Ya...hoooo

I'm still not quite sure about Twenty20 cricket. Like most spectator sports it's great fun if you are winning, but over the next few days England must face the first and second favourites (South Africa and India) consecutively and that will probably be the end of it for the flag of St George. But you never know, miracles have happened, we did win the war, Gordon Brown is still Prime Minister.

Twenty20 cricket is a bit different. Test matches tend not to have dancers whirling about every time a boundary is hit, nor do they have their own Facebook pages. As someone who used to boast marketing skills I'm rather out of my depth with the sophisticed sponsorship marketing which comes complete with "jingle" promotion (that's the cry of "Ya...hooooo" that rings out for every change of batsman or bowler), the use of the scoreboard as a near-perpetual advertising medium, the carefully angled type that creates a 3-D effect out of the slogans imprinted on the hallowed turf.

Technically the new form of the game is demanding, particularly for the bowlers. Field placing also becomes absolutely critical. Although we all delight in great cow shots soaring into (or over) the spectators, there is still enjoyment to be had from watching Bopara-like run-stealing (one or two from just about every ball apart from those that reach the boundary).

I'm still waiting for a golden over (the single over 'eliminator' used to determine a result in the event of tied scores after the twenty overs), or for an umpire to impose a 5-run penalty for time-wasting. With a restriction that an incoming batsman has to be at the crease and ready to face a ball within ninety seconds of the fall of the previous wicket I'm sure that if I was to play in a Twenty20 match then with my slow, perambulating gait I would be the first incoming batsman ever to be fined penalty five runs for failure to reach the crease in time.

Ryan ten Dustcart and others

Back to Lords for the opening ceremony and first match of the ICC World Twenty20 series - and what a shambles. I was slightly niffed at not being allowed to watch from my usual eyrie atop the Tavern Stand, and had to make the tiresome trek to the top of the Warner Stand (a place which is extremely badly served with gentlemen's loos).

However my guests and I were dutifully in our seats by 4.30 for said opening ceremony and, inevitably, nothing happened. During the next hour no-one had any idea of what was going on until, eventually, a shortened version of the opening ceremony took place consisting (inappropriately for the occasion) of a short speech by a bewildered looking Duke of Kent. Standing behind him with a leering grin was none other than the Max Mosley of English cricket - Giles Clarke - and one wondered if a helicopter might descend from the skies with a reincarnated Sir Alan Stanford.

Oh dear, play eventually got going and Luke Wright and Ravi Bopara got England off to a great start, but then the wheels came off the bus. Subsequent batsmen were not up to the game and the run rate fell away. Ultimately the Hollanders deserved their victory, farcical though the sixth ball of the last over happened to be.

I was cheered up on the Circle Line tube coming away from the match. Someone had placed a very official 'Transport for London' sign on the window opposite my seat. In appropriate TFL style it read:

PEAK HOURS
May necessitate that you
allow another passenger to
sit on your lap.

Splitting the Vote

Well it's time to cast some votes again. If nothing else tomorrow night's local government and MEP election results will make interesting reading. I for one will not vote for the seemingly untrustworthy Mr Cameron, or for the morbid Mr Brown, or for Mr Clegg (wouldn't it be wiser for the Lib Dems to have a decent politician in charge like Vince Cable), or BNP, or any other political grouping.

I'm going to vote for the young blonde who oozes enthusiasm as well as good looks in the local elections (she happens to be Lib Dem), and for the Conservative ticket in the European elections for the sole reason that the splendid Daniel Hannan is named on the ticket. Not only is he a good speaker, but he has a brain on him and his blog encourages people like me to pay attention to today's Guardian leader - http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/jun/02/editorial-gordon-brown-labour - which is as good a summary of the present situation at Westminster as one is likely to find.

Maybe the present crisis will bring some good, honest men and women into government who can speak for themselves and for their constituents rather than acting as puppets for their party whips.

My dream is that the current upheaval might result in the end of our ghastly, class-ridden culture of tribal party politics. The clamour from many politicians is for proportional representation and I'll oppose that to the day I die. All proportional representation means is the perpetuation of the 'party' system that has served us so badly over the years.

Please, please can we take advantage of the tide of public opinion to effect real change in the workings of government.

Jackpot

Yipee, we've hit the big time!

Mrs Rumbling Nappa and I shared an investment on the Saturday Tote Scoop 6 where you have to correctly nominate the winners of six televised horse races to win a quarter of a million pounds or more.

