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The Wind Cries ST


Posted by Adam Pervoe on 31/05/2017 16:19


ST sat, hunched over his desk, face buried in chubby hands. The clock read 4:04am, Thursday 25th May 2017.  Naked, except for grubby y-fronts, he looked like the corpse of the personification of Gluttony in the film Se7en.  On the desk, haphazardly arranged, were a half empty (it was always half empty with ST) bottle of Glenlivet 18 yr, a cut-crystal old fashioned tumbler and a pearl-handled antique revolver. Now, this revolver had belonged to ST’s Great-Grandfather, a decorated war hero. He had hidden the small weapon inside his ass, his ass, for 2 and a half long years while interned in the Buchenwald concentration camp as the Second World War ground remorselessly on.  While on his death bed, Great Grandpa ST had given it to ST’s father, and ST’s father to ST, on the occasion of his 21st birthday. Now it lay, glinting in the light of the Anglepoise lamp, loaded with a single bullet.  To the left of the revolver a book, a copy of Camus le Mythe de Sysiphe in French open and folded face down along the worn spine.  Like a Rev catch, it was well thumbed.  

With no sleep to speak of for three nights, just the fragmented waking death of insomnia, ST was truly a broken man, a hollow man, a husk.  He had been this way, or at least slowly descending to this slough of profound despair, since that night in November last year.  Cruelly denied the prize of ROTY by a priapic South African, the spiral had begun that very night. He sank deeper, a maelstrom, enveloping, drowning, and consuming his every waking minute, a vortex sucking at his life, his soul.  A depression had a hold on him; the black dog growled at him from the corner of the room and occasionally sauntered over to piss on his leg.  The carpet-pissing canine mocked him, begged unrelentingly to be taken for a walk and his hunger was never sated.  ST had gained weight yet lost his appetite, his crippling erectile dysfunction was total, but he retained the sexual desire of a rutting baboon.  Darts gave him no pleasure and yet he joylessly threw them at the board, anything to avoid the yawning chasm at the heart of his world.  Nothing made sense to him.  And on top of all this, he was playing cricket later. Cricket:  the cruellest mistress since Madame Whiplash joined the Tory party and introduced Ian Duncan Smith to the collected writing of the Marquis de Sade.  

He filled the tumbler with a large measure of whiskey.  He drained it in one gulp. He picked up his ancestor’s side arm and walked over to the mirror next to the book case. He looked at his flaccid grey flesh. He lifted the gun and placed it inside his mouth. He closed his eyes.  He stood, trembling like that for who knows how long?  And then, as quickly as if the thought of sweetly ending it had never impinged on his wearied mind, his arm dropped. He opened his eyes. And he whispered defiantly to his reflection ‘not today, not today, Old Man, maybe tomorrow’       

Work went by in nebulous haze.  He had a long working lunch with some colleagues.  They dined at the Meghna.  JB’s special chutney gave him not an ounce of pleasure. He wanted a naan, but his co-diners ordered roti. ROTY. Even the curry ridiculed him. Later, driving to the ground he felt, not hope, he had grown desensitised to anything as life-affirming as hope. But, there was a stirring in the base of his spine; a perceptible warmth is his loins that he had not felt since Thursday 17th November 2016 when, prior to setting off the Highgate Taverners’ AGM, he had serviced his partner in his usual style, fast and bulbous, like a squid in a polyethylene bag. ST was not a generous lover.  He made love like Ron Jeremy, but with less warmth. 

He parked at the ground; the sun was shining, sky an azure blanket.  A breeze blew gently and as it tickled through the branches of the trees he thought he could hear a sound, a sinister ethereal voice saying ‘ST, SSSS Teee, SSSSSS, Teeeee’. It felt, to ST, like the breath of an angel on his neck. 

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Pondering the mysterious voice that seemed to be softly crying his name, he changed into his whites.  A few Tavs were late and the start time had been and gone.  JB, today’s Skipper, was frantically rethinking his plans.  The intention was to open with Redser and Les. Les was nowhere to be seen.  He was sat in his car around the corner hastily finishing a 4 pack of warm Stella, oblivious to time getting away from him.  Alo was promoted from 3 to open.  ST was pencilled in for 5. JB cursed the feckless Bomber, and damned the tardy Malnick with oaths.  His best laid plans had gone astray and he secretly feared the losing streak would continue. 6 games and a whole winter had elapsed since the Tavs’ last supped at the fecund tits of victory. Since then they had been forced to suck on the rancid cock of defeat.  And they’d gagged, dribbled, spat on and swallowed its full length, greedily. 

Red and Alo got off to a solid if unspectacular start, with the exception of Red nearly raising the roof with a maiden 6 after 100 plus games. A lofted on-drive landed a foot inside the rope for a one-bounce four.  A couple of crisp cover drives from Alo, a thick edge to third man from Red and the score had progressed to 24 without undue trouble.  Jack and Les had arrived and JB could revert to something approaching his initial plans. Red went first, bowled by one that kept low, something the pitch was showing an increasing tendency to do.  Les came in and carted a half-tracker over the ropes.  He departed for 13 off 9, bowled by someone with the score on 48/2. This led, inevitably, to the advent of aged purveyor of pitiable pies, Kyriakidis, who wasted no time getting into his stride by bowling Alo off the inside edge with another grubber for 20. All the while, ST looked on feeling strangely electrified.  The voice was there, persistent in his ear, ‘ST, SSSSTEEE, SSSSSTEEEE’. 

