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Wonder if Flanagan ever saw Hardy bowl?
He may have lacked menace but he certainly had twist. D.H.Lawrence had rhythm and pace (in spades), Dickens a manic energy and of course, as a batsman, J. M. Barrie had a menacing hook.

I reckon Oscar Wilde had a wrong'un- cunningly disguised with a bent arm.

Peter Roebuck is pretty skilled at this. Sometimes I think I'm reading a dispatch from the Crimean War.

If you want to anal-ogise, I think cricket is the best sport. You can use the bat, ball, stumps and bails, some of them simultaneously if you have properly prepared your anus.

On the other hand in the various football codes the ball is too big for all but the seriously prolapsed and medical anomalies.

Julius Caesar, Act IV, scene III.

"Give me a bowl" -- Brutus

Wasn't that "Give me a bowel"?

You mean the old fake Holden?

Ass fetish blog?

Just SB's speciality.

Its just a little fun. Doesn't everyone get a pleasant twitching sensation in the sphincter when they think about this sort of thing?

And in the commentors box, Earnest Hemingway and Samuel Beckett (who apparently was no slouch on the field himself).

EH: It is a blue sky with small clouds. The white figures stand still on the green pitch. The man with a ball looks at the man with the bat. The crowd holds its breath like it was one person, watching the two men under the hot sun, face to face, mano a mano. Sam?

SB: We're waiting.

EH: Now the red ball flies at the man, surrounded by crouching figures who move towards him. He moves his feet fast, like a dancer. He hits the ball hard with the shining wood in his hand. It is strong stroke, a stroke with heart like the moment a big fish strikes. The ball flies across the ground and the umpire stretches his arms up like he wants to hold the sky for this moment.

SB: It's a cover drive for four. You have peculiar ears Earnest.

EH: My ears?

SB: Yes, the sun shines through them when you turn that way. Why I wonder?

EH: Can we get back the game Sam? Although nothing is happening right now.

SB: Yes. I like this part.

Phone rings. EH answers.

EH: Say what you must say.

KERRY PACKER (on phone): Yeah Kerry here. What the fuck do you two fucking clowns think you’re fucking doing! You're even putting the fucking seagulls to fucking sleep!

SB: Is that the call I have been waiting for?

EH mouths "Kerry" at SB.

SB: He has a curious head which is soft yet hard.

EH gives SB the finger and turns his attention back to the crackling phone.

KP:...don't pull yer fucking finger out really fucking fast, I'm gonna go back to using Poofter Proust and Hunter S Thompson again. At least they fucking say more in a fucking minute than youse fucking cunts have said all fucking hour. I wanna here some fucking action and movement really fucking fast. CLICK.

SB: Was he troubled too by the steady procession of time, marked only by suddenly contorted bodies?

EH: Er no Sam, he wants you to call the next innings on your own.

SB: Very well.....I shall wait....would you like a tim-tam, Earnest?

EH: No thanks. Look, I think I'll just slip out and stretch my legs for while. You'll be allright on your own Sam?

SB: We are always in the end on our own.... I will wait. Ooh, a Mexican Wave!

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