Poets Corner is a showcase of thoughts by the masterful Bob Higgins.

Interview 7: Robert Higgins meets the Gwynns

10-09-09

Robert Higgins on the gwynns for Wickham Cricket Club

We continue our successful series of Interviews and Profiles with famous Wickham Cricketers:

NO. 7 ANDREW, DAVID and JOHN GWYNN

Cricketing skills - Making the opposition feel welcome
Work skills - Horticultural and constructional
Other interests - Cowboy and adventure films

Today we exclusively reveal their unusual family history and their previously unknown literary skills and expose how their film ambitions have been abused

I finally discovered the Gwynn brothers at Chelsea Flower Show - John was exhibiting rare pineapples, Andrew was exhibiting rare fibre-optic cables and David was exhibiting rarely seen cricket pitches, decorated with white alyssum line-markings and broccoli stumps. "The horticultural potential round here is amazing," says one. "Our ancestors knew a good site when they saw one," says another. "As for this Portaloo," says the third, "It's been in our family for generations. Generations."

"How did your film-interview go?" say I. "You applied for parts in The Three Musketeers?"

"Yes. You know Andrew's good at welcoming people and David will move anything that needs moving and I'm good with soil," says John. "So our agent told us to apply as Affable, Portable and Arable."

"Do you mean Athos, Porthos and Aramis?"

"No, I don't think so. Also, there's another film coming up, The Greatest Story Ever Told. They want a trio so our agent told to apply as Goldie, Frankie and Myrtle."

"Who's your agent?"

"Rodder's Recruitments. He's a very wise man."

I then discovered that he deducted 20% of anticipated earnings for his fee. Like any good reporter my ethics were shocked that such innocent citizens could be so abused by such brazen exploitation. However, I held my peace. A probing wind began to disturb the Flower Show.

"What we now tell you must be confidential," says one. My ethics were still shocked, I promised. "We haven't always lived in this country - we used to live in Scandinavia where our surname was Grimm."

"Is that bad news?"

"No. We were known as the Brothers Grimm and renowned for our literary skills. We discovered an amazing format ... One of us would think of an animal, one would think of a setting and the other would think of an enemy. Then, this was the masterstroke, each of us would act a part and hey presto there's your story. We wrote The Three Billy Goats Gruff, Andrew was the troll, The Three Little Pigs, David was the wolf and Goldilocks and the Three Little Pigs. Our agency, Veteran Svenbob Higginsen's Literary Productions, charged 20% but thought that sales would be low so we moved to England and changed our surname to Gwynn."

Another probing wind blew ... my desire to discover who had played Goldilocks disappeared.

"Anyway, we're off now to the USA. We have a new agent, Chetri Tours Limited. Nice chap, wears bangles. He says we can use our constructional and horticultural skills to build new towns in the mid-west. So Andrew's going to do the plumbing, David's got to take the Portaloo and I'm going to provide cactus," says John. "Mr Chetri wants us to dress for the part, so we're wearing stetsons, holsters and tin badges. We're going to clean up the place, make it fit for decent, ordinary folks."

"Where are you going?"

"Dodge City, I think it's called. Then we change our names for some reason, to Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan."

"Earp?"

"No, I don't think so. And when we've finished in Dodge we move on to ... uh ... "

"Tombstone?"

"Yes and we have to look out for the Clancy brothers."

"Look," say I, "I've got a better idea. There's a new play coming out ideally suited for three builders, cricketers and gardeners. Andrew, you pretend to fly this broomstick, David, you carry this tea-urn and John, would you wear this witch's hat and provide unusual herbs and spices. Now, say after me, Rubble-Rubble, Soil and trouble; Tea-Urn burn and cauldron bubble. That's very good. Now, can we dance around the tea-urn and throw in the herbs and spices? That's very good. Now say after me, Round about the cauldron go, In the 20% payment throw. Good stuff isn't it. MacBeth I think it's called, by Shakespeare. Hecate Higgs Productions at your service...Nice to know you.

INTERVIEW CONCLUDED

Your reporter ( fearlessly exposing corruption wherever it appears ) Robert Higgins

Show archived news?

Archive?

