Category Archives: The Sports Bar

5.2 The Umpire Raises the Ginger Part 2

14 Thursday Jan 2010

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OK, I know it’s a typo in the heading but it worked for me…

Australian coach receiving the O’Way Game advantage

I’m in Hobart an about to talk to the Aussie cricket team, you know, rev ‘em up, for the next game. The Bish has pulled some strings so I can get into the change rooms. I’ve been given some notes as to what to say as I haven’t got a clue about motivation or how to motivate others. Unfortunately as I walk in I trip and drop all the notes and when I pick them up they seem a bit messed up. In the change room I see their faces but only recognize one, the vitamin salesman, Dicky something. Always on TV telling me that the vitamins are clinically proven but then fails to say what they are clinically proven for. What he also leaves out is that a ham salad sandwich will supply you with about the same level of ingredients found in those expensive little pills.

Anyway I start “Who’s Thorn?” I ask. Dicky speaks up “There’s no thorn in our side Father” he replies diligently. “Well is says here Thorn needs to lift his game.” Just then an official approaches and reads my notes. He speaks softly so the others can’t hear “Er, um, Father, the letters must have scrambled when you dropped your notes, it’s North”. “Well” I continue “North your forms gone south so we need you to show us what you have got. The team and all the fans are behind you, we know you can do it.” The room erupts with a roar, wow, these guys are really into it.

“Now kick long to someone in a better position than you and tackle hard” I boast informatively. “But Father this is a cricket team we don’t kick or tackle” states Dicky. “Oh, well, get behind the service line and hit deep, only rush the net when you have set your opponent up” I say. “But Father that’s tennis. We’re cricketers” Dicky bemoans. “Oh, okay then hit the ball long, hit the ball high, hit the ball over the fence unless it’s still six and out” to which the team responds with a almighty cry “And finally” I add “Sledge the crap out of them” to which the team raises me up on there collective shoulders singing “Australians all let us rejoice…….”

*****************

A New Opener for the New Year’s Day Test

01 Friday Jan 2010

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In a desperate attempt to make the New Year's Day Test interesting, Australian selectors have chosen to open with an old bat and even older balls

Digital insertion by Warrigal

In an attempt to add some length to the current series against Pakistan, selectors have reluctantly chosen to bring back a little Aussie battler to open the streaking from the Randwick end.  “We haven’t seen so many creases since he lobbed one down and narrowly missed his foot in the ‘Australian Prime Minister versus hapless Indian school children series in Bangalore in 2004” commented Pakistan captain Whatta Whacker.

Security was tight as a pair of budgie smugglers and following recent aviation incidents, players this year will be asked to take to the field without any regional support – and must remain in their seats for the last hour of the session.  How this is expected to help is yet to be decided.

Father O’Way Meets G O’D Part 2

24 Thursday Sep 2009

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G O'D Sees that we're not quite home

G O’D Sees that we’re not quite home

Digital mischief by Warrigal

The story so far. Sandy is invited to dinner at the Rectory with the Bish and a special guest.  Sandy mistakenly thinks he is to be told that he is winning an award. The guest turns out to be Gordon O’Donnell, the creator of the universe, who wants Sandy to go on a journey in space. The Bish cunningly gets Sandy’s girlfriend Belinda, to cook up Sandy’s favourite meal and ply him with fine wine so he can’t say no. The saga continues…..

“So Sandy” Gordon opens “Do me a favour.  I’ve always wanted one of those interviews like in the sports pages, you know when our initials appear on the left of page followed by our answers”

FOW: Sure Gordy, like this?

GOD: Yes that’s it. Now how do you feel about acronyms, I mean both you and I are sort of acronyms, I’m God and you’re Fall of Wicket.

FOW: Love acronyms [I lie magnificently]

GOD: Okay so you don’t like them but anyway space is riddled with acronyms

FOW: Oh, but why me, why space?

GOD: Well the Bish picked you as the man to do the job. See you saw Shappy, Hu and Betty knighting Rudi, I mean you were great, you got the job done so I want you to go into space for me. I want you to visit certain places and report back, can you do it?

FOW: Sure, sure [I splutter nervously to the point I am about to poo my pants]

GOD: So I want you to jump a SPIT

FOW: A spit?

GOD: Yes a SPIT, a Small Personal Interplanetary Teleporter. This will take you to the SHITS.

FOW: [Groan] The Shits?

