Far From The MCC
~ Est. in 1998 ~
Morler’s Poetic Corner
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A poet is a person who writes
poetry. Some consider the best poetry to be, to some extent, timeless and
universal, and to address issues common to all humanity; others are more
absorbed by its particular, personal and ephemeral qualities – and perhaps
the fact that no other occupation demands so much thought for so little
output Step forth
Club Poet, and drinking Olympian Andrew Morley; here to pen some of his
musings (whilst vaguely sober), and also to rate other works by fellow FFTMCC
players. Andrew has given much thought to a rating scale for works not his
own (and obviously inferior verse), which is calibrated by cans of beer or
lager – the percentage strength of which would dictate the quality of the
posted article. For example, a crappy 3.0% lager being
pretty damned poor, and Gold Label being the dog’s bollocks.
'The poet makes himself a seer by a long,
prodigious, and rational disordering of all the senses...' - J N A Rimbaud |
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“Ode to Sundays” - 2007 Sunday cricket
Sunday life Dump the kids and
dump the wife Leave them with a
doorstep kiss Hit the road and hit
the piss. Sunday wonder Sunday
chump A hundred runs or
middle stump. Hat trick ball
caught in the deep, Or dropping sitters,
half asleep. Plum decision gets
the nod, A wicket for the
Sunday God, The ump’s a wanker comes the shout,
Was missing leg,
you’re missing out. Sunday cricket
summer life Dump the kids and
dump the wife Leave them with a
doorstep kiss Hit the road, and hit or
miss. ‘Blocker’
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“Mad World” - 2007 - apologies to R J Orzabel de la Quintana All around me are familiar
pitches Worn out wickets, worn out
tickets Bright and early for an opening
batsman Getting no runs, getting no runs Their tears are filling up their
average No expression, no direction Hide my head I want to kill the
umpire Nothing shiny, nothing tiny And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad The dreams in which I'm scoring Are the best I've ever had I find it hard to pick you I find it hard to sweep When people run in singles It's a very, very MAD world Bowlers waiting for the day they
feel good 5-for nineteen, get a hat-trick And I feel the way of every
'keeper Catch and stump 'em, catch and stump 'em Went to bowl and I was very
nervous No line no length, no line no
length Hello skipper tell me what's my
action Bowl right through me, bowl into
me And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad The dreams in which I'm striking Are the best I've ever had I find it hard to I find it hard to spin When people guard their leg
stump It's a very, very MAD world MAD world Enlarging your world MAD world ‘Morlers’ |
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Prelude to the Mad’s cancelled
game against the Nomads - 2007 'with scattered arms and
ensigns, till anon his swift pursuers from
heaven-gates discern the advantage, and descending,
tread us down thus drooping...' J-M(ilton) ‘Morlers’ |
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“For Whom the - 2007 Novelty alarm clock signals the
morn, Awaken slowly with hangover
horn, Light roars through curtains, Like a river in flood, Far too much ethanol still in my
blood. Lying in bed all sad and alone, My mind starts to wander; my new
mobile phone, 4 mega pixels and vibrator mode, Rummage through pockets, The phone it has flown. I leap from my bed in one single
bound, Run to the lounge around and
around, Under the sofa And under the chair, I am pulling out the remains of
my hair Oh my God, you stupid twat, Where was I last? Where was I sat? Then the thought slips into my
head I’ve lost the number of the hot
brunette! Need a quick coffee to focus the
brain, Bollocks! No milk left; Head out in the rain, Why is my life so sordid and
squalid? And where on earth is my new
leather wallet? Return to the flat with a rage
and a rant, Energy low, And self respect scant, An old lady gasps; a huge
sideways glance, I am stood in the street just
wearing my pants! Why on earth has this happened
to me? I’m back at the flat, But where are my keys? I’m so upset, I feel I could
cry, I have to get in; I really must
try. A half open window provides a
way in, I dive through the opening Thus grazing my shin, The hazy mists begin to shift, I must find my mate who gave me
a lift. A knock at my front door,
signals the end My phone, keys and wallet, In the hands of my friend, ‘This is the last time’ I hear
myself claim, ‘I’m really not drinking ever again!’ ‘Mincer’
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“It’s raining Mad” (reflection after the washed out Decadilly club celebrations) - 2008
The washed out scene at Humidity’s rising Barometer’s getting low According to the web site ‘ At just about half past ten Specially for Decadilly It’s gonna start raining again It’s raining MAD Hallelujah, it’s raining MAD, so sad It’s raining MAD Hallelujah, it’s raining MAD, so bad Rainfall is rising Beer is getting low According to Adie Fisher The Marsh Harrier’s the place to go ‘ At just about half past one Specially for Decadilly The rain just had to come It’s raining MAD Hallelujah, it’s raining MAD, again I’m gonna walk out I’m gonna let myself Get absolutely soaked for the MAD It’s raining MAD Hallelujah, it’s raining MAD Every cricket MADster Cut and drive and block and sweep Swing and spin and turn and keep God bless Noel Reilly And Eddie Lester too They formed a cricket team And did what they had to do They taught every player To rearrange their days So that each and every MADster Would be ready for Sundays I feel stormy weather moving in About to begin Hear the thunder Don’t lose your wicket It’s only cricket It’s raining MAD Hallelujah, it’s raining MAD, more beers It’s raining MAD Hallelujah, it’s been raining MAD for ten long years ‘Morlers’ |
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“Thoughts” -
2008 I think; Therefore I’m captain. ‘Spam’
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“The Ballad of a Pissed AGM” (each line was scribed by a different member
of the team) - 2008 He bowled a yorker That's what the batsman claimed Seeing it like a beach ball Memories past And beach balls go so fast That they go flat like my cider And if I had a plan it'd be a collider He polished the ball on is
crotch And lobbed it down the crease And yet the furry of the bat did
not decease "Bollocks," the bystander shouted "What trash is
this?" Timed out! The umpire cried with a smile Pooley stared, and he was not happy! But then, when was a fatboy ever happy? Perhaps when he was wearing
something strappy He borrowed it off a guy called
Huw "And who the fuck do you
think are you?" Which is the kind of thing Pooley often said Though he was a nice guy off the
field Even though the scanning is shit The total result is still
counterfeit (Legit?) It's worse when you go for a
golden duck Or catch something from a dirty
fuck Though I'd rather get nought than a dose of the clap Sometimes I think my batting is
crap Nonetheless its calibre must exceed that of the MCC's
'book' Which, to free-versity,
remains unappealing But you fuckers left with one Hahaha! ‘Team MAD’ |
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“NostraMADness” (pre-match
visionary to a match played on June 13th 2010) Joining
together at the Folly, MAD ranks swell with forgotten heroes, Orange
gloves, patriotic Frenchmen, and improved Egg sandwiches, Tense the
banter shall be surrounding football, the love and hate of, A drug
dishevelled madman turns up late. Buses,
negative and positive shall be discussed, Whilst
thunder clouds gather upon the horizon, Boards of
canvas opening above MAD heads, To cover the
chosen ones, but not Judas. Crossing of
the road will reveal a locked establishment, The tossing
of the coin will commence before entry is gained, Skipper,
calling the Tails and winning, will be hailed, Reporting
back to his team sending them marching into the field. Two for a
pound two for a pound the line is mine, Bright
Gloves do not impersonate Green or James, A Diamond –
thankfully fully charged with three pre match pints, Shall shine,
mining three quick wickets after a Wonky start. A Tall man
with multiple nicknames accompanies from the other end (uphill) But his
tally does not match his height, toiling hard for a single caught and bowled. A nightmare
opening over for the Skip, three good balls followed by three yips, Causes
Parkinson to crease up in the slips. But skip recovers to take two prizes. But soon the
tables are turned, as the Frenchman pulls a muscle in his run up, Replaced by
his long time neighbour and friend who finds some swing, Then finds
some edges, but two drops in one over deny the Titanic wickets, Two drops
more of Twinks bowling instigates the first cob of
the day. Hail the
spinners as Gonzo attacks. Stalking his targets with loopy length balls, The catches
are held this time, four wickets for 70, bargain bazaar, Pairing up
with JMo, economical but just one wicket to his
name, A one handed
catch in the deep is pouched by Thorn. 172 -
Eminently gettable. Frisbeer is setup. An unusual
opening partnership avails, many quick runs are struck, Before a
quick run out, Titanic not accounting for Spam’s Achilles (27), Return of
the schoolteacher is met with much anticipation, With many
Fantasy Cricket Team Managers watching with interest. But loss of Twinks
strides out with a nervous twitch, A
partnership builds for a good six overs before the
inevitable, The ball
ricocheting down, off his shoulder, onto his heel with just enough strength
to topple the bails (12) A Flash of
inspiration fills the air, a quick fire 30 off 19 balls from Flash, Whilst Nick
holds on for his second solid fifty, Joined by
the skip need forty runs to take us home. Together
they reach within ten of the target, Moo (18) caught at square leg. Tall Bob the
builder fails to spot a straight one, Hat-trick
ball as awaits as Gonzo makes the field wait, not
yet padded up. Quick
singles order of the day now, The winning
runs struck by Leggate (8), a crisp four beats third man. Fines abound
with Parkinson reluctantly handing over six quid of his son’s pocket money. The MAD adjourn, victorious. ‘Hoskers’ |