"How did your film-interview go?" say I. "You applied for parts in The Three Musketeers?"
 "Yes. You know Andrew's good at welcoming people and David will move anything that needs moving and I'm good with soil," says John. "So our agent told us to apply as Affable, Portable and Arable." 
 "Do you mean Athos, Porthos and Aramis?"
 "No, I don't think so. Also, there's another film coming up, The Greatest Story Ever Told. They want a trio so our agent told to apply as Goldie, Frankie and Myrtle."
 "Who's your agent?" 
 "Rodder's Recruitments. He's a very wise man."
 I then discovered that he deducted 20% of anticipated earnings for his fee. Like any good reporter my ethics were shocked that such innocent citizens could be so abused by such brazen exploitation. However, I held my peace. A probing wind began to disturb the Flower Show.
 "What we now tell you must be confidential," says one. My ethics were still shocked, I promised. "We haven't always lived in this country - we used to live in Scandinavia where our surname was Grimm."
 "Is that bad news?"
 "No. We were known as the Brothers Grimm and renowned for our literary skills. We discovered an amazing format ... One of us would think of an animal, one would think of a setting and the other would think of an enemy. Then, this was the masterstroke, each of us would act a part and hey presto there's your story. We wrote The Three Billy Goats Gruff, Andrew was the troll, The Three Little Pigs, David was the wolf and Goldilocks and the Three Little Pigs. Our agency, Veteran Svenbob Higginsen's Literary Productions, charged 20% but thought that sales would be low so we moved to England and changed our surname to Gwynn."
 Another probing wind blew ... my desire to discover who had played Goldilocks disappeared. 
 "Anyway, we're off now to the USA. We have a new agent, Chetri Tours Limited. Nice chap, wears bangles. He says we can use our constructional and horticultural skills to build new towns in the mid-west. So Andrew's going to do the plumbing, David's got to take the Portaloo and I'm going to provide cactus," says John. "Mr Chetri wants us to dress for the part, so we're wearing stetsons, holsters and tin badges. We're going to clean up the place, make it fit for decent, ordinary folks."
 "Where are you going?"
 "Dodge City, I think it's called. Then we change our names for some reason, to Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan." 
 "Earp?"
 "No, I don't think so. And when we've finished in Dodge we move on to ... uh ... "
 "Tombstone?"
 "Yes and we have to look out for the Clancy brothers." 
 "Look," say I, "I've got a better idea. There's a new play coming out ideally suited for three builders, cricketers and gardeners. Andrew, you pretend to fly this broomstick, David, you carry this tea-urn and John, would you wear this witch's hat and provide unusual herbs and spices. Now, say after me, Rubble-Rubble, Soil and trouble; Tea-Urn burn and cauldron bubble. That's very good. Now, can we dance around the tea-urn and throw in the herbs and spices? That's very good. Now say after me, Round about the cauldron go, In the 20% payment throw. Good stuff isn't it. MacBeth I think it's called, by Shakespeare. Hecate Higgs Productions at your service...Nice to know you. INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter ( fearlessly exposing corruption wherever it appears ) Robert Higgins
