Bashir Bashing, Town march on & pinky rings
It’s 8:15am…
I awake naturally. The slight heat of the -almost- Spring sun glances my face through an irritating gap in the blind. I rise, stumble into the kitchen and make two coffees. Back in bed, I settle in for the evening session of cricket that is happening on the other side on the globe in India.
A Bashir bashing was underway, played on a drought formed pitch, offering the offspinner plenty of assistance on his way to four brilliant wickets at the close. A few discussions were had of Stokes brilliant captaincy today, what impresses me is how new, young players are able to thrive in this environment. Over the years we have seen the likes of Dom Bess, Mason Crane and Liam Dawson enter the team and have their careers fail before they have even begun. Even the likes of one day masters Moeen Ali and Adil Rashid were constantly shunned.
However, the past two years under Stokes reign. We have seen the emergence of Harry Brook, Rehan Ahmed ,Tom Hartley and Bashir. Faith has been put in these players, with persistent attacking fields wielding confidence and wickets. Spinners of old have been used to ‘hold up an end’, with the aim of not leaking runs. Stokes has transformed the role and now is reaping the awards.
It's 5pm- Ipswich have just brilliantly beaten Birmingham City 3-1, thanks to two late goals from a man named Jeremy and Hutch the Clutch. No time to waste though, I must drop the girlfriend and one of her pals off at the station. We’ve had some great news recently, an offer accepted on a house! The drive takes 15min, my Mrs barely comes up for air as she excitedly explains the story of how it came to be. I chip in with the odd word, before they head off into the night. Fingers crossed for a smooth purchase.
It's 5:20pm. I’ve just dropped the car off at home and head to the local, to meet my mate. The Six Nations is on at the pub and I’m in time for the second half. I can’t say I know too much about the rules of rugby, but each year the tournament rolls round it reminds me to do one thing…invest shares in Guinness. Each table Is swarmed in towers of black filled soup, with each glass seemly being caressed by a hand featuring a pinky worn ring. The pub frustratingly had just two lines of Guinness on, meaning that it was still a couple deep at the bar when I arrived.
By the time I shuffled my way to a view of the screen, a man with a very un-Scottish name had scored a hattrick. In between collective groans and slurping on white foam, I explained the ‘accepted offer on the house’ story to my mate. I gave him the shortened ‘emotionally stunted male’ version of the story. Droning on about interest rates, surveys and how much more convenient it will be that I’ll have off street parking.
In the end England lost, Scotland won. England too wasteful with the ball, apparently.
We exit the pub after the game is done, he’s got to get back to feed the dog. For me, an evening watching the new series of Drive to Survive awaits. Good luck to the producers of that show for trying to make the 2023 F1 season interesting.