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More DD's Christmas Carol

Tuesday, December 23 2003

The previous chunks

Introduction
Stave 1 - The Ghost of English Cricket
Stave 2 - The First of the Three Spirits
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Ready for more?

Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough humbug snore, Ebenezer Ducky sat up in bed to collect his thoughts. The clock struck one - surprise, surprise. He felt blah blah Charles Bannerman's ghost you get the idea by now.

"But where does Allen Hill fit into all this?"

I'm coming to that. Anyway, Ducky established a sharp look-out all around his bed. He knew what to do. He'd seen 'Ghostbusters'. He wished to challenge the spirit at the very moment of its appearance with a cricket bat.

Being prepared for anything, he was conversely not prepared for nothing. Consequently, when the clock struck one - again - and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Much like someone fielding at short leg when Ashley Giles is bowling.

Five minutes went by, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, and yet nothing came. Imagine the situation at Lord's for the Zimbabwe test earlier in 2003, the protracted delay at the toss of the coin. Yes, that's right. The day Steve Bucknor sucked his teeth for an hour. Well, the way Ebenezer Ducky felt, he would gladly suck Bucknor's teeth to save him the trouble if it meant that things would move along at a decent pace. Nothing was happening, nothing was going to happen. He knew that. It was all a dream.

An eerie light filled the room. Too dim to read by, too bright to be the moon. He had seen that very light before but where, where? Suddenly, it all came back to him. It was the 'Steve Bucknor' gag which did it. Karachi, just before Christmas 2000. A cricket ground with floodlights, only they couldn't be used. Curse the ICC. Still, it all turned out for the best. England won.

He got up, convinced that the light was coming from the next room. He donned his slippers and shuffled slowly across the floor. The moment his hand touched the lock, a strange voice called him by his name and bade him enter.

He did so. It was vaguely familiar, yet unlike any room he had seen. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green that it looked a perfect grove, and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney that it could easily have been any Indian cricketer's house following an early World Cup exit. Only it wasn't. It was his own room.

Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game (Snakes and Ladders), long wreaths of sausages, pies, plum puddings and enough beer to satisfy the thirstiest Australian touring side for a few minutes. In easy state upon this couch sat a jolly Giant of the game, none other than Ian Terence Botham. "Come in, Ducky. Come in and, like, know me better, man. Oh, yes. And leave the herbs alone" he added, pointing to the surrounding greenery. "Viv's coming by later."

Ducky entered timidly and hung his head before this Spirit. He was not the dogged, brave, indomitable Ducky of 'Devil Ducky's World Cup Essentials' but a sad weasel of a duck, fit only to take the easy option and resurrect drug-crazed stories which had last seen the light of day in the 1970's drug-crazed tabloid press. Still, it's a giggle, isn't it?

"I am the ghost of Christmas present." said the Spirit. "Look upon me."

"I'd rather not." replied Ebenezer Ducky, glibly passing over the offer of a free gag about Christmas presents. "My mum told me about strange men in flasher macs."

"Flasher mac?" exclaimed Botham. "I'll have you know it's a perfectly serviceable simple green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur." He brushed the lapel and the ermine disappeared in a huge cloud. "No, sorry. That's dope ash. You were right. It is a flasher mac."

Ducky reverently raised his eyes. The Giant's hair hung in generous ringlets across his broad shoulders, much as they had done in the summer of 1981 at (to choose a couple of places at random) Headingley and Edgbaston. Botham looked down at the duck, a kindly expression on his face, eyes soft and bloodshot. "You have never seen me like this before."

"What, wasted?" asked Ducky in all innocence.

"I mean, you have never seen my like before." repeated the Giant.

"I've seen plenty of potheads, but if you are referring to your prowess on the cricket field, then no, I haven't - except for Sobers - and Kapil Dev. And possibly Wasim Akram - and Murali, the way he's batted in 2003. Oh, and Clive Lloyd, Eddie Barlow, Mike Procter and a few others."

"I mean Ghosts. Spectres. Spooks. Ghouls. People who give you the willies"

"We've done flasher jokes already." replied Ducky.

All right, try a bit of this then." said the Giant, distantly.

Ducky handed him back the umbrella and they tried again.