'><img src="/images/gallery/general/poetscorner-the-gwynns-.jpg" width="540px" height="260px" alt="Robert Higgins on the gwynns for Wickham Cricket Club" />We continue our successful series of Interviews and Profiles with famous Wickham Cricketers: NO. 7 ANDREW, DAVID and JOHN GWYNN <ul><li>Cricketing skills - Making the opposition feel welcome</li><li>Work skills - Horticultural and constructional</li><li>Other interests - Cowboy and adventure films </li></ul> Today we exclusively reveal their unusual family history and their previously unknown literary skills and expose how their film ambitions have been abused I finally discovered the Gwynn brothers at Chelsea Flower Show - John was exhibiting rare pineapples, Andrew was exhibiting rare fibre-optic cables and David was exhibiting rarely seen cricket pitches, decorated with white alyssum line-markings and broccoli stumps. "The horticultural potential round here is amazing," says one. "Our ancestors knew a good site when they saw one," says another. "As for this Portaloo," says the third, "It's been in our family for generations. Generations." "How did your film-interview go?" say I. "You applied for parts in The Three Musketeers?"
 "Yes. You know Andrew's good at welcoming people and David will move anything that needs moving and I'm good with soil," says John. "So our agent told us to apply as Affable, Portable and Arable." 
 "Do you mean Athos, Porthos and Aramis?"
 "No, I don't think so. Also, there's another film coming up, The Greatest Story Ever Told. They want a trio so our agent told to apply as Goldie, Frankie and Myrtle."
 "Who's your agent?" 
 "Rodder's Recruitments. He's a very wise man."
 I then discovered that he deducted 20% of anticipated earnings for his fee. Like any good reporter my ethics were shocked that such innocent citizens could be so abused by such brazen exploitation. However, I held my peace. A probing wind began to disturb the Flower Show.
 "What we now tell you must be confidential," says one. My ethics were still shocked, I promised. "We haven't always lived in this country - we used to live in Scandinavia where our surname was Grimm."
 "Is that bad news?"
 "No. We were known as the Brothers Grimm and renowned for our literary skills. We discovered an amazing format ... One of us would think of an animal, one would think of a setting and the other would think of an enemy. Then, this was the masterstroke, each of us would act a part and hey presto there's your story. We wrote The Three Billy Goats Gruff, Andrew was the troll, The Three Little Pigs, David was the wolf and Goldilocks and the Three Little Pigs. Our agency, Veteran Svenbob Higginsen's Literary Productions, charged 20% but thought that sales would be low so we moved to England and changed our surname to Gwynn."
 Another probing wind blew ... my desire to discover who had played Goldilocks disappeared. 
 "Anyway, we're off now to the USA. We have a new agent, Chetri Tours Limited. Nice chap, wears bangles. He says we can use our constructional and horticultural skills to build new towns in the mid-west. So Andrew's going to do the plumbing, David's got to take the Portaloo and I'm going to provide cactus," says John. "Mr Chetri wants us to dress for the part, so we're wearing stetsons, holsters and tin badges. We're going to clean up the place, make it fit for decent, ordinary folks."
 "Where are you going?"
 "Dodge City, I think it's called. Then we change our names for some reason, to Wyatt, Virgil and Morgan." 
 "Earp?"
 "No, I don't think so. And when we've finished in Dodge we move on to ... uh ... "
 "Tombstone?"
 "Yes and we have to look out for the Clancy brothers." 
 "Look," say I, "I've got a better idea. There's a new play coming out ideally suited for three builders, cricketers and gardeners. Andrew, you pretend to fly this broomstick, David, you carry this tea-urn and John, would you wear this witch's hat and provide unusual herbs and spices. Now, say after me, Rubble-Rubble, Soil and trouble; Tea-Urn burn and cauldron bubble. That's very good. Now, can we dance around the tea-urn and throw in the herbs and spices? That's very good. Now say after me, Round about the cauldron go, In the 20% payment throw. Good stuff isn't it. MacBeth I think it's called, by Shakespeare. Hecate Higgs Productions at your service...Nice to know you. INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter ( fearlessly exposing corruption wherever it appears ) Robert Higgins