Malnick and Tarik at the crease. Malnick carts a full toss into the garden. Tarik works the ball behind square with ease.  When Jack is out bowled by Tony Mitchell for 8 and with the score on 70 for 4 with nearly half gone, ST looked at Rev, previous winner of ROTY, with a wild surmise and purposely strode towards the crease with the dogged stride of a man going to meet his destiny with his dick out.  

To say that Simon batted like a man possessed would be to dramatically understate what came to pass at NMCC last Thursday.  Understatement is not my avocation.  Simon ran quick(ish) singles to mids, on and off. He stepped back and across his stumps to slam leg side dross to the fence behind square.  He played the shot of the day as he shuffled onto the back foot and cut a good ball through the covers for four.  And then, with the bit between his teeth and his mysterious angel applying the whip to his corpulent hind-quarters, he opened his shoulders and slapped the ball over long on/midwicket for three fours. The first of which, it should be said, found the hands of a fielder, but, from somewhere beyond, the angel affecting a masculine voice, a bit like Jack Malnick’s, screamed ‘drop it’ into the fielders ear, which he promptly did, and over the ropes to boot.  There were to be no more chances.  Simon Thomas, ST, erstwhile ROTY runner up had coaxed, bludgeoned and caressed a mighty PB of 41, worth twice as many, off a meagre 28 balls.  A knock for the ages!  A reprieve, salvation from the pitiless depths!  When a man thinks he can’t take anymore the world finds a way to lift him to new heights, to urge him into the breach, to give him the strength to go on.  Simon Thomas, sweating and puffing left the field, not out. Not Down. The man for the time. Destiny called and Simon replied, ‘What’s that you’re saying destiny? Speak up, bitch, I can’t hear you. Oh, you need a hero, do you, well I’m your God-damned man.’

The Tavs had made 161 for 6. Late contributions in support of ST from Rev (13 off 9) and CBC (8 n.o) produced a real team batting card with solid contributions from all.  

It should be mentioned that some silly rules were applied to this match with 10 consecutive overs to be bowled from each end and two for a wide with no extra ball until the final over. This was ostensibly done with the light in mind. One suspects that the real reason was due to the combined age of the HICCS having reached 867, older than Noah and approaching that of Methuselah, long of tooth and short of ball, they can no longer physically change ends between overs.   Who knows? It did mean that we finished in fading light, though, so who am I to criticise?  It’s their home game.  As if to make the point Charles Trevor was celebrating his 85th birthday. 

Simon soaked up the plaudits and the warm congratulations from his teammates.  He eyed them wearily.  He thought to himself how many here had caused his recent funk by not recognising his worth last year. He knew that Rev had voted for him. Alo, too.  But 8 of his teammates had opted for the self-proclaimed Fanny Stretcher.  How could you vote for that sexist, developmentally stunted South African over a man who actively rejoices in his reminiscence to the Go Compare tenor?  Then he thought of how Rev had never been awarded MROTY and he realised that these people were fucking retarded.  He wondered why it had ever made him feel so low.  

The Tavs took the field for the HICCS reply. They had Mitchell, Young Cheater Grey and Yash in the top four. Plenty of batting, if one of them got going.  OMG opened up with Alo from the same end.  Not the first time they’d shared an opening at the same end.  Ollie bowled with hostility and accuracy. The HICCs remember the old OMG and really weren’t expecting to get worked over.  He bowled one opener for 3 at 17/1. Alex Gray and Toni Mitchell set about Alo and took the score to 33 when Ollie put an end to a typically chancey and agricultural dig from Gray.  Yash at the crease and Alo and now Malnick bowling. Jack sent 6 wides down the leg side and HICCs were progressing well near the required rate. Cometh the Crab! Baz bowls a full toss on leg stump, Yash swings and Jack clings on, right on the rope, above his head for the champagne moment.  90/3, Classic Baz.  

With Mitchell still at the crease and half the overs gone it was time for slow bowling to the end. Baz, 3/18 off 4, keeps it tight, is ably supported by both Rev, 1/29 off four and CBC 0/8 off two. They strangled the HICCs middle order and with wickets falling regularly the Tavs remained in control. Mitchell was becalmed and boundaries, excluding the occasional Rev pie, were hard to come by.  With 37 needed off the final over JB smelt a few cheap wickets with absolutely zero jeopardy, so he brought himself on.  It went for 5 to give the Tavs a resounding ST-inspired win by 32 runs.   A real team effort, though, with solid contributions from all 11 men.  The anti-streak is over. Now we can move on. 

At the Prince fines were lively and ST was jugged twice for PB and MOM.  Ollie is doing a great job of keeping tabs on outstanding fines and ensuring accountability.  As usual it all ended in cheers. 

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ST pulled up outside his house. He thought it was time to put away the hand gun in its case and lock it in the safe with his krugerrands, his chin-strap dildo and his grandfather’s Nazi dinner service. He paused by his front door and listened. ‘SSSSS TEEEE’, the breeze exhaled, and with a bone in his shorts that would keep a bull mastiff busy for a week he opened the front door.