced to a company in the States for marking - to confirm that Charile is a tool and has yet to reach the reading ago of... a tool, nor that Ivana is a genius and so on.

OK, ok, it's easy to be critical of government decisions. It's also quite fun, so join in whenever you can. Adios.

Some help in times of need

It seems that being totally unqualified to discuss the world financial crisis should not stop you from expressing an opinion. Very very few of us a couple of weeks ago would know what short selling is or what hedge funds were, and I think that that ignorance was not only noble but far more interesting that having that (sketchy, dumbed down) knowledge. 

Short selling, to put it simply for you, is this: if you are a short person who wants to be appear taller through achieving incredible personal wealth (IPW), you can borrowing stuff from other short people of IPW, or from a company of IPW.  You and your rich short friend lose loads of other people's money whilst increasingly your own IPW and go and buy lots of yachts. The company and the normal people meanwhile become homeless and die alone. 

A hedge fund is an oft confused phrase when you have so much money your pockets balloon on either side, looking like a hedge.  

But if you think I don't know what I'm talking about, check out these two venomous beasts: Sarah Palin and our Argentina's very own Christina Kirschner.   

To steal from what I've read sporadically on the subject, Palin's response to the question, What would you do about the Bail Out Bill? was quite predictable in its madness. 

- First of all, my name is not Bill. Second of all, when I look out of my window, I can see Russia.

Relevance not a strong point but not to worry, it's all part of God's awesome plan. 

Meanwhile, a thousand miles or so south of there, Christina is giving speech after speech talking about Argentina will stay strong because it is prepared for tough times. Excellent, and I thought these things were all somehow connected. Even as the pesos became worth 10% less overnight, she continued laughing in the face of the silly Americans in their time of financial crisis. Those fools.       

 

Or, as Leno apparently opened his show with last week: "Before we begin, I want to warn the good people of Nigeria watching this show, if you get any emails from Washington asking for money, it's a scam. Don't fall for it."

Shoot, it's all a bit upside your head, isn't it, Sarah? 

Hard drive

There are few things that can leave you hating 'progress' more than a lost hard drive. Ring binders, books, VHS tapes: things the size of your head that retained about an hour of information. These things were not disasterous to lose.

 

But a hard drive - not backed up due an attitude best described as an oh-you've-had-your-comeuppance-now-it'll-never-happen-to-a-Mac smugness - can contain something like the following:

- Music, approx 15,000 songs.

- Photos: Leah 6 months, most from Argentina, two weddings, many many more.  

- Work: nearly everyething since I've been a teacher: I was between 'back ups', somehow. A bunch of Katie's too... 

- Writing: about 70,000 words of It's Like Omigod, a humourous, observational take on my first couple of years of teaching. And a stack of others.

- Bookmarks: who'd have thought, but man does it take a long time to re-track down all those handy little local websites.

 

Depressed. Well, don't be.

 

But do please back up.