Archive?

AND expose precisely David's cunning, conman techniquesI finally discovered David in the Tourist Lounge at Eastleigh Airport - he was wearing sunglasses and sporting a banner which said Chetri Holiday Tours. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The tourist potential here is a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Rough and ungroomed they may have been, but they knew good tourist potential when they saw it. And as for this bling and these medals. They have been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations. Have a cake." "David," say I, "You normally tell stories using several paragraphs. What disquiets you?" "This panoramic view..." says he. "I am communing, amongst the beauty of all these potentially exotic destinations. Amongst these panoramic views of the sky and the exciting worlds beyond. I am alive with these aesthetic insights ... Have a biscuit." "But," say I, "You're such a model of post-modern, image man, how can they possibly excite you?" "They take," says he, "They take my clients...to far off places. We've run out of gateau. Have a vol-au-vant." His entrepreneurial mood grew; a gentle breeze began to stir his inspiration; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest a restless energy while jet contrails of ascending aircraft made the nose and eyes twitch. "David. Where are you going tomorrow?" A heart-beat palpitated as I looked at his Bermuda shorts and flattened gelled hair. "We're going to the Taj Mahal and the New Delhi." "India?" "No-oo. Bishops Waltham. The Taj Mahal restaurant and the new delicatessen next door ... for bakery delights." "Oh. Right. Okay. And where are you going on the next day?" "Everest." "Wow. The Himalayas?" "No-oo. Double glazing." "And the day after that?" "Mumbai." "Oh, Mumby's...the bakery, Park Gate.!" "No-oo. India. Mumbai, India." A tremor now gripped me; this was going to be a difficult interview, I could have been at home doing this by email. I had wanted to ask him how he had managed to become the only fast bowler who never polishes the ball and how he had never thought about setting his fielders, let alone adjusting them... Instead, a passionate stare now possessed his eyes, which were fixed upon his bling and medals. "David," I faltered, "Just tell me why you always arrive looking so immaculate for cricket-matches...and I'll go." "What I reveal to you now," says he unhearing, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This bling and medal stuff, it knows... but no-one living must know." I promised. "I have claims you know...that is I and my ancestors, have claims to being masterful at making crucial deliveries, as my ancestors called it." Warning signals sounded. "Go on," say I. "We have, in the past, made some crucial deliveries, that's how we got these medals. We got a call from the Sinai Desert to feed 12 hungry tribes but when we got there we couldn't find them so we laid the bread out in boxes clearly marked with our address, Manor Farm, Devon. We got a letter back from someone called Moses saying thank you. He thought our address was Manna From, Heaven... but the letter still found us." "Um." "Another time we had a call from Galilee for seven loaves and five fish or was it five loaves and two fish, for a multitude, 10 or 12,000 people. We put far too much yeast in, the bread wouldn't stop rising. Took the fish over in special tanks, they breed like rabbits you know. Anyway no-one complained, they had more than enough." "Um." "Another time," he carries on blandly, "We got a call from Paris for cake. The Queen, Marie Antoinette, wanted the populace to eat cake - so we took some. The Parisians were so grateful, they were really hungry. Never paid us though. What d'you think of that? Royalty and never got paid." "Key moments in your family history then." "Yes. No-one else knows about them. We don't blow our own trumpet. Have a loaf of bread." I could have been anywhere else at this moment, think I; however I say, "David. Do you mix your tourist business with your delivery business? You see, I can't help but notice, no-one's turned up for your tour." "Yes they have, you have. You love me don’t you?" "Oh. Where are we going?" "It's a mystery tour - to Pinnywood. Trust me, I've got 2,000 pies to deliver - to a Mr Malone. You're coming." Warning signals should have sounded. "I've never heard of Pinnywood. How far is it?" "Oh not far. It's up the M3. You play the piano don't you Bob?" Ejector seats should have fired but he's a nice chap. "Yes," I say. Two hours later - I must have drifted off - we arrive - at Pinewood. "Come in," says a man with thin lips and pink eyes. "You've got the pies and you must be the pianist." "And you must be Mr Malone." He looks at me as if I'm mad. "Just sit there at the piano," says he. "At the first signal fall onto the piano; at the second signal sit up and start playing; at the third signal start singing." "How do I know what to play and what to sing?" "The music's on the piano. When the time comes you'll know what to sing. Okay everyone. Take one. Action." As I think "How did this happen," pre-pubescent, Chicago-style gangsters appear, with imitation paint-ball guns, and start mayhem, with white cream. I duck. As I arise someone pounds my face with a custard-cream-filled plate. Sticky stuff, unremovable - I crash onto the piano. Realisation dawns - custard pies. I start playing. Pinewood Studios, Bugsy Malone - I start to sing... I could have done anything that I wanted to do And those decisions were mine Instead of which I'm splatted from the top to my toesbr/>And you gave a little love - and it's all come back on you INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter (white-faced, naive and custard-creamed) Robert Higgins '><img src="/images/gallery/general/poetscorner-dave-chetri.jpg" width="540px" height="260px" alt="Robert Higgins on Dave Chetri for Wickham Cricket Club" />We continue our series of PROFILES and INTERVIEWS with famous cricketers at Wickham Cricket Club: NO.6 DAVID CHETRI<ul><li>Cricketing skills - Polishing a cricket ball</li><li>Work - Despatch Officer at a Bakery</li><li>Other skills - Running a Holiday Tourist Agency - Being multi-lingual</li</ul>Today we exclusively reveal not only how David passes his time at work but also his family's strange experiences AND expose precisely David's cunning, conman techniquesI finally discovered David in the Tourist Lounge at Eastleigh Airport - he was wearing sunglasses and sporting a banner which said Chetri Holiday Tours. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The tourist potential here is a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Rough and ungroomed they may have been, but they knew good tourist potential when they saw it. And as for this bling and these medals. They have been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations. Have a cake." "David," say I, "You normally tell stories using several paragraphs. What disquiets you?" "This panoramic view..." says he. "I am communing, amongst the beauty of all these potentially exotic destinations. Amongst these panoramic views of the sky and the exciting worlds beyond. I am alive with these aesthetic insights ... Have a biscuit." "But," say I, "You're such a model of post-modern, image man, how can they possibly excite you?" "They take," says he, "They take my clients...to far off places. We've run out of gateau. Have a vol-au-vant." His entrepreneurial mood grew; a gentle breeze began to stir his inspiration; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest a restless energy while jet contrails of ascending aircraft made the nose and eyes twitch. "David. Where are you going tomorrow?" A heart-beat palpitated as I looked at his Bermuda shorts and flattened gelled hair. "We're going to the Taj Mahal and the New Delhi." "India?" "No-oo. Bishops Waltham. The Taj Mahal restaurant and the new delicatessen next door ... for bakery delights." "Oh. Right. Okay. And where are you going on the next day?" "Everest." "Wow. The Himalayas?" "No-oo. Double glazing." "And the day after that?" "Mumbai." "Oh, Mumby's...the bakery, Park Gate.!" "No-oo. India. Mumbai, India." A tremor now gripped me; this was going to be a difficult interview, I could have been at home doing this by email. I had wanted to ask him how he had managed to become the only fast bowler who never polishes the ball and how he had never thought about setting his fielders, let alone adjusting them... Instead, a passionate stare now possessed his eyes, which were fixed upon his bling and medals. "David," I faltered, "Just tell me why you always arrive looking so immaculate for cricket-matches...and I'll go." "What I reveal to you now," says he unhearing, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This bling and medal stuff, it knows... but no-one living must know." I promised. "I have claims you know...that is I and my ancestors, have claims to being masterful at making crucial deliveries, as my ancestors called it." Warning signals sounded. "Go on," say I. "We have, in the past, made some crucial deliveries, that's how we got these medals. We got a call from the Sinai Desert to feed 12 hungry tribes but when we got there we couldn't find them so we laid the bread out in boxes clearly marked with our address, Manor Farm, Devon. We got a letter back from someone called Moses saying thank you. He thought our address was Manna From, Heaven... but the letter still found us." "Um." "Another time we had a call from Galilee for seven loaves and five fish or was it five loaves and two fish, for a multitude, 10 or 12,000 people. We put far too much yeast in, the bread wouldn't stop rising. Took the fish over in special tanks, they breed like rabbits you know. Anyway no-one complained, they had more than enough." "Um." "Another time," he carries on blandly, "We got a call from Paris for cake. The Queen, Marie Antoinette, wanted the populace to eat cake - so we took some. The Parisians were so grateful, they were really hungry. Never paid us though. What d'you think of that? Royalty and never got paid." "Key moments in your family history then." "Yes. No-one else knows about them. We don't blow our own trumpet. Have a loaf of bread." I could have been anywhere else at this moment, think I; however I say, "David. Do you mix your tourist business with your delivery business? You see, I can't help but notice, no-one's turned up for your tour." "Yes they have, you have. You love me don’t you?" "Oh. Where are we going?" "It's a mystery tour - to Pinnywood. Trust me, I've got 2,000 pies to deliver - to a Mr Malone. You're coming." Warning signals should have sounded. "I've never heard of Pinnywood. How far is it?" "Oh not far. It's up the M3. You play the piano don't you Bob?" Ejector seats should have fired but he's a nice chap. "Yes," I say. Two hours later - I must have drifted off - we arrive - at Pinewood. "Come in," says a man with thin lips and pink eyes. "You've got the pies and you must be the pianist." "And you must be Mr Malone." He looks at me as if I'm mad. "Just sit there at the piano," says he. "At the first signal fall onto the piano; at the second signal sit up and start playing; at the third signal start singing." "How do I know what to play and what to sing?" "The music's on the piano. When the time comes you'll know what to sing. Okay everyone. Take one. Action." As I think "How did this happen," pre-pubescent, Chicago-style gangsters appear, with imitation paint-ball guns, and start mayhem, with white cream. I duck. As I arise someone pounds my face with a custard-cream-filled plate. Sticky stuff, unremovable - I crash onto the piano. Realisation dawns - custard pies. I start playing. Pinewood Studios, Bugsy Malone - I start to sing... I could have done anything that I wanted to do And those decisions were mine Instead of which I'm splatted from the top to my toesbr/>And you gave a little love - and it's all come back on you INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter (white-faced, naive and custard-creamed) Robert Higgins

