My least favourite cricketer

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Joined: October 17th, 2013, 8:44 pm

November 19th, 2017, 1:12 pm #31

(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...
Accepted, Kevin, and I'm sure you want Yorkshire to do well. It's just that I can't see how disrespecting the man who led us to two titles, and constantly sniping at him as a coach, can help, especially when Gale is an absolutely heart-on-the-sleeve Yorkshire nut through and through.

And I still say that our batting personnel poses no particular problem, though a couple of the players underperformed last season, which is hardly a secret. Most of our overseas batsmen have underperformed too, or not been good enough, which is not quite the same thing.
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Joined: October 20th, 2013, 8:03 pm

November 19th, 2017, 4:30 pm #32

(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...
1) Totally accepted CS. I have a huge respect for Burnet's achievement. As you suggest, I was merely pointing out that if you were going to argue against a captain being worth his place with bat or ball, there were much stronger cases then Andrew Gale, who would usually, but not always have made the CC team on merit at least up to 2016.

2) As far as the 'least favourite' business goes, as a Yorkshire supporter, there's no way a Yorkshire player would be considered. The Yorkshire squad, without exception, are my favourite cricketers. There's no outsider I prefer to any of our own.

3) Andrew Gale didn't bail/abandon ship. He was offered the coaching job, a role which according to Martyn Moxon he had not applied for. What on earth would we expect him to do, as he was clearly towards the end of his career?

4) I have been accused once again of a hostility to Willey. Nothing against the guy, I hope he sets the world alight in 2018. However, I'm not sure it was a signing likely to lead to success. I think if we were honest we wanted a white ball match-winner. Occasionally, he has been one. He wanted to enhance his first-class credentials, with a view to possible contention for a test place. With the bat, I'm not sure he can play extended innings in the first division, thus meriting a place in the top 6, even last year. He certainly seems to lack the ability to score when the pitch is slow. As a bowler, I did indeed say he would be my 8th choice. For 2016 or 2017 he needed either more control (Patto, Coad), more pace (Plunkett, Brooks), the ability to swing it both ways (Ryan) or to be more reliable with the bat (Bresnan). Then personally for me he would come behind Fisher on potential alone. And I think Fisher will be a better first-class batsman. Ryan has gone, and I wouldn't put as much emphasis on Bresnan's batting as you would have had to a year ago. 'Bad Brooks' appeared a little more regularly last year. Otherwise I stand by my view, and he wouldn't get in my side. You may disagree with parts of that, but it doesn't seem to me to include anything that unfair, certainly not in comparison to 'Gale bailed....'
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Joined: January 21st, 2004, 7:13 pm

November 19th, 2017, 5:04 pm #33

(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...
On the Gale debate. Andrew was a natural 4 day captain. If you need proof look at Yorkshire's attack this season. There's been an element of Byas's 'fag packet' returning where a & b bowl for x overs followed by c & d. The classic example is Brooks who Windy would try for a couple of overs and if it was 'bad Brooks' bowling would whip him off and then try again later on.

As for jumping ship. Gale was going to play on in 2017 until he was offered the coach's role and felt that he had to go for it.

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

November 19th, 2017, 5:07 pm #34

(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...
Didn't think that was true of Ballance, depressed, but it was certainly true in his absence.
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Joined: August 20th, 2013, 11:26 am

November 19th, 2017, 5:11 pm #35

(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...
No one in the Yorkshire team would be out of my top twenty of favourite cricketers.

As for the most disliked -- KP def nr 1, followed by Stokes, Broad, Anderson, Adams, Cook, Strauss, Batty, most of the Surrey team, then followed, on a weekly basis, by anyone who scores a century against us or gets 5 wickets!!
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Joined: December 26th, 2016, 1:12 am

November 19th, 2017, 11:22 pm #36

(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...
My most disliked cricketer has to be a Lancashire player or Lanky as we call them. I can remember their 1980's captain David Hughes who got on my nerves a lot. Or what about Chilton, Keedy and Cork when he played for them. Then there was Watkinson! If there has to be a most disliked YORKSHIRE player, what about Ajmal Shahzad? I found him arrogant and he loved himself a little too much for my liking. Then of course there was his rather explosive ejection from the club around 3 to 4 weeks into a new season. 2012 I think it was.
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Joined: December 26th, 2016, 1:12 am

November 19th, 2017, 11:22 pm #37

(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...
My most disliked cricketer has to be a Lancashire player or Lanky as we call them. I can remember their 1980's captain David Hughes who got on my nerves a lot. Or what about Chilton, Keedy and Cork when he played for them. Then there was Watkinson! If there has to be a most disliked YORKSHIRE player, what about Ajmal Shahzad? I found him arrogant and he loved himself a little too much for my liking. Then of course there was his rather explosive ejection from the club around 3 to 4 weeks into a new season. 2012 I think it was.
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Joined: March 27th, 2014, 1:24 pm

November 20th, 2017, 12:22 am #38

(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...
Whilst i think Gale was overrated and his captaincy was a myth i certainly wouldn't pick him as my worst. That said i think Kevin Owens handled himself well under the threats of abuse.

Shahzad is a good call on the Yorkshire front, certainly believed he was far superior than he was. His six in the India ODI was a great Cricketing moment though.

Loved watching Pietersen bat, absolute class. Ever since the fall out from the England set up i've found him unbearable.

Virat Kohli possibly my current worst when England play India, brilliant player but can't stand him.
Call for TKC..
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Joined: July 9th, 2008, 6:18 pm

November 20th, 2017, 8:49 am #39

(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 me, it's kind of a Yorkshire player (but mainly not) - Bill Athey. There's no real reason, I just couldn't stand him growing up.
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Joined: October 20th, 2013, 8:03 pm

November 20th, 2017, 9:52 am #40

(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...
Shahzad is a good suggestion if we must consider Yorkshire players. And for the same reason - walking out when a place was available, Michael Lumb.
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