"All right, try a bit of this then." he repeated. Ducky needed no third invitation - and they were on their way.

Turkeys, geese, game, long wreaths of sausages, pies, plum puddings and the like instantly vanished. The Giant had neglected to add that Ian Blackwell was coming to tea. So did the room and the ruddy glow from the fireplace as they stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, totally out of it (that's enough stoner jokes for now).

The house fronts looked black enough, black as coal, black as soot, black as Richie Benaud's heart, a stark contrast to the pure white snow on the roofs, the dirtier snow upon the ground ploughed deep into furrows which crossed and re-crossed each other hundreds of times where the roads and great streets branched off like drunken bowlers' run-ups or the wicket at Trent Bridge.

The sky was gloomy, full of smoke, the whole world a-shimmer. "God, this is good stuff." said Ducky. "Fancy some Doritos?"

They came to the Grocers'. Nearly closed, two shutters down, not one, but through those gaps, such glimpses. Raisins, so plentiful and rare, almonds, so extremely white, sticks of cinnamon, so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar that it was quite obvious what Charles Dickens was smoking when he first wrote these words.

"No, thanks, but I could murder a kebab."

Soon, the steeples called good people all to church or chapel or synagogue or mosque (haven't we done this before?). Away they came, flocking through the streets in their best whites and smart hats (except the Australian cricketers who just look so, well, scruffy in those baggy green caps with the corks hanging off them). And at the same time there emerged innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers' shops.

Each time a reveller passed, the Giant sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch, which is 19th Century parlance for 'giving them a hit', I suppose. It was a most uncommon torch, for each recipient, each dinner-carrier turned to his fellow and said "You're my best mate, you are (got any Doritos?)".

"Is there a special flavour you sprinkle from your torch?" asked Ducky.

"There is - my own." came the Giant's reply.

"Ah, home-grown. Only the best, eh?" exclaimed Ducky, finally progressing through sufficient dope gags to almost satisfy even him. Almost, but not quite. "I've got help - a friend. You could call it a joint venture." said the Giant.

The Spirit went, and took Ducky with him, and on the threshold of the door he smiled and stopped to bless the house of Bob VVS-Catchit with the sprinkling of his, er, magic torch. Think on that. Bob had but fifteen shillings a week before the Indian cricketers re-negotiated their sponsorship deal, yet the Giant stopped to bless this humble, four-roomed house. "Perhaps they're having Doritos." said Ducky.

Then up rose Mrs. VVS-Catchit, dressed in her finest Indian one-day outfit and she led the children in the laying of the table (which is a pretty impressive task if you think about the size of an egg, I can tell you) while Master Peter VVS-Catchit forked the potatoes (giggle). Now, the two smaller VVS-Catchits came running in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelled the goose, and like Australian cricketers of yesteryear, their goose was most definitely cooked.

Peter continued to fork the potatoes (chuckle). "What has ever got your precious father, then?" enquired Mrs VVS-Catchit. "And Tiny Tim Lamb. What of him?"

Peter looked up from forking the potatoes (snigger) and said "Mother, Father has been summoned to the palace of his Most Regal Left-handedness for extra slip-catching practice. He is not permitted to leave until he gets good. Will goose keep until Easter?"

Eventually, Bob VVS-Catchit showed up supporting Tiny Tim Lamb. "And how did Tim behave?" asked Mrs VVS-Catchit (I wish I'd stuck with Laxman). "Well, apart from stitching Nasser Hussain up a treat after World Cup 2003 and taking Brad Cheaty-Hodge's side in the 'Corkygate' affair, he was his usual diplomatic self." replied Bob VVS-Catchit.

"No goose for him, then." said Mrs. VVS-Catchit.

"No goose for anyone." replied Bob. "I've just tripped over a fat commentator in a flasher mac and a stoned duck. They're lying on the doorstep eating Dorito-and-goose sandwiches. We're having worms and breadcrumbs."

"Mmmmm, my favourite." said Master Peter, now forking the potatoes with renewed vigour in his excitement (heh).

At last the dinner was all done, the table cleared, and like poor people everywhere, they drew together in a circle around the fireplace. Bob pulled himself (ooer) up to his full height and removed the family display of glasses from the cabinet. No drinking straight out of the cans for them today. He poured a generous glass of Carlsberg Special Brew (Mikey Holding Strength) for everyone. "A toast," he proclaimed, "to English cricket" (ignoring the fact that VVS Laxman is Indian).