Archive?

I finally discovered James inside his eco-friendly lighthouse at St. Catherine's Point, on the southernmost tip of the Isle of Wight - he was wearing a psychedelic shirt, a fedora and looking creative. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The artistic potential here is a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Wild and hairy they may have been, but they knew good artistic potential when they saw it. And as for this wand and dongle. This wand and dongle have been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations." 
 Wagner's Tannhauser Ouverture began to play with its alternating motifs and crescendos. 
 "James," say I, "You normally speak using one-liners. What animates you?"
 "This panoramic view..." says he. "I am communing, amongst this beauty. Amongst these views of the Channel and the disintegrating headlands of the Isle of Wight. I am alive with my aesthetic insights...They...animate me..."
 "But," say I, "You're such a model of post-modern, ironic man, how can they possibly help you?"
 "They take," says he. "They take me...to my commitment to passion."
 His creative mood grew; a gentle breeze began to stir the inspiration; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest a crafting compulsion while watery reflections made the Channel waves twinkle. Mussorgski's Scherezade began to surge forth with its first moody and atmospheric tale. He offers me a drink; a heady confidence infuses my brain and a watery glaze affects my vision.
 "James. You're painting. So that's your passion. Who have been the major influences in your life?" 
 "Oh, Jackson Pollock, the painter, Michael Fish, the weather-forecaster and James Whale, the DJ - not forgetting of course, Martin Roe, the famous Wickham cricketer and my ancestors."
 "Nice plaice you've got here?" say I, it sounds terribly funny - and distant. I start to look around. He offers me some chocolate - a Penguin with Omega 3, multi-strength. A fuzzy profundity swims around my brain - I notice for the first time the beauty of the structured chaos in the room as night falls and the lighthouse signal begins to revolve. He offers me some food - barbecued squid with mushrooms, his favourite. A muscular strength diffuses through my body - I could conquer a million things. 
 "How do you spawn your time?" say I. 
 "Oh easy," says he, "I party. D'you wanna party?" A heart-beat palpitates as I look at his fedora and blackened hair. A Whiting Shade of Pale begins -it sets off withdrawal symptoms. 
 "What jus' the two of us," I cry fearfully.
 "Oh no, no, no," says he, "That's primeval. This is 2000AD not 2000BC! Watch this." 
 A tremor now grips me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his spin-bowling technique and how he had developed those elegant, sliding tackles onto the ball... Instead, a passionate stare now possesses his eyes, which are fixed upon his wand and dongle.
 "James," I hesitated, "Just tell me why you always arrive so early for cricket-matches...and I'll go."
 "What I reveal to you now," says he unhearing, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This wand and dongle, yes they know... but no-one living must know."
 I promised.
 "I have claims you know...claims to being the Playboy of the South, the Magic-mushroom-Matelot of Vectis as my ancestors called it."
 An introductory siren sounds. James waves his wand. The lighthouse signal now revolves in multi-coloured blues, indigos, yellows and cerise. A disco-deck arises from the floor. James grabs the microphone, inserts his dongle and begins to broadcast.
 "What is going on?" I cry.
 "This is Disco Neptune," he announces, the airwaves boom far out to sea, "Let's have a Whale of a Time. Here we go with the music!" He waves his wand. A brazen rapper blasts the airwaves. I'm a thark, I'm a thark, I'm a thark in the thitty "An asthmatic rapper," says James apologetically. Life ith tho hard, ith hard, tho hard ith not pritty "But still rhythmic and great rhyme," he adds. Don't be thympathetic coth I like the nitty-gritty "Great tune and lyrics" don't wan' your lurve and ah dothent wan' yer pity "This is James Martin with you for the next five hours. We have some important weather information - there will be no hurricanes in the Channel tonight - now back to the music..."
 "James," say I, "Your house on the outside looks like the epitome of an ultra-ancient, eco-intimate house, built as it is, totally on rock, with no modern amenities. But why is it a nightmare just trying to get past security-systems to see you?" 
 "Everyone would want to come here otherwise. We interrupt the music to give you the latest travel information. Gosport is gridlocked; Fareham is jammed and Portsmouth's at a crawling pace. Have a great day. Now back to the music."
