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COMPETITION

Fall from Grace

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1918 you were invited to write a poem lamenting the degenerate and vulgar elements that have intruded into modern cricket.

I should have resisted my punning title, since the great Doctor was notorious for his refusals to 'walk': 'They have come to see me bat,' he would insist. The idea for the comp sprang from a poem by Roger Woddis, himself a great comper, now, alas, dead, written 25 years ago, entitled 'Noth- ing Sacred':

Decent standards melt like butter, Cricket is becoming crude; Ah, my friend, and oh! Calcutta!

Soon they'll play it in the nude!

Plus ca change, plus c 'est la mime chose. Fine performances at the poetic crease came from at least 11 of you. But space allows only five prizewinners, who are printed below and get £20 each. The bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Norman Bissett.

The steel band plays, the hooligans rollick: Soccer-type action is what they crave. Stripped to the waist and alcoholic, The lager louts rise in a Mexican wave.

In floppy sombrero and wrap-around specs, The sledger scratches a nonchalant ball. Bevisored, the batsman protects his sex, And scarcely resembles a batsman at all. Heliotrope, daffodil, purple, pink, The pads are puce and the tracksuits blue. Teams of apaches daubed in zinc Conduct themselves like apaches too.

Gone are the days of Bradman, Hobbs. The game is disgraced and crude and knackered, Suborned and sabotaged by yobs - Kerry Packered! (Norman Bissett) 'Me? I just love the coloured strip, The 40-over instant fix, When me and all my mates let rip With football songs at every six.

Floodlights? They've got to get them here And giant screens so we can see The replay (ta, mate, one more beer) That shows if Lamby was I.b.

Sledging? By me, it's quite okay.' (And here he gave an inane grin.) `It doesn't matter how you play Provided that you win, win, win.'

Thus spake the shell-suit in the crowd.

I heard the future in his words.

This game, so beautiful and proud, Has fallen prey to tasteless nerds.

(Michael Maxtone-Smith) Where once a Bradman or a Hobbs his mighty bat would wield, Now neon-lurid players play upon a plastic field. The wickets are a deep blush-pink, with brand- names on the stumps, And instant-replay verdicts leave the umpires looking chumps.

Since the dawn of Kerry Packer, past tradition has packed up, And the Ashes burn less bright than some tobacco-sponsored cup, While the TV and the tabloid press combine to kiss and tell, So nuts to how you played the game; ask what you have to sell.

You can say the one Great Scorer never asks who lost and won,

But if you're scoring off the pitch you'll coin it from the Sun.

Did you googly with a barmaid once, or tamper with a ball?

Have you smoked some wacky baccy? Sign the contract and tell all.

It's 1996, old boy, and sportsmanship's for losers, So grab the readies while you can: Christ, beg- gars can't be choosers.

And if some daft old buffer should complain that it's not cricket, Don't listen to his point of view — just tell him where to stick it. (Basil Ransome-Davies) All fielders should be masters of successes and disasters And not allow each triumph to be greeted with a cry; On the field there are no places for intemperate embraces And rapturous addressings of the Umpire in the Sky.

No harm in showing pleasure if you keep it within measure, For a smile is what distinguishes a human from a brute; But it really isn't cricket, when a bowler gets a wicket, To speed the parting batsman with a victory salute.

As for batting, never whistle disbelief at your dismissal Or bang your bat in fury when the umpire's less than kind; Just smile and rise above it; quickly walk as if you love it, And, later, send a fiver to the Council for the Blind. (Paul Griffin) Look, here's the cutting. Back in '41,

In India — you see it's from the Mail -

A team of convicts from the Bombay gaol Turned out against the Regiment, and won!

Our Colonel was a cricketer — his son Had played for Hampshire once — and he stood bail For all the visitors who, without fail, Were in their cells before the evening gun. Their captain was a murderer, he stood Well over six feet tall and he was good, Making a century in rapid time.

(How strange that such a man should turn to crime.) But what impressed me most and gave delight, The whole eleven played in spotless white.

Last week, on Sky, I saw our English team Dressed in pyjamas, like some dreadful dream.

(John Sweetman)

No. 1921: Very different story The City headline 'Jaguars slump' might equally well suggest an outbreak of disease in a zoo. You are invited to find an ambig- uous headline from a newspaper (please enclose cutting) and supply a news item, the 'very different story', to go with it (max- imum 120 words). Entries to 'Competition No. 1921' by 22 February.