I am a seething mass of petulance. A six foot clay golem constructed from pure aggression. A heaving mass of rage straining to escape the confines of everyday morality in order to commit merciless cruelties and unspeakable perversions.
Well, apparently I am, as so far this anger has only manifest itself in the form of snatching my cap from an umpire’s hand.
But still, polite cricketing society is in shock, and I have been fined 7.5% of my match fee for an ICC level one sulk.
This is an outrage. Don’t these people know I’ve tickets for next year’s Stone Roses gigs to pay for? They’ve not been purchased for my own enjoyment you understand, I’m more of a Tom Waits kind of guy, but the re-sale value to Graeme Swann could pay off my mortgage. Not to mention the fun I can have making him prove he’s worthy of them.
You see, Graeme’s gone all ‘third summer of love’ ever since Madchester’s finest decided to cover their annual subscription to SAGA with one final payday. Hence the sudden appearance on his head of a now ever-present bucket hat, the distinctive ‘Salford casual’ loping gait as he comes in to bowl and the ongoing battle with Andy Flower over wearing 26 inch distressed white flannel bell-bottom flares during Sunday’s fourth ODI.
Someone needs to pull him to one side and point out that copying Ian Brown’s self-absorbed arrogance will get him more than a 7.5% fine. Oh, and while they’re at it, they can tell him that his new paisley pads look #&%ing stupid as well.
I’d do it myself, but right now he’s wandering round the hotel bar telling members of the English press pack that he “wants to be adored”.
More so than normal, anyway.