My least favourite cricketer

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Joined: October 20th, 2013, 8:03 pm

November 18th, 2017, 11:37 pm #21

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
Yep, Gale has to be a close contender, along with Close, Vic Wilson and Burnet. All these Championship winning captains, don’t you just hate them?

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Joined: November 14th, 2016, 6:05 pm

November 19th, 2017, 8:42 am #22

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
A championship winning team that carried him. When the going got tough he took the opportunity to bail with the coaching job.
Poor man’s Tim Bresnan
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Joined: October 20th, 2013, 8:03 pm

November 19th, 2017, 9:04 am #23

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
For most of his career he provided c.1000 first class runs. Compare that record with Ronnie Burnet and you'll see which captain was being carried.

The premise of this thread, a somewhat negative one, was your LEAST FAVOURITE cricketer. And you've chosen a Yorkshire player.
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Joined: March 27th, 2014, 1:24 pm

November 19th, 2017, 10:23 am #24

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
Any sign of Alibor for a second opinion?
Call for TKC..
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Joined: November 14th, 2016, 6:05 pm

November 19th, 2017, 10:48 am #25

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
What's wrong with picking a Yorkshire player? You've slated Willey at every opportunity. 8th choice seamer. I'm surprised you didn't pick him as your least favourite player.
Poor man’s Tim Bresnan
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Joined: February 10th, 2014, 7:23 pm

November 19th, 2017, 11:45 am #26

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
The ability of the WRF to fuel internal strife never ceases to me amaze (amuse) me.

'Least favourite cricketer' and, surprise, surprise, it's one of our own.

There's a plethora of players to go at before we even think of looking at our own.

For my two pennorth I'll second Dave Morton's choice of Pietersen.Great ability does not override all other characteristics.

I think that, particularly with cricketers, as opposed to many other sports, the whole being counts for more.Love of the game, respect for the game and giving back to the game need to be taken into consideration too.
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Joined: October 17th, 2013, 8:44 pm

November 19th, 2017, 12:06 pm #27

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
"When the going got tough he [Gale] took the opportunity to bail with the coaching job."

The rules of the forum forbid me from making abusive comments. Fortunately, with a comment like this, I don't have to; you abuse yourself.
Bowlers win matches
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Joined: April 23rd, 2004, 2:49 pm

November 19th, 2017, 12:30 pm #28

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
Idle man writes that "For most of his career he [Gale] provided c.1000 first class runs. Compare that record with Ronnie Burnet and you'll see which captain was being carried."

While I don't see an intent to insult Burnet, but rather to make a point about Gale's captaincy, I do think there's an unfortunate implication that Burnet didn't carry his weight in the team. Please remember Disraeli's remark about "lies, damned lies, and statistics."

Having watched Yorkshire play in each season from 1945 to 1961 (and followed from afar since emigrating to marry my wife), I hope to be forgiven by Idle man if I make the point that Burnet was appointed Yorkshire skipper for the 1958 season, not for talent in batting, bowling or fielding, nor because he sought it (he read of the appointment while buying the evening paper, driving through York).

Ronnie Burnet was appointed at the age of 39 because (a) the first XI had become too much of a shambles under a well-intentioned but overburdened Billy Sutcliffe; (b) the second XI, led by Burnet (a Bradford League veteran), had just won the Minor Counties championship, not least because of the way he had developed players such as Birkenshaw, Platt, Ryan, Taylor and Don Wilson -- all to play prominent roles over the next decade or so; and (c) a much firmer level of dressing-room and on-field discipline was needed, and the committee believed that was much more likely, at this particular juncture, to come from an amateur with a record as a leader, than from a professional who'd been friendly with most of the team.

And by golly they were right. In just his second season, 1959 (and despite his dreadful record of losing the toss 20 out of 28 times), Yorkshire won back the County Championship they hadn't held singlehandedly since 1946. Whereupon, Ronnie Burnet promptly retired, much appreciated, to serve in a committee role. I think he was one of the best captains the club has had.
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Joined: November 14th, 2016, 6:05 pm

November 19th, 2017, 12:42 pm #29

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
Dave, I'm entitled to my thoughts as are you. I'm not alone in people who think Andrew Gale took the easy way out. As for abusing myself.... You were asking for abuse when you claimed all of last season that the batting wasn't a problem.
Poor man’s Tim Bresnan
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Joined: November 14th, 2016, 6:05 pm

