Posted by Ged Ladd’s smartphone, Ivan Meagreheart, writes:
It can be exhilarating, being Ged Ladd’s smartphone; even after the bland ending to our Day Two, we were full of excitement ahead of Day Three. Ged woke me up and I was feeling 100% full of energy, which is as it should be.
Our walk to the ground was mostly uneventful; my colleagues and their apps being the forgotten heroes of earlier treks, now that the humans well and truly knew the best route. However, towards the end of the walk, there was a comedic interlude, when Charley The Gent Malloy, deep in conversation with Harsha Ghoble, fell behind the pack and decided to use his app to find us and the entrance. Naturally, the app took him to the main entrance, as Charley omitted to tell the app that we gather near the Sir Harry’s Pub, using the Pershore Road entrance. So Charley blindly followed the app to the main entrance, where he felt lost again and phoned Nigel for help. Typical human, Charley then blamed his tool rather than his own lack of logic. “How many times have we been to this ground and used this entrance?” mumbled Nigel “Father Barry” White to Ged.
Still, we were soon in the ground well ahead of the start of play. Ged was hoping/half-expecting that Bert would come and join our little group at some stage during the day, but he never showed up. Bert did, however, have the courtesy to explain why in his own match report.
When the match was over, the 10 Heavy Rollers gathered outside the ground at their traditional farewell point. (Outside the Sir Harry’s Pub, you didn’t need an app to help you guess that). Lemon Peel had kindly stored Ged’s luggage in the back of her motor, so that we could head off on foot to New Street without returning to the Hagley Road hotel. So after the warm goodbyes/farewells, Ged and I wandered off into Birmingham.
We were well early for our train and it was a beautiful afternoon. Sunny with some light cloud, maximum temperature 23 degrees Celsius, breeze less than 5mph. We found an Italian cafe/restaurant with an outdoor terrace, just off the main strip as we approached New Street. Ged killed some time there over a couple of Americano coffees. Then when it got a bit chillier, we went into the station and killed some more time in the Virgin lounge, where Ged drank cranberry juice.
Then onto the 19:30 train. Months ago, Ged had booked a quiet carriage in first class at low cost, using my arch rival, Ged’s laptop, rather than my app. Spit. Ged continued reading; he even partook of some wine and nosh at this juncture. We were completely unaware of the rest of the train.
When we got off the train at Euston, we suddenly were hit by a wall of sound behind us; thousands of drunken fans singing. The Mitchell Johnson Song. The Joe Root to the tune of Hey Jude song. In the hanger-like acoustic of Euston, the noise was almost deafening. Ged said it reminded him of the We Are the Mods scene from Quadrophenia. Ged’s wrong. There was no Phil Daniels, no Lesley Ash, we were at Euston, not Brighton, there were no mods, no rockers and (be realistic, this was a train full of cricket fans) no ultra-violence. There weren’t even any Australian antagonists; at least none that you could see or hear.
Send your match reports to king@kingcricket.co.uk. If it’s a professional match, on no account mention the cricket itself. If it’s an amateur match, feel free to go into excruciating detail.
I almost stopped reading after that misplaced full stop outside the parentheses in the fourth paragraph. But then again I have a soft spot for poor, unappreciated, put-upon Ivan Meagreheart, so decided to lay the blame at Ged’s door.
Ivan has asked me to thank you for your kind words, Chuck.
Ivan has also asked me to point out that he could easily have an app to resolve errors in grammar and punctuation, but that I have neglected to download such an app for him.
In short, you are quite right to lay the blame for that heinous error at my door, not Ivan’s.
Ged seems to be commanding something of a monopoly on match reports of late.
I would like to place on record my disappointment at Ged’s lack of a mandate.
Ged: Call that election.
I can’t resign until I have utterly bollocksed something up to the extent that no-one in their right mind would wish to follow in my footsteps.
Yes, I have taken the blame for “right-parenthesis-full-stop-reversal-gate” (see above) and I apologise wholeheartedly for any distress or offence my error might have caused. But it is hardly a clusterfuck of resignation proportions, now is it?