Alan Tyers - CrickiLeaks: the secret Ashes diaries

CrickiLeaks is a work of historical fiction and is entirely the product of the authors imagination. None of the cricketers or other people who appear within played any part whatsoever in writing the diaries or making this book.

First published in the UK in 2011 by John Wisden & Co
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

First published 2011 by
A & C Black
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP

www.acblack.com

Copyright Alan Tyers and Beach
www.tyersandbeach.com

Botham portrait on page 91 Lucy Evans
Used with kind permission

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Alan Tyers and Beach have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Acts 1988 to be identified as the authors of this book.

The views expressed are those of the authors and may
not necessarily be shared by John Wisden & Co.

ISBN 978 1 4081 5675 9

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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What follows is the most explosive collection of cricketing diaries ever to see the light of day.

It has not been possible to verify the provenance of every dusty journal or grubby memory stick to have passed through our hands. However, each text has been carefully examined by scientists at the Trevor-Roper Institute using the very latest forensic techniques, including holding the paper up to the window to look for watermarks, doing a spell-check and, on one occasion, even looking something up on an internet.

Although our sources must remain anonymous, we wish to extend particular thanks to the brave men and women of the Sydney Airport baggage handling service. Without their enquiring spirit and generosity with other peoples property, the world of cricket would be a poorer place.

not literally

Southampton Dock, September 18th 1892

A day of near perpetual motion! The steamship to Australia leaves this evening and there were multitudinous affairs to put in order before traversing the globe to give the convict the sound thrashing that is his due.

To Bristol, and a century before lunch. However, my enjoyment of the innings was severely compromised on two counts. Firstly, an uppity young left-arm bowler laboured under the misapprehension that he had bowled me out on three separate occasions and had the cheek to ask how is that? of the umpire each time. I impressed upon him the obvious truth that it was the local soueaster which had uprooted my middle stump, rather than the ball as he had erroneously surmised; and ensured that the breeze could not engender further confusion by nailing the bails onto the stumps with a mallet. I fancied I detected a show of dissent on behalf of the fellow, and had no alternative but to administer a thorough beating with the mallet and relieve him of his fee for the match. I tenderised and fined the umpire too, pour encourager les autres.

Worse, a member of the crowd was taken unwell and I was obliged to attend to the wretched man. I make no pleasantry whatsoever when I say that the life of the parish doctor would be quite tolerable were it not for the constant demands of the ghastly populace. Is there anything more weak and uncricketly than the ill? However, each of us must bear his burden, and I agreed to examine the fellow down by the third man boundary.

He was a particularly shambolic individual, groaning and clutching at his hindquarters, which were evidently giving him considerable pain. It was immediately clear to a physician of my experience that he was suffering from some unmentionable nonsense in the downstairs area. This I attributed to the wrong sort of foods, not drinking enough beer and, as it turned out after questioning the creature, not playing enough cricket. I diagnosed haemorrhoids, prescribed a pottage of mercury to be applied to the fundament and strongly advised some assiduous work on his hitting to leg. I admonished him: Young man, they have come to see me bat, not your bowel, and returned to the wicket, where I scored a further 150 before declaring and hailing a hansom cab to take me to the port.

I stopped en route at Lords and negotiated my tour fee with Lord Sheffield, who is nominally in charge of the tour. There was an unfortunate incident on the road to Southampton when the horse pulling my baggage collapsed dead under the weight of the enormous bag of money. However, I was not disheartened and, after building a small bonfire at the side of the roadway from the now-useless carriage, I fashioned a simple but hearty meal out of the deceased equine. Restored, I now await to board the ship and travel onward to glory.

Secret location for dossier research, October 18th 2010

A few thoughts on the English team, based on my experience of playing in England, my own observations from my Test career but mainly some stuff that I overheard Steve Waugh saying on the golf course when I was caddying for him this morning.

The key thing to remember about your English cricketer is that he is, above all, English. Put another way, he is not Australian with all that entails. Your classic English cricketer will not look you in the eye, has terrible body language, bad teeth and slightly small feet. He is vulnerable to the short ball, feeds only at night, and would sell his mates down the river for a gin and tonic. He hates dogs, plays the viola and sent our ancestors to their death at Gallipoli while he sat reading poetry and twirling his moustache. This team is full of that exact sort of Englishman.

To be more specific:

ANDREW STRAUSS: Solid guy. Left-hander. Get him out caught or bowled. Look to get him out early.

ALASTAIR COOK: Solid left-hander. Guy. Look to get him bowled, caught, leg before. Also run out or stumped. Possible candidate for handled the ball, timed out or obstructing the field. Look to get him out early.

JONATHAN TROTT: Confusing one. Possible pussy? But not English. Non-English pussy. Is this possible? More information needed: could be trap. Vulnerable to 95 MPH leg-cutter on good length. Look to get him out early.

KEVIN PIETERSEN: Play on ego. Starve him of oxygen of publicity, like a terrorist. Can get unhappy when he is not happy.

PAUL COLLINGWOOD: Do not get him out early.

IAN BELL: Right-hander. Was NOT in American Pie movie franchise, despite rumours. Could be vulnerable to light-hearted on-field banter such as, Were going to burn down your house and kill all your friends and family.