GOD: Yes, the Super Hot Intergalactic Transport Ship 38B. The ship is powered by WEE, Wireless Electric Engine, controlled by a FART, Find Appropriate Road Tollway, and you’ll head for a SPEW, Space Particle Emissions Wavetable.

FOW: [A spew sounds alright at the moment] So tell me if I have got this right. You want me to hop on a spit to the shits, that runs on wee, that’s guided by a fart and head for a spew.

GOD: By jove Sandy, you’ve got it in one. The Bish said you were a quick learner. So yes the ships navigation will take you on a tollway to the wavetable. The wavetable condenses space so you travel vast distances very quickly. I mean the bottle shop that’s at the supermarket is about a kilometre from here.

FOW: [My favourite shop] Yep

GOD: Well imagine that distance if subjected to a SPEW would be just a metre away.

FOW: [A bottle shop just a metre away] Got me Gordy when do I start?

GOD: Well, right now although you will need a companion, why don’t you ask Belinda? I mean on board you will only have COW’s for company.

FOW: Cows? [Can’t you just sense another acro fucking nym coming?]

GOD: Yes, Computer On Wheels, although to you they will probably resemble robots or androids.

FOW: This isn’t crap is it Gordy?

GOD: CRAP? No, Cosmic Radiation Antenna Performance isn’t an issue here Sandy.

FOW: [Groan]

Belinda: Sorry, shouldn’t have been listening but count me in.

GOD: Good girl Belinda, you will be an asset to the team. So how bout it big fella, trip to the moon for a try out?

FOW: Okay, okay. Just one thing, what is it you actually want me to do?

GOD: Well, in a nutshell Sandy, I want you to report on cricket games.

FOW: Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhh.

Father O’Way goes to the Oval

26 Wednesday Aug 2009

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Grigor Ian Chant (2)

Grigor Ian Chan

Clouds are swirling through the sky as the wind blows cold from the north. Out of a large Cumulus humilis a man appears wearing a flat cap. He talks with a strong English accent “Sandy, Gordon here, I need you to do me a favour, know wot I mean, can you get my Stat-o-matic 4000 from my old mate Grigor?, I lent it to him last century and he hasn’t returned it, anyway I’m off now for a few pints of lager, know wot I mean, bye”.

I wake to smell of coffee that the beautiful Belinda has prepared for me. Only last evening I told Belinda that I was off to the cricket for the last days play. Belinda replied “Oh Sandy, can I come, I really wanna come, big time, you know, all the way, I love cricket” Well I suppose that makes one of us “Yes, of course you can come my little sweet pea” I utter. Belinda shrieks with delight “I’m coming, I’m coming, oohh, yes, yes, I’m coming, hmmm, ohh, yes, I’m goin’ down, yes, yes, the Big O [Okay stop right there, cut, Astyages here, Sandy you know that the analytical paranormalisation that juxtaposes the desensitisation of the syntax inferring Belinda is about to sexually climax over a cricket game is just scientifically flawed] [Jesus Christ give a guy a break, everyone’s a critic].

We have breakfast in the ground floor café when out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar face. It’s Grigor, Grigor Ian Chant. As he approaches I notice something in his hand “Is that a pen Chant?” I ask. “Morning Sandy, very desirable but no it’s a Stat-o-matic 4000 for Gordon. See you pop it in your top pocket and it transmits cricket statistics straight into your brain. So you can turn to the person next to you and rattle off stats in a most impressive manner. Can you pass it to the Bish so he can get it to Gordon?” I suddenly remember my dream. So that’s God, Gordon O’Donnell, the astrophysicist the Bish told me about. “Certainly old chap” I reply, “Off to the cricket you know, last days play, what, rather!” With this news Grigor erupts into laughter. Now I didn’t think my English accent was that bad. “Cricket Sandy, you? The man who hates cricket with a vengeance” Grigor bleats, Yes old boy, that is I “Er, um, Sandy old bean, I hate to tell you” Grigor boasts “but the crickets finished” “Finished” I gasp, “Finished, but cricket goes for 5 long boring days where hardly anything happens”.

