Some (not all, I hasten to add) sports clubs seem to pride themselves on being the last bastions of ugly, rampant, unchecked homophobia. Cricket’s actually a lot less guilty of this than other codes I could mention, but then Sherbet never wrote a number one song about any other code of sport, so, y’know, my hands were tied. Apologies to the venerable and underrated writing team of Porter/Shakespeare… and to everyone else, come to think of it.
We’ve been oiling up the willow every weekend at the club
And on Sunday nights I’ve seen you in the corner of the pub
And you sip your drink and say you should improve your technique
You try to play a straight bat but it’s just too weak
You’ve been wandering the outfield with your hands on your hips
You were juggling and fumbling when they put you in the slips
Now if you bowled a maiden over I would let it go at that
But who knew that you would be so good with the bat?
Howzat? Not out!
How is it that you’re still not out?
I’ve seen all the shots that you’re ever gonna show
And your leg stump is showing and you don’t seem to know
So tickle it to gully, baby, run it down to fine
I got myself an over and your arse is gonna be mine
But even from the cover every chance is worth a shout
‘cos I can’t sit and wait for you to get yourself out
And I’ve tried everything I can do
But I don’t seem to be able to dismiss you
You got that special stance
In your white linen pants
That makes me wanna get funky and dance
When you run between the wickets I find it hard to concentrate
‘Cos first it’s yes, and then it’s no, and finally it’s… wait…
In any other circumstance I think bodyline’s a sin
But the next two balls are coming straight at your chin
Don’t you smack me to the boundary if I’m comin’ up too short
‘Cos I’m desperate for wickets, it’s a last resort
On my very last delivery, the one that never fails,
you’ll be snapping off your cup after I’m whipping off your bails