DD's Christmas Carol

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Stave 1 - The Ghost of English Cricket


English cricket was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that. The register of its cremation remains to this day, enscribed upon an urn which lurks in a cabinet at Lord's, mournful witness to the day the chin music died. "Bye bye Miss Australian Pie". Ebenezer Ducky signed it - and Ducky's name was good for anything he chose to put his wing to. English cricket was a dead as a door-nail.

Ducky knew it was dead? Of course he did. Ducky and cricket were partners for I don't know how many years. Ducky was the sole executor, sole administrator, sole friend and sole mourner. Well, he should have been, judging by the normal standard of writing by cricket hacks in the English press.

The mention of cricket's death brings me back to where I left off yesterday (or last week, or whenever it was I started this macabre tale), assuming I haven't actually got bored with the sheer tedium of it, but as you are reading this now, I obviously haven't, so don't cry 'paradox' at me - that is, unless YOU, dear reader, have actually taken over the writing of this sorry tale - or perhaps I have died too and it is being written from beyond the grave (cue spooky music).

Where was I? (goes back to check)

Oh, yes. Ebenezer Ducky and Marley cricket. Synonymous with one another. External heat and cold had little influence on Scro Ducky. Who am I kidding? Look, A Christmas Carol is about this tight-fisted guy called Scrooge and the things which happen to make him a better person. This story is a flagrant rip-off (like most of my stuff) where I attempt to steal the idea of a literary genius and use it as a medium for taking the pis Mickey out of Shane Warne.

It's called 'A Parody', Your Honour.

Well, it's Christmas, Season of Peace and Goodwill to All Men. Let's cut Warney just a little slack for once. Let's allow him to enjoy Christmas at home, surrounded by friends and family, presents under the tree, mistletoe hanging in the hallway (just in case he gets lucky), chestnuts roasting, snow gently falling outside in Ferntree Gulley, Yule Log burning brightly on the barbecue, chemists shop closed, mobile phone locked out.

On with the tale.

No-one ever stopped in the street to say "My dear Ducky. How are you? When will you come and see me?" No cheerful beggars implored him with a cheerful "Got any spare change?", cheerful, slavering Rottweiler just a length of string away from his face. No children asked him what time it was o'clock with a cheerful "Look after your car for a fiver?"

But what did Ducky care? "A Merry Christmas, uncle Ebenezer. What have you bought for me?" cried yet another sickeningly cheerful, optimistic voice. Was it Huey, his nephew? Huey was definitely no relation to Dewey and Louie, for it is one thing to be sued by those who hold the rights to the complete works of Dickens, quite another to take on the might of the Disney Corporation.

"Humbug" replied Ducky, seeing that the young whippersnapper was in fact his other nephew, Rikki.

"Oh, I love humbugs, uncle." replied the spotty youngster.

"What right have you to be merry, young Clarke? Merry Christmas? Bah! Humbug, I say again." said Ducky.

"Don't be so cross, uncle. Christmas is a wonderful time of year. We've just returned from Sri Lanka with a win/draw/defeat (delete as appropriate)."

Note : At the time of writing, the series is undecided, but we could just as well assume 'defeat'. Now read on...

"I repeat, Rikki. What right have you to be merry? You're poor." said Ducky.

"I'm not poor, uncle. Daddy's a Merchant Banker in the City. Why else do you think I play for Surrey?" said Rikki.

"You misunderstand me, young sir. I meant that as an international cricketer you are not exactly of the same standing as, say, Ajit Agarkar, although it is arguable that there is more than a modicum of skill present and you might develop into something more than just 'ordinary'." said Ducky, unbearably patronisingly.

Ducky returned to his scribbling house where his clerk and word-processor waited patiently. "I expect you'll be wanting tomorrow off, then?" said Ducky.

"If quite convenient, sir. It is, after all, the 25th of December." replied Bob VVS-Catchit.

"Well, make sure you are here an hour earlier the following day for net practice. You were absolute rubbish in the slips the other week. FOUR CATCHES you dropped. Very lax, man. Who do you think you are - Marcus Trescothick?"

"It's pronounced 'LATCH', not LAX."

"I see. So it rhymes with 'CATCH?' Hardly appropriate in your case, Bob. Humbug!"

"Oh, yes please" said Bob, predictably (although by now the 'humbug' joke was wearing thin. However, don't worry. There's plenty more mileage to get out of it yet - and only one pound twenty pence for a big bag from Tesco's).

