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

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.