 Pink, blue, indigo and yellow Neptune 4 James love-hearts float ethereally around the walls. He waves his wand. Letth all go on a thummer holiday vibrates across the Atlantic tributary. I suddenly feel sorry for France. I look around the room. Lo-tec communication devices dominate. Realisation penetrates. "You're not a lighthouse-keeper at all, neither do you broadcast over the airwaves. This is an outdated, 19th century ivory tower for esoteric artists is it not?" 
 "You're absolutely right. But you overlook two things - Come and see." 
 He invites me over to the south-facing window. "Look up." I see a gigantic fedora perched on top of the lighthouse. "Look out to sea, I'm calling my clietele." I see flotillas of small booze-cruise liners heading this way - sea-echoes of uncoordinated drunken chanting are audible. "£3 a ticket. £9 a meal - Disco thrown in,” he broadcasts. "Now look down," I see mermaids singing, heavenly strains of Wagner's Parsifal Overture hypnotise my brain, enchanting my senses and stirring my blood. He waves his wand - "I want to stroke them," I cry in oblivion. I want to know them.. What are their names?"
 "The one on the right with the enchanting hair is Scylla..." of course, of course... "And the one on the left with the enchanting smile is Charybdis." 
 "I Must Save Them," I cry. "The people on the boats. They will all be lured onto, smashed or marooned and eaten alive! They will all die!!!"
 "Smashed they may be but marooned they won't," says he coolly, "You've had too many mushrooms. They've come here to buy my paintings, eat some squid and party, man. He waves his wand. “Now," he announces over the microphone, "Welcome everyone... to... James' Art and Food Disco...Remember...All You need Is Love da-da,da-da, dah All together now, Let's Par-ty." INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter (artless and hung-over - but still operative and alive) Robert Higgins 
'><img src="/images/gallery/general/poetscorner-James-Martin.jpg" width="540px" height="260px" alt="Robert Higgins on Steve Judge for Wickham Cricket Club" />We continue our series of PROFILES and INTERVIEWS with famous cricketers at Wickham Cricket Club: NO.5 JAMES MARTIN<ul><li>Cricketing skills – Sledging</li><li>Work - Graphic Designer</li><li>Other skills - Running a Lighthouse</li></ul>Today we exclusively reveal not only how James passes his time at work but also his strange and distinctive life-style AND name precisely James' twin guardians I finally discovered James inside his eco-friendly lighthouse at St. Catherine's Point, on the southernmost tip of the Isle of Wight - he was wearing a psychedelic shirt, a fedora and looking creative. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The artistic potential here is a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Wild and hairy they may have been, but they knew good artistic potential when they saw it. And as for this wand and dongle. This wand and dongle have been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations." 
 Wagner's Tannhauser Ouverture began to play with its alternating motifs and crescendos. 
 "James," say I, "You normally speak using one-liners. What animates you?"
 "This panoramic view..." says he. "I am communing, amongst this beauty. Amongst these views of the Channel and the disintegrating headlands of the Isle of Wight. I am alive with my aesthetic insights...They...animate me..."
 "But," say I, "You're such a model of post-modern, ironic man, how can they possibly help you?"
 "They take," says he. "They take me...to my commitment to passion."
 His creative mood grew; a gentle breeze began to stir the inspiration; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest a crafting compulsion while watery reflections made the Channel waves twinkle. Mussorgski's Scherezade began to surge forth with its first moody and atmospheric tale. He offers me a drink; a heady confidence infuses my brain and a watery glaze affects my vision.
 "James. You're painting. So that's your passion. Who have been the major influences in your life?" 
 "Oh, Jackson Pollock, the painter, Michael Fish, the weather-forecaster and James Whale, the DJ - not forgetting of course, Martin Roe, the famous Wickham cricketer and my ancestors."
 "Nice plaice you've got here?" say I, it sounds terribly funny - and distant. I start to look around. He offers me some chocolate - a Penguin with Omega 3, multi-strength. A fuzzy profundity swims around my brain - I notice for the first time the beauty of the structured chaos in the room as night falls and the lighthouse signal begins to revolve. He offers me some food - barbecued squid with mushrooms, his favourite. A muscular strength diffuses through my body - I could conquer a million things. 
 "How do you spawn your time?" say I. 
 "Oh easy," says he, "I party. D'you wanna party?" A heart-beat palpitates as I look at his fedora and blackened hair. A Whiting Shade of Pale begins -it sets off withdrawal symptoms. 
