Tomorrow’s game against India looms large in our thoughts, with concern over our competitiveness increasing ever since Swanny went down with a nasty case of Call of Duty Claw. According to our medical staff it’s the worst instance of first-person shoot ‘em up induced cramp to hit England since the Doom epidemic of ‘94/95 wrecked that winter’s Ashes chances.
It’s left me wondering when I should point out it’s only Graeme’s non bowling hand that’s affected. I seem to be the only one who’s noticed. At the moment the only restriction to his game will be an inability to pick his nose whilst he’s setting a field. Frankly that’s a relief for those of us who have to share the white ball with him. It’s not just grass stains that cause them to discolour.
Meanwhile, any hope the vast diversity of the sub-continent would spark signs of cultural curiosity within Team England are proving wide of the mark. So far the closest we’ve come was Mike Yardy asking one of the hotel waiters for chop-sticks so he could “eat this stuff properly like in the restaurants back home”. To be honest, I don’t rate my chances of persuading the squad to explore Bangalore’s botanical gardens or appreciate its pre-colonial architecture either; particularly now Stuart’s worked out how to play his Glee box set on region 5 DVD players.
Not my kind of thing incidentally. Too much like Hollyoaks with auto-tune. Glee I mean, not Stuart.
Anyway, time for bed. Hopefully I can sleep right through without being interrupted by screams from down the corridor as Jimmy suffers yet more Sehwag induced night terrors. You’d think after the two Andies have checked under his bed and in the wardrobe for Sachin and Yusuf he’d calm down a bit. I don’t know, kids…