I see trouble brewing, the Bish wanted me to streak or start a riot to slow the game down, oh shit, I see really big trouble brewing. The Bish will have to cough up 50 bucks to Basil Sauce and the Bish hates losing. Grigor can’t help himself now, talking advantage of my ignorance and the fact that his side won he pushed on “Well that’s your view old chap, but see we beat you inside the five days because we are a vastly superior team. You Antipodeans just don’t get it do you, we are the rulers of the game, we are bigger that big, we are blah blah blah, rant rant rant, rave rave rave…..”. I can’t stand this verbal debasement of our players and something makes me place the Stat-o-matic 4000 in my top pocket. It instantly tells me that England are rated 5th in world rankings, one behind Australia and that not one of their batters are ranked in the top ten, the best the bowlers could do was 9 and 10. The Stat-o-matic seems to tune to the needs of the person wearing the device, gee, I could even sound like I know what I’m talking about, I wonder if Gordon has one for horse racing. “Okay Grigor, now listen

Doing O’Way with Bad Habits

18 Tuesday Aug 2009

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Stimulated O'Way offering guidance

Stimulated O’Way offering guidance

The sun is shining. It’s a Beautiful Day by U2 plays in my head because it is, a beautiful day. Belinda has laid out the blanket, popped the Moet and is spreading my gluten free crackers with pate. The river is full of water and fish are jumping out and displaying themselves in their full magnificence only to fall back into the stream with a splash that leaves you wanting for more. Ah yes doesn’t get any better that this. Belinda places her hand on my thigh and I tingle with delight and to where this could lead [Stop, stop, cut, Warrigal here, look Sandy, when I was knee high to a grasshopper my father taught me to stay focused otherwise you will lose the audiences interest] [Groan, yes Waz, whatever you say]

In the distance I can hear a strange beeping noise, you know, like when a truck is reversing. It’s getting louder and louder.

I sit up. I’m in my room at the B&B. The clock tells me its 4 am. The phone is ringing. “Sandy, Bish here” How did I know it would be the Bish, “Hey Bish aren’t you on holidays?” I politely ask. “Yes Sandy but a Bishop is never off duty. Now get over to the Oval for the last test, we can’t lose this one. Now I want you to do a few things for me at the test if we need them done” Now there are millions of things that interest me more than some cricket game but as usual I never let the Bish know that, not his precious game of cricket, not of a bunch of grown men chasing a ball around a park for five days, “Now what may that be?” I ask with an air of obedient disinterest. “Look if we need you to  have to streak, slow the game down, so yeah, streak” Streak, you have got to fecking joking mate, it’s too cold here at the best of times, me peter will shrivel up and I be the laughing stock at the next heads of church meeting. “Streak Bish?”, “Yes and start a fight.” Oh for fuck sake, a fight, me a simple man of the cloth, a peacemaker, start a fight, “But Bish I’m a lover not a fighter” I bemoan. Probably end up in jail with some psychotic killer with a pension(sic) (no, really sic –  but funny !) for priest abuse. “Yes a fight” the Bish roars “Look its simple, tell the Barmy Army that the Aussie fans called Ian Botham a poofter and tell the Aussie fans that the English fans called Warnie a dickhead”. “But Warnie is a dickhead” I inform the Bish, “Yes I know but never let the truth get in the road of a good story. So streak then fight and if that fails ring the Emergency crew with a bomb hoax”

  1. Darkness envelops the room and casts a shadow over my heart. Oh for the riverbank with the beautiful Belinda, blest with beauty but challenged for brains, a picnic in the sun, sharing a novel and some fine wine, chatting about this and that “Sandy who was that on the phone, would you like a coffee and a cigarette” Belinda calls, well maybe and ain’t that bad being a priest after all, “Yes dear, strong and black”.

Boycott Gets Hung Up over O’Way

09 Sunday Aug 2009

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O'Way tells it like it is - probably

O’Way tells it like it is – probably

So it’s back to England I go, more boring cricket, so the Bish has 50 bucks riding on it just so he can do his noodle over Basil Sauce. I hop a plane to Heathrow and sit next to this sprauncy looking bloke it a jacket and tie. “Hey mate, names O’Way, Sandy O’Way who won the cricket?” “Well old chap, names Boycott, mean anything to you? Seeing you’re a simple man of the cloth it was a no result” Boycott, isn’t that what you do when you won’t buy something at the supermarket like cage eggs, “Meaningless to me Pom, boring game played by bores”

The flight was long and strangely quiet. Me mate Boycott kept looking the other way and the in-flight movie was Flight of the Living Dead, very comforting. This gave me a chance to reflect on a conversation I had with the Bish that still disturbs me. One night after dinner the Bish offers me a glass of port in the sitting room. He gets out his pipe and stuffs some stuff in it, smelt like a skunk, takes a couple of deep puffs and holds it in. “Ahhh” he exclaims as he exhales “That’s better”. He proffers the pipe in my direction “No thanks your Worship, don’t smoke”. Anyway the Bish sits down and starts talking “You know Sandy, I’ll let you in on a little secret, there’s no such creature as God” Oh for fuck sake, a Bishop who doesn’t believe in God. “No God your Worship?” “That’s right, God is an astronaut, named Gordon, Gordon O’Donnell. He’s an astrophysicist that lives in another dimension. He’s studying astrophysics at uni and he and some class mates built this large box and made it a vacuum. The box is black on the inside and the class injected a large tube of static energy in the middle, mainly hydrogen and then fired an electric impulse at the tube. A big bang happened and thus the universe as we know it was created. Gordon and his classmates have been studying it ever since.” Christ almighty, this bloke’s a raving lunatic. “Gordon comes to Earth for the beer, he said he likes the spit roast on Joon and the women on Altus 5, these are other planets in his sector that he is doing his thesis on” Beer, roast and women, starting to sound like my kinda guy. “Gordon says just play cricket and you will be accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven” Pigs Arms! Bloody cricket, takes 5 days and still no one wins.

I meet the Australian captain, Ricky Punting, at the hotel where all the players are staying. “So Ricky, the Bish wants to know what’s up?” “Nothing Father” he replies “just need a bit of fine tuning” “Hey Ricky” I ask “Why do they call you Punter?” “Bet a journo told you that one. Look Father, there’s this bookie called John” [Stop, cut, Sandy here, Hung, Hung, HUNG! I don’t like the direction this story is taking [HOO here, Sorry Sandy, dozed off, look mate it’s like this, I’m the writer and you’re the character, so bad luck, anyway it’s a tough gig being a priest] Yeah, right thanks Hung, Ricky’s about to tell me he’s as bent as a two bob watch and all you can say is it’s tough gig being a priest, you try it mate]

“So Ricky, this bookie called John?” I prompt, “Sorry Father I have no idea what you are talking about but just remember, cricket’s a funny game” Funny alright, played in bloody heaven apparently.

The Wet Look Suits Father O’Way

05 Wednesday Aug 2009

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Father O'Way checks out one of the ultra slippery suits

Father O’Way checks out one of the ultra slippery suits

Yeah, alright, so I managed to weasel my way out of the Café Boy DeBoy in Paris full of lycra clad, er, um, men and jump a cab to the airport when guess who rings, yep, the Bish. “Sandy, get to Rome and find out what happened to our swimmers” “But Bish I wanna come home and swimming makes cycling look interesting” “Just do it. Get back to me fast and then head to bloody Eggbaskekton to find out what Ricky is doing with our boys, haven’t won a test yet and I have $50 riding on it with your old mate Pastor Sauce.” Jesus Christ, a Trotters or two would go down well at the moment.

Flying to Rome I’m seated next to some bloke called the Dalai Lama, Geez, slumming it or what. I tell him I’m off to Rome and while there I’ll drop in and see my old mate, John Paul at the Vat. This joker tells me John Paul died and that I should keep abreast of current events. A breast, breasts, yeah I like a good pair, [Stop it, cut, HOO here, Sandy, now enough of that or I’ll have to give you a spanking, a really good spanking, [[Stop it, cut, Emmjay here, just keep Sandy on track HOO, I want to know about the swimmers] Bloody hell, okay then Emm]

I head to Foro Italico for an interview with Liberty Trickerty, the famous Aussie swimmer. “Tell me Lib, what went wrong?” “Well Father” she says “ All the other teams had superior swim wear, you know the suits and my suit just wasn’t good enough”, hmmm I think, so its what suits is it “ See Father my contract with my current sponsor runs out next month and I have a new sponsor on the horizon” “Now who might that be?” I enquire, “Well Father it’s Honda”. Taken by surprise I choke on my short black, Lib smacks me on the back, I’m aghast, “Honda” I finally say “But they make cars and engines”, “Exactly Father, very fast engines” gloats Lib “I’ve signed up for the BC100, I’m gunna win big, make lots of money”. Well stone the crows, I’m short for words, my mind is racing “The BC100?”, “Yes Father the Body Cavity 100cc Honda two stroke, fuel injected, electronic ignition, marine engine, good to 100 metres below, beautiful, hey Father. The only thing is, you know in swimming when you do the roll at the end of each lap it lets out this big noise, like a giant fart but I have a medical certificate from my GP, Dr Julius Strangepork stating I have uncontrollable flatulence”