 "What jus' the two of us," I cry fearfully.
 "Oh no, no, no," says he, "That's primeval. This is 2000AD not 2000BC! Watch this." 
 A tremor now grips me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his spin-bowling technique and how he had developed those elegant, sliding tackles onto the ball... Instead, a passionate stare now possesses his eyes, which are fixed upon his wand and dongle.
 "James," I hesitated, "Just tell me why you always arrive so early for cricket-matches...and I'll go."
 "What I reveal to you now," says he unhearing, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This wand and dongle, yes they know... but no-one living must know."
 I promised.
 "I have claims you know...claims to being the Playboy of the South, the Magic-mushroom-Matelot of Vectis as my ancestors called it."
 An introductory siren sounds. James waves his wand. The lighthouse signal now revolves in multi-coloured blues, indigos, yellows and cerise. A disco-deck arises from the floor. James grabs the microphone, inserts his dongle and begins to broadcast.
 "What is going on?" I cry.
 "This is Disco Neptune," he announces, the airwaves boom far out to sea, "Let's have a Whale of a Time. Here we go with the music!" He waves his wand. A brazen rapper blasts the airwaves. I'm a thark, I'm a thark, I'm a thark in the thitty "An asthmatic rapper," says James apologetically. Life ith tho hard, ith hard, tho hard ith not pritty "But still rhythmic and great rhyme," he adds. Don't be thympathetic coth I like the nitty-gritty "Great tune and lyrics" don't wan' your lurve and ah dothent wan' yer pity "This is James Martin with you for the next five hours. We have some important weather information - there will be no hurricanes in the Channel tonight - now back to the music..."
 "James," say I, "Your house on the outside looks like the epitome of an ultra-ancient, eco-intimate house, built as it is, totally on rock, with no modern amenities. But why is it a nightmare just trying to get past security-systems to see you?" 
 "Everyone would want to come here otherwise. We interrupt the music to give you the latest travel information. Gosport is gridlocked; Fareham is jammed and Portsmouth's at a crawling pace. Have a great day. Now back to the music."
 Pink, blue, indigo and yellow Neptune 4 James love-hearts float ethereally around the walls. He waves his wand. Letth all go on a thummer holiday vibrates across the Atlantic tributary. I suddenly feel sorry for France. I look around the room. Lo-tec communication devices dominate. Realisation penetrates. "You're not a lighthouse-keeper at all, neither do you broadcast over the airwaves. This is an outdated, 19th century ivory tower for esoteric artists is it not?" 
 "You're absolutely right. But you overlook two things - Come and see." 
 He invites me over to the south-facing window. "Look up." I see a gigantic fedora perched on top of the lighthouse. "Look out to sea, I'm calling my clietele." I see flotillas of small booze-cruise liners heading this way - sea-echoes of uncoordinated drunken chanting are audible. "£3 a ticket. £9 a meal - Disco thrown in,” he broadcasts. "Now look down," I see mermaids singing, heavenly strains of Wagner's Parsifal Overture hypnotise my brain, enchanting my senses and stirring my blood. He waves his wand - "I want to stroke them," I cry in oblivion. I want to know them.. What are their names?"
 "The one on the right with the enchanting hair is Scylla..." of course, of course... "And the one on the left with the enchanting smile is Charybdis." 
 "I Must Save Them," I cry. "The people on the boats. They will all be lured onto, smashed or marooned and eaten alive! They will all die!!!"
 "Smashed they may be but marooned they won't," says he coolly, "You've had too many mushrooms. They've come here to buy my paintings, eat some squid and party, man. He waves his wand. “Now," he announces over the microphone, "Welcome everyone... to... James' Art and Food Disco...Remember...All You need Is Love da-da,da-da, dah All together now, Let's Par-ty." INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter (artless and hung-over - but still operative and alive) Robert Higgins

Archive?

I finally discovered Steve inside his eco-friendly house surrounded by rose arbours at the top of Portsdown Hill - he was wearing a pink carnation and looking nostalgic. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The romantic vistas here are a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Wild and hairy they may have been, but they knew good romantic vistas when they saw them. And as for this wand and dongle. This wand and dongle have been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations." 
 Wagner's Liebestod fromTristan und Isolde began to play with its wave-patterns of motifs and crescