Comedy: How to sledge Martin Crowe

But if I launch myself at a brick wall, read Ayn Rand, speck loike the Prim Ministir, and polish things off with a glass of Château de Bleach, I think I’d come mighty close.

Fortunately though, I’ve already done all of those things. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do in the name of sledging Martin Crowe, cricketing legend, determined human being, and dreamer.

Crowe took exception to the level of nastiness being dabbled out by the premier reserve’s finest during his much-anticipated comeback to cricket.

Let’s not cast aspersions on the man’s resolve. To slip on the whites at age 49 and say “I’ll have some of that again, please” deserves recognition. He is, in every sense, a champion.

But in my bleach-addled state, I couldn’t care less. I see through the eyes of the prem reserve cricketer, and nothing, but talent, can hold me back.

So how does the premier reserve cricketer begin to sledge 49-year-old Martin Crowe?

Like all good bastions of wit and sophistication, we start by questioning his sexuality. Perhaps Martin Crowe likes the opposite gender to the one he actually likes? Perhaps I, from my spot at silly-point should advise him of this?

“Excuse me, Mr Crowe?” I politely interject.

“Yes, you! Martin Crowe! Good sire, perchance may I have your attention for a second? One doesn’t like to yell, so it would be ever so kind for you to turn and acknowledge one.”

Martin Crowe doesn’t listen. Martin Crowe doesn’t seem to care.

“Martin! Mr Crowe! Sir! I believe, though I stand to be corrected, as this has not been peer-reviewed or fact-checked by an independent source, but I do believe you are attracted… oh, bloody good shot. Well played indeed.”

My sprinkles of wit aren’t sticking. It seems Martin Crowe is made of sterner material than flesh and bone. If I’m going to slice-n-dice this old dog, I’m going to need a Greek chorus of like-minded comics.

“Tally ho, lads. Come, gather around. You too, Gershwin. You see that fellow there? Yes, that’s Martin Crowe. I think it’s time we went pads off and gave him a bloody good sticky wicket to think about, what say you?”

A chorus of hurrahs! By jove, we have him now.

So we gather around him, like Oxford sods watching a jolly good hog wrestle, and start giving him what for.

“Martin Crowe, don’t you know, when you bat, when you bowl, you can’t do either of them very well.”

“Oh, oh, Martin Crowe, don’t you know, you held the bat the wrong way around, and that doesn’t aid you one bit in your endeavour.”

“Martin Crowe, oh, oh, don’t you know, it could rain and then you won’t be able to bat very long, oh, oh, oh…”

Flick of the wrists, through extra-cover, and that’s a superb boundary from the old master.