Accrington Stanley and Us

I’ll start at the end. Watching Middlesex these days is an object lesson in plumbing new depths of humiliation.  It’s not like we are bad. That only scrapes the surface.  We are so so so gash its difficult to think to think of a sporting corollary.  Even Accrington Stanley are good now. Even Ronaldo scores goals.  Even Zizou can shake the lethargy to run in an extra time goal. Us? We couldn’t beat eggs. Make no mistake, no bones, draw no adverse inference and be not fooled we were thrashed. Humiliated in our own yard.

It was Over Before it was Over

This game was over as far as Middlesex were concerned in the first 3 overs.  Benning and Brown (comedic detective duo?) put on 45 runs. That wasn’t in itself why it was won and lost in terms of bald statistics although Lord knows the follicularly challenged stats were bad enough. It was the ferocity of the attack and the total disdain with which our bowlers were treated with.  It was the portents of what they would do for the rest of our 17 overs.  Benning and Brown didn’t “put” 45 on. They whaled them on. They carted our “attack” right left mid on mid off and fine leg.  And so it continued with a merciful break at the end as I can only imagine their lower order couldn’t bat straight for laughing.  Ali went for a ludicrous 18 odd an over. Chad and Swing 10 odd. Scotty 13.   

It was x rated.   Bright spot? The guy who has borne this season of ignominy in silence. Possibly the most undervalued member of our squad.   Weeksey take a bow.  As always.

A Hike From “The Wharf” for a Spanking

I hot foot it from the Canary Wharf arroyos and canyons to the leafy high plains of Sinjonswood on the Jubilee line very year. I come every year indefatigable and if not bursting with the big O at least cautiously optimistic. I roar over the Missouri breaks of Circus Road and marvel as always how popular this pin the tail on the donkey is.  Every year we come and every year we get spanked.  Every year.

Our innings was so shockingly predictable I’ll give it five lines. I am sick of writing about Ed Quack and his procession of ducklings. Sick of him and his Mother Duck wafts. Sick of our senior pros heaping pressure on narrower shoulders. Sick of our abject failure. Sick of the lack of leadership. Sick of the gormlessness. Sick of the inevitability. Sick of the excuses. Sick of the lot of them frankly players and management. 

Feeling Philosophical, Brian?

What is to become of us? We can pretend we don’t care and it is a nonsense competition. We can pretend we would be ok if we had Michael Ballack and Roger Federer fit and well and capable of a forward defensive.  We can sing in a high pitched falsetto “fake plastic trees”. We can buy £3.60 Fosters until we can hardly think but it won’t disguise, obscure or make us forget the first deadening numbing tentacles of reality that we are in fact not only not very good but quite possibly the worst Middlesex team in living memory.

I have two small boys. I consider my legacy to them.  I consider what I have to give them as my sporting legacy.   A lifetime of misguided loyalty? Misplaced devotion?  Frustration angst and sorrow?  Probably all that but hopefully something more.  This team carries my aspirations for Middlesex but I’ll be here long after they are gone.  So will you dear readers. So will my boys. We’ll still be there in the Tavern, the Upper Compton and all points west.  We’ll still believe. That’s what makes us what we are. No one can take that away from us. That’s what makes us do it and for that I’m glad.  That and the fact I’m not Ramprakash.