"God bless us, every one." said Tiny Tim Lamb, last of all. "Except Corky and Nasser."

"Spirit," said Ducky. "Tell me if Tiny Tim will live."

"I see a vacant seat and a crutch without an owner, perfectly preserved." replied the Spirit. "He may well live, but he will lose his job at the ECB."

"No, no, kind Spirit. Say he will be spared" said the broken-hearted Ducky, for once returning to the original script, filled with penitence and grief.

"If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, then sadly he is doomed, and so is English cricket. Doomed to remain playing second fiddle to Australia for a lifetime." said the Ghost.

"Worse than India?" cried the duck.

"Let's not go overboard here." said the Spirit. "I mean, we still have your nephew."

"Huey doesn't play cricket. Oh, I see. Rikki. Yes, I see your point." replied Ducky, somewhat consoled. "But, let me get this straight. Tiny Tim Lamb has to live?"

"I'm afraid so." replied the Spirit of Christmas present. "It's all up to you."

Ducky bent before the Ghost's rebuke, and trembling, cast his eyes to the ground. Having second thoughts, he picked them up again and popped them neatly back into their sockets. He raised them again speedily, upon hearing his own name.

"Mr. Ducky." said Bob VVS-Catchit. "I give you Ebenezer Ducky, the Founder of the Feast."

"The Founder of the Feast indeed. Did you read what he wrote about you after your, er, misfortunes in the TVS final? He had the audacity to portray you as a bungling buffoon in a Billy Bunter parody. He didn't even disguise your name."

"My Dear," was Bob's mild answer. "It's Christmas Day."

"What's that got to do with anything? We're Hindus" replied Mrs VVS-Catchit. "Very well. I'll drink his health for your sake and the day's." she said, returning to character. "Not for his. Long life to him. A merry Christmas and a happy new yar."

"That would be 'year', wife."

"No, 'yar'. I got a pirate's hat out of a Christmas cracker."

Tiny Tim drank the toast last of all. He didn't care two pence for it. Ducky was the ogre of this family, that most devilish of ogres, a cruel, no-talent journalist of the Information Super-Highway with a vindictive streak.

Heath Streak was not available for comment at this juncture.

The mention of Ducky's name cast a dismal shadow over proceedings which had not lifted fully five minutes later. Finally, Timy Tim said "Let's play 'Twister'" and everyone was happy again.

The Spirit passed the magic torch over to Ebenezer Ducky once more. This time, they paid a flying visit to the Clarke household.

"Ha ha." said Rikki. "Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"What's so amusing?" said Ducky's niece.

"Just reading the latest 'Clarkewatch' that Uncle Ebenezer has written. I think he really likes me. Anyway, I saw him in the street yesterday. He offered me a humbug. I think you've misjudged him. Maybe the man's not a monster like you say." said Rikki.

"Duck." said his sister.

Rikki dived under the table before he realised that, once again, he had become the unwitting patsy of yet another Ducky double-entendre.

Ducky looked on with the Spirit, nose pressed against the window. His favourite nephew went to the cupboard to fetch the caviar-flavoured After Eight mints. As in the VVS-Catchit household, they decided to play games, but not for them such common pursuits as 'Mousetrap' or 'Ker-Plunk'. Oh, no. Not in a Surrey household. Rikki smiled as he set up his favourite cricket game - 'Hungry Hungry Inzamams', a game fit for kings.

Ducky and the Ghost finished the Doritos just as the clock was striking twelve. Botham disappeared, leaving him alone. He heard footsteps and looked down the road - only there was no road. Just the broad, high stands of the AMP Oval, empty, just like the Surrey trophy cabinet.

He remembered the prediction of old Charles Bannerman, the fiend who had started the destruction of English cricket and yet, perversely, might yet bring about, through the wings of this little duck, its salvation.

Sure enough, a hideous, withered creature with twisted, painted features came shuffling towards him, less of a man than anything he had witnessed on this night of nights. The solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, floated towards him.

Could this be the ghost of Allen Hill?

Ducky screamed in horror. It was Andre Nel.

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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