Through the window, Ducky saw the noisy children playing their dreary games in the street. One, a rough urchin whose name was Matty, his hands covering his eyes, was counting - "38...39...40..." while two others, called Bishen and Harbhajan, ("88...89...90...") sought places to secrete themselves ("98...99...100...Ready or not..."). Ducky thought back to his own childhood. He used to love playing 'Hayden Sikh'. Where had it all gone wrong?

Christmas. Ducky hated Christmas, but he had at least made an effort this year - and what thanks did he get? None whatsoever. Had not he even decorated his front door with festive cheer? He surveyed the cluster of dead rats nailed above the frame with approval. Cheap, but effective.

Ducky took a melancholy dinner in The Cross Keys, Castle Donington, a marvellous pub with a splendid selection of real ales and who, coincidentally, offered me a couple of free pints of Marston's Pedigree if they got a cheap mention, something I do gladly. Furthermore, if they throw in a pint of Theakston's as well, they might get another one later on.

Ducky went home, crossing the road twice - unusual, because he lived on the same side of the street as The Cross Keys, Castle Donington, but predictable because he got the second mention in, and all for the price of a beer. The yard was dark - so dark that Ducky was fain to grope with his hands. The fog and frost so hung about the black gateway to the house that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation instead of just interrupting every cricket match in Sri Lanka at about half past three every afternoon except for the occasions that England could do with the rain.

Even the weather hated England.

There was a large knocker on the door. Ducky was not averse to studying knockers - after all, is that not what the internet is for? Predictably (but not as predictably as yet another mention of the Cross Keys, Castle Donington - it had been an exceedingly good night of drinking), the knocker concerned was very large (the best ones always are, but I think we ought to move on - reluctantly) but this time, the knocker (here we go again) turned into his, I mean a, face.

Bannerman's face.

It looked at Ducky as Bannerman used to look - not angry or ferocious, but with ghostly testic spectacles turned up on his ghostly forehead.

As Ducky looked on fixedly, it became a huge knocker again.

Ducky went up to bed, but everywhere he looked, he saw either Bannerman or the ghostly urn containing English cricket's ashes or even (on the frequent occasion the author forgot what the hell he was doing) Marley.

"Humbug!" said Ducky, and reached into his dressing-robe pocket for one. After a while, his eyes fell upon a bell, an old bell, a big old bell, a big old brass bell, a chipped (just get on with it) big old brass bell which suddenly, as he looked on in mock horror that you can only truly get in a film starring Vincent Price or Christopher Lee, started to swing to and fro.

The sound made by the bell, the old bell (etc) resonated into the very depths of his soul. This might have lasted a minute, but it seemed an hour. "It's humbug still" said Ducky, chewing away, but just then a ghostly apparition, dressed all in white, stood before him, his finger pointing accusingly.

"It's Bannerman".

"No, he's out" said Asoka De Silva.

"What do you want with me?" whimpered Ducky.

There then followed a really long and tedious conversation which seemed to go on for ever (a bit like this story really) before the apparition got to the point (unlike this story really). "You will be haunted this night by three Spirits."

"Oh, good. I could do with a drop of whisky." replied Ducky, punningly, I mean, cunningly entering into the spirit of things.

"Expect the first soon - when the clock strikes one."

"Strikes one what?" enquired Ducky, engaged in a furtive hunt for cheap laughs rather than writing a clever, witty story in the style of one of the truly great English authors.

The air was filled with orgas phantasms, wandering hither and thither in their restless haste (much like Inzamam ul-Haq running between the wickets), moaning as they went (much like Inzamam ul-Haq after being run out running between the wickets). Every one of them wore chains, a cross between Mr. T and the typical West Indian opening bowler of old, and all of them were miserable and looked as though they had taken a fearful battering (more akin to the typical West Indian bowler of today).

Ducky examined the door by which Phil Spector the spectre had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, yet the apparition had penetrated the threshold as easily as Muralitharan getting through the forward defensive stroke of Mark Boucher. "Stephen Harmison" he exclaimed, he being the 'Gordon Bennett' of the day. "I never expected the Spanish Inquisition".

Everybody REALLY expects me to say 'Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition', so I won't.

Bannerman had returned from the grave - and Ebenezer Ducky, for the first time in his life, didn't know what to do.

He went to bed and awaited his fate.

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Leap into Stave 2 - The First of the Three Spirits
Mosey on to Stave 3 - The Second of the Three Spirits
Sally forth fearlessly to Stave Four - the Third of the Three Spirits
Boldly go where no infinitive has been split before - to Stave Five, The End of It



Posted by Eddie