Paul Collingwood is a professional cricketer. He plays for Durham and England. He is also a legend. You can read his blog here.You have caught me at a good time. I've just taken my pads off.
No one is going to tell me that my highlights don't work.
The last time I heard Jerusalem was before the start of play.
People knock Ricky Astley around the park, I would do the same to Mitchell Johnson if he bowled at the stumps.
If it was any bigger, I would have middled that ball in the first innings.
The one piece of advice I will offer you is to not leave a straight one.
I wasn't there when Shane Warne called me the best player England have ever produced.
The definition of sledging is jelly beans.
Video killed Douglas Jardine's myth that the Australian's were impressed with bodyline.
When the balloon goes up it probably has a camera attached to it and will give you views of Cardiff.
Rock, paper and (Colling)wood.
I want to thank the other batsmen for giving me the spotlight today.
When I've finished this I am going to thank Ravi for taking that catch.
(Obviously this wasn't Paul Collingwood talking. He isn't answering his phone. I therefore used my creative license).
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About Me
- Jonathan
- London, United Kingdom
- Known to some as Jon and others as Jonathan, I'm freelance copywriter, creative and designer. I produce innovative and commercially driven concepts that promote your business and products to stakeholders and customers alike.
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I didn't know what I was going to do today, I knew that Sunday would be strange without The Sixty (as I have come to call it).
ReplyDeleteI went and sat on the dunes near my Malibu beach house with the laptop. I read Clarkson, Winner and Mrs Mills then, nothing. There was a void. I was unsure of what to do with myself, my Sunday routine had been spoiled and I was left feeling somewhat discombobulated.
Some friends took me out for a meal. Feeling listless, I lunched with them - a steak and ale pie and a pint of Sam Smiths - but my heart wasn't really in it. I pined for the Sunday Sixty.
Driving home along the Pacific Coast Highway in my '66 Thunderbird with the wind buffeting my hair, my thoughts turned to The Sixty once more. I grasped my rampaging follicles with my right hand and that simple action brought to mind happier Sundays. I laughed in reminiscence. That funny man with the goggles, the musician who looked like a bear, the man I couldn't understand with his finger up his nose, the brilliant, articulate cat with the movie star looks (he really should get representation), the nice man who looked like you in a bad hat. At one moment I was both elated and crestfallen.
I arrived home and turned on the computer. There may be no Sunday Sixty, I thought, but at least I can revisit past editions. That would be preferable to the emptiness, perhaps grief, that I was experiencing. And then, what joy, what ecstasy, what bliss. Waves of euphoria swept over me. The Sixty was back! It may have acquired a new name, it may have featured a ginger man I've never heard of, but it was undeniably the The Sixty.
Thank you Jonathan, I would bow and doff my hat to you but I'm not wearing a hat so I can't. I can't wait for next weeks instalment, Jen (one J).
You should write a blog Jen. That was a beautiful piece of prose.
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