Yes - the dark horse from Greece Ialysos battled his way through to win the 2.05 at Haydock at a useful 14-1; then Jamie Spencer rode the 15-8 favourite High Standing to victory in the 2.30 at Goodwood; the aptly named Suzi's Decision obliged at 11-2 in the 2.35 at Haydock; Red Merlin (5-1) did his stuff in the 2.50 at Goodwood; and Caracciola came in at 7-1 twenty minutes later at York.

There were 21-odd tickets still going on the last race, the 3.45 at York, all looking for a share of the £250,000 fund. Only one ticket however named Ishetoo the 12-1 winner - and that was ours. Yes, we were the only winners of the £250,000 prize and there is a chance of picking up an extra £200,000-odd bonus by naming the winner of a single race next Saturday.

There's only one dampener in all this. We purchased the ticket as members of a small syndicate called the Saturday 6 Club which is run by the "Elite" people who sell car number plates and who also own a successful horseracing owners club. We'll have to share our winnings with an estimated 5,582 other syndicate members. Oh well!

Brandishing Seaxes

With rain delaying the start of play on the third day of the recent Lords Test against the West Indies, I retired to the Middlesex Room with the brother-in-law for a cup of coffee (yes, honestly it was coffee - and not very good coffee at that). "Why do Middlesex use the same three swords as Essex?", he asked. "I'll look into it" I replied, little knowing that I was about to enter a heraldic minefield.

Leaving the early Saxon kings aside (which I cheerfully do), it wasn't until the twentieth century when the two counties had their coats of arms specified - in very non-20th century terms.

Essex: Gules three Seaxes fessewise in pale Argent pomels and hilts Or points to the sinister and cutting edges upwards.

Middlesex: Gules three Seaxes fessewise in pale proper pommelled and hilted Or points to the sinister and cutting edge upwards in chief a Saxon Crown of the last.

Obviously both counties identified with the three-seaxe badge, and both are left-handed counties as well, and both signed up for the red (gules) background. Thus the only difference is that Middlesex was to have a saxon crown over their three seaxes in order to differentiate. And over the years it seems that Middlesex just got lazy (or republican) and the crown disappeared.

Commentators on all this have included Germaine Greer whose 2003 Telegraph article concluded that the three seaxes charged on a field of blood is indicative of the counties grim joy of fighting. The device could be printed on the breast of every T-shirt worn by every hooligan from Essex or Middlesex. Ah well, sadly I'll miss the gladiatorial Twenty20 contest between the Essex Eagles (okay, so the Eagle is the regimental emblem) versus the Middlesex Panthers (yes, the team wears pink pyjamas in support of the breast cancer campaign) at Lords on 26th June, but I might try to catch the Chelmsford encounter four days earlier.

Censored Books

Oh hell! According to today's Mail on Sunday I'm likely to have my book confiscated next time I travel from Heathrow. I like Robert B Parker and feel sorry for 58-year-old bank worker Carolyn Burgess who was spotted carrying a Spenser three-in-one volume onto a plane. The gun image on the book's cover was deemed to be inappropriate and likely to upset her fellow passengers.
I'd actually planned to take Parker's Apaloosa on my next flight. Rather than featuring the Boston private detective Spenser, who does most of his fighting with his fists, Apaloosa is one of Parker's westerns in which everyone totes a big Army Colt in a flap holster. I recently enjoyed Gunman's Rhapsody which features Wyatt Earp and his brothers, Doc Holliday and Parker's take on the gunfight at the OK Corrall.
I guess I'll have to take some non-violent reading matter to Cyprus next month. It is after all high time I read Sense and Sensibility.

In the Dog House

As someone who is almost perpetually in the dog house I was pleased to spot an appropriate place to stay if I ever visit Cottonwood, Idaho. The Dog Bark Park Inn is listed at Number 10 in TripAdvisor's list of 'The World's Weirdest Hotels'. At this Bed and Breakfast establishment you actually get to sleep inside a 45 foot, air-conditioned beagle created by husband and wife hoteliers and chainsaw artists Derrick and Frances.

Included in the dog are a sleeping loft, microwave oven, fridge, books and games. Breakfast includes Derrick and Frances's celebrated fruited granola, and there is a gift shop.

Just in case you are interested, the list of the weird hotels includes a converted tea factory in Sri Lanka, a converted prison in Oxfordshire, a 'cave' hotel in Turkey, an ice hotel in Canada, and the fabulously expensive Al Maha Desert Resort in Dubai.

Maybe our son and heir will treat Mrs Rumbling Nappa and I to a week-long stay in a Bedouin Suite at Al Maha with private infinity pool and dinner served exclusively for you 'under the stars' out in the desert. It's a favourite with Mrs Beckham apparently.