“But Libby, dear, where do you actually put it?” “Oh Father, you’re a man of the world, can’t you think of any body cavities?” she grins knowingly [Stop, cut, HOO here, Sandy, enough, I’ll get into trouble with Emmjay] “Well I can imagine my dear” I mutter, salivating at the very thought, “Don’t worry Father, I’ll hide it under my suit and I steer it with my butt cheeks” [Stop, cut, HOO here, Sandy don’t even go there[[ Emm here, I’m with HOO]] “Bless you my child, I’ll say a special prayer for you to Gordon”

Another Tour de France Win Seems Father O’Way

31 Friday Jul 2009

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Lance - two stone lighter but still doing well

Lance – two stone lighter but still doing well

Yeah, like okay, the Bish never gives up. Managed to sneak out of the Long Room at Lords and hike a cab to Heathrow when the Bish rings “Sandy”, God I hate it when he calls me that, it means trouble and somehow I seem to be headed towards trouble at every call. “Hop a plane to Paris, Kadell Ovens is in trouble in the Tour de France, see what’s up?” ”But Bish cycling is more boring than cricket” “Just do it Sandy, anyway at the Heads of Church meeting the other night I ran into some old friends of yours, Pastor Sauce, his wife Penny and a friend Pam Esan” “Basil” I reply “How is the old tart?” “He’s good “says the Bish “He sends his best”. Now there’s a dish I wouldn’t mind, Basil Sauce, Penny and Pam Esan, hmmm, anyhow I digest, oops I mean digress, so it’s off to “gay Paree”.

Kadell agrees to meet at a café after I find out some Spaniard bloke has just won. “Well Kadell, mate, what happened?” “Well Father, this is off the record isn’t it?” “Of course my son, a priest never lies” Cough, cough, choke, choke, “Father are you alright?” “Yes my son, go ahead, your secret is safe with me” “It’s the view father, I mean when you get out in front all you see is the road” I think to myself, God invented Ducati’s to stop having to peddle in the first place for crying out loud, this joker gets a million bucks a year to ride through picturesque country side and he’s complaining about the view. “Go on” I say, “Well” Kadell stutters “I like cycling because I’m around other men” “Yes, yes, male bonding” “No Father, I mean I like sporty men, with great figures and most of all, all that rubber, in the pack I get a great view, a satisfying view of the behinds, I mean it’s glorious”

So now when you pass a group of cyclists, think of the greyhounds however instead of chasing a bunny, all those guys in the pack are actually chasing bummies.

Lourdes ? I thought You Said “Lords”

26 Sunday Jul 2009

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England dismissive of another Priest

England dismissive of another Priest

Okay, yeah right, Father O’Way here.  Had to bribe me way out of the visiting room in Shanghai with US dollars, lucky Shappy traded me some cash for those packets of green stuff back in Bali.  Anyway I’m in a cab on the way to the fecking airport when bloody hell the Bish rings, wants me to go to London to see some British queen about a secret meeting in the Long Room at Lords, I mean I thought Elton liked soccer not cricket, Jesus H. Christ, for crying out loud.  The Bish tells me “Sandy, just do it”, “But Bish cricket is boring, me eyes glaze over and the brain goes into neutral”, “Well” says the Bish, “You can always come home and face the coppers”.  So London here I come.

Long distance flying is so boring so after a bite and few glasses of Shiraz and a few more, I settle back and think of home.  Ah yes, The Pigs Arms and the crew, how I’d love to be there, sipping a Trotters, listening to Emmjay with his non-stop jokes, “Hey Father” Emm would call out, “Did you hear the one about the Pom who won a gold medal at the world championship, nah, didn’t think so”.  The bar roars with laughter.  Then there’s ato with his mystical stories of ancient Greece using the intonations of his voice to weave a spell of magic that leaves you wanting for more, oh yes. Then there’s Belinda, she enters the room surrounded by a golden aura, the sway of her breasts, her beautiful long legs and her pert bottom that sings out “Spank me, oh, spank me”, spankity spank, spankity spank.  Someone is pulling my sleeve “Father wake up, we are about to land, put on your seat belt”, Geez arse, don’t you hate it when you wake up just before the good bit.

