It’s an old ill wind

Rodney Stark, in “The Triumph of Christianity”, talking about the good faith in Medieval times: “The church also provided a great deal of weather magic. Weather crosses, blessed by a local priest, were erected in fields as far back as the sixth century AD, to protect against hail and high winds.”

Timely reminder from Moronic Health




Love Hurts


A Bitter Lament


Johnson Repeats His Formula

It’s like Mitchell Johnson has to grow up from scratch every time he plays. He begins with the aim and control of a two year-old, spraying it around with infuriating willy-nillyness. Then he enters adolescence, and starts to frighten the established order with random outbursts of snaky aggression. Finally, to the relief and surprise of all, he hits his full manly stride, takes dead-eye control of his mighty weapon, and utterly routs the enemy.

The Human Side of Kevin Pietersen



KFC in the green and goldSeasick yellow and salmonella green…haven’t seen a box this queasy since the Great Incubator Meltdown of ’07.

When the battle’s lost and won

Michael Clarke tosses coin.
Michael Clarke wrote in his Ashes Diary: “I’m preparing to play. I’ve been sitting on the couch or lying on the bed with my eyes closed, picturing the bowlers – Anderson, Broad, Finn, Swann, Bresnan…I see them in sunshine and under cloud, I feel whether it’s warm or cool.”

In Brisbane, 1974, on the night before one of the more savage assaults launched on a cricket field, Jeff Thomson got drunk in a bar. “I want a hangover from hell,” he said.

Both men followed the fashion of their time. Neither man could go into battle without an atavistic attempt to find god. Thommo donned the hag mask and spilled blood on the pitch. Clarke is still up in the air.

A very personal moment

Kevin Pietersen with his shadow

Late Aussie Counterattack Leaves Poms Speechless

warner-movemberAfter a flaky day with the bat, Australia launched a blistering counterattack on England shortly after stumps. “Stuart Broad’s an even bigger sook than I thought!” roared Movember-mouth David Warner, giving his kit bag an ominous boot. “Just as we got inside the rooms for lunch, I told him to ‘go kiss his dolly’. Man would he have cried like a girl if he’d heard that!”

Warner was so pumped by his aggressive post-match onslaught, he took a taxi straight to the nearest boozer and looked around for someone Joe Root’s size to punch.