November 19th, 2017, 12:45 pm #30

(Apologies for this - if you are disinterested feel free to skip or berate me but it is the off-season and we are not signing anybody and the Ashes are going to be a disaster)

When I was growing up in Yorkshire in the late 70's and early 80's, like every other kid, I used to love the West Indies. They filled my family's Rediffusion black and white TV with brilliant carnival cricket. This love affair I was soon taking to the school playing field. When I was batting I wanted to be the imperious Vivian Richards; with a ball in hand it was Malcolm Marshall. Bat fast. Bowl fast. That was cricket. While this was obviously simplistic and unrealistic, I make no apologies for my 8 year old self. No football fan ever dreamt of being Phil Neville, and no birdwatcher ever held court bragging about seeing a hedge sparrow. Everybody desires the spectacular. In truth, nobody dreams of the ordinary - and if you look in a picture dictionary under the word 'ordinary' there staring back is a slightly pompous, overweight cricketer: Derek Pringle.


To give further context to my grievance, 1986 was perhaps the nadir for followers of English cricket (and boy we have had a few). The three tests against India were deeply chastening. I think I elected to sit behind the sofa and watch through my fingers. With the mighty and dangerous Guy the Gorilla banned for tooting on a Tooting Trumpet in came Derek the Docile. The Indians made us look like fools and, for me, Pringle became the epitome of all that was wrong with the world (despite Bothamesque figures of 3/47 in an innings in the second test I quietly confess). Somehow I decided that he was the reason for unemployment, acne and my failure to lose my virginity. Seeing him trundle in to bowl was a constant cause of despair. He was worse than an interrupted wet dream. His batting was not even as good as that.


In truth, deadly dull Derek was like a pound-shop Botham. He was the Christmas gift you never wanted because you knew there was something far better. While your friends were getting Raleigh Grifters you were getting a roller skate with a missing wheel. When, a year or so later, he was in competition with David Capel rather than the injured Botham, it was like being offered the choice between a weekend in a tent in Grimsby during February or two days in a cardboard box in Bolton during October. There was no answer that didn't feel like being sold a maggot sandwich and being told it was caviar. If the West Indies had been the fantasy, this was the bitter reality. Of course his averages might suggest different BUT I genuinely believed that Pringle was the worst cricketer to play at any level. There have been hundreds of average, ordinary cricketers to fail spectacularly for England since, but none that inspired in me such unreasoned incandescent rage. I have sympathy for the Blakeys, Igglesdens, Iranis that I never found for Pringle. Somehow he had found his way into my subconscious as the sum of all ills. He became a metaphor for the possibility that life may end up as more of a whimper than a bang.


And like the proverbial bad penny he just kept coming back. He did a stupid warm up that delighted the commentators (I can feel the bile rising at the recollection), but this was only ever the foreplay for utter disappointment. I willed him to fail and mostly I was left happy. He injured himself writing a letter (an urban myth I happily chose to believe) and I rejoiced with a salsa around the kitchen. He probably had good games which I refused to notice. He retired and I tried to throw a street party.


In researching this, I notice Wikipedia says that 'Pringle's first class batting average exactly matched his first class bowling average, indicating that he cancelled himself out perfectly'. Well exactly. He wouldn't have got in the team as a batsman or a bowler and as an all-rounder he only just covered his faults. It was like he never troubled a game of cricket.


This piece may have been better concluded with a fulsome apology and recognition that I have been unbelievably harsh. Maybe I could admit to a growing admiration for medium paced dobblers and an appreciation of the workmanlike batsman with no flair who look more out of place than an MCC blazer on a zebra. But it isn't going to happen. While you could argue with me using logic, facts and statistics, I stopped listening when I was 12 years old. I knew my enemy. I knew that if all cricketers were like him that I would rather watch wallpaper.


He might be a great journalist but I will never know. I wouldn't read a word for a footballer's wage. This is possibly my problem rather than his. I should probably ask your forgiveness and his but I am singularly unrepentant. Derek Pringle ruined my childhood. And now my life is once again in tatters, I wake from fevered nightmares of him wobbling in to bowl with the blankets sweat-soaked and tied in knots around my limbs.


This is the way the world ends...
Dave, I'm entitled to my thoughts as are you. I'm not alone in people who think Andrew Gale took the easy way out. As for abusing myself.... You were asking for abuse when you claimed all of last season that the batting wasn't a problem.
Poor man’s Tim Bresnan
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