A car meets me at the airport and takes me to Lords.  I bribe the guards with a Kylie T-shirt and some packets of suspicious white powder I got off the guards in Shanghai, little did they know that I had a Pigs Arms T-Shirt in my bag just in case negotiations got tough. I slip into the Long Room but Elton wasn’t there, it was Betty, Queen Betty the Second and the Exchequer.  I hide quietly in the background, observing all.

rudi

A Rudi awakening ?

QB: For services to cricket, England and the Commonwealth I honor you with this Knighthood. Your total ignorance of the rules, low level communication skills and pig mindedness, allowing batsmen to be given out when not, you single handedly delivered England victory at Lords for the first time in 74 years against those dastardly Antipodeans, arise Sir Rudi.

Jesus fecking Christ, Rudi Curtains, the umpire, has been knighted for giving a series of dodgy decisions that cost the Aussies the Test, well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, no wonder the Bish wanted me here.

QB: Sir Rudi, do have anything to say?

RC: Thank you your Bettiness, yis, As a loyal South Ifrician those Aussies mongrels beat us in the last series, so anything I can do for the impire is my pleasure and I want all South Ifricians to know that, if you’re thinking about my baby, it don’t matter if your blick or white, whoa. Thanks Jacko.

With this the Queen and the Exchequer leave, I over hear Betty saying “Look ring the Foreign Minister, revoke his passport and deport him to wherever he came from, don’t actually want any witnesses you know”.

HOO’s been altaring things at the cricket again …….

Ashes – friends, Poms and countrymen, lend me your ashes!

14 Tuesday Jul 2009

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A portent ......

A portent ......

Being the first session on the first day of Atomou’s three day test.

Ahhhhh , the Ashes! THE Ashes! THE reason for holding our collective breath all year until this time – every year! An ever-renewing celebration of death!

Now, NOW, we’re getting into the serious stuff. The true adoration of ashes! No longer the celebration of the life of an entertainer who died “youngish” but something far more important! This is a celebration that affects the very valves of Oz’ thumping heart!

Kerrrthump! Kerrrrthump! Hear that? That’s not the sound of the bat hitting the little red stone; no, it is the sound of every aussie’s heart every time they hear the word “ashes” and every time the aussie warriors come out of their bunkers to do battle with those pommie bastards! These valves, the valves of their belligerent hearts – they open and they shut and in their opening and in their shutting, they spurt out ever thicker venom, ever more poisonous hatred for THOSE horrible creatures who brought us down here, down to the antipodes, to Oz, an act they did not for tourism and entertainment purposes but as a form of vile punishment. Horrendous punishment for diminutive crimes. A crust of bread tucked under the apron of a starving woman with a dosen starving fledglings!

I ask you!

Vengeance, then is all the more urgent and victory over THOSE Pommie Bastards is always ever sweeter!

The hatred is so powerful all the more because it so undeniably valid. The history between our nation and THEIRS is clogged with THEIR disdain and hatred for US! Us, the real men! Us, the real women! Us, the pioneers of a race of mortals who… in turn will themselves behave just like those pommie bastards (but let’s not allow real history get in the way of a good myth here, ey?)

“Pommie Bastards,” we yell, as we throw our plastic cups full of sparkling Moet at them, our enemy! Pommie Bastards, they shout at the Barmy Army, the Pommie cheer squad, who must, by law, sit on the benches across the opposite side of the field.

The cricket played for the urn is not cricket. It is a brutal war that echoes its mother war, the ten-year war between the Greeks and the Trojans!

There’s a reason why we call Warnie a hero and it isn’t his prowess on the Garfield of cricket, formidable though that might be. No it is because of the first three letters of his name for one and then, for added grunt, the letter following them. War! Warn! The stuff that myths are made of!

But ashes are tricky things!

When real, they are the end matter of all mortal and creatures and things. But they don’t have to be real. They can be imaginary, symbolic, mysterious, mythological.

In fact, so far as the cricket trophy is concerned, they are pure myth and, so far as myths go, it is an uninteresting myth, at that! A bloody and gruesome rivalry over a mere myth, a nothing! Or over something that may or may not exist inside a funereal jug! “Bah… humbug!” as the good doc, on Unleashed once remarked.

Orestes’ ashes, though! Ah, there’s a myth! A real myth, so far as myths go. A myth and a half! It’s a myth full of passion, a myth of two brutal murders, of filial love and filial hatred, of a tear-jerking recognition scene, of a shocking scene where a mother pleads with her son for her life. A myth in which the unsteady and ever-altering will of the gods plays havoc with the lives of a house. The whole house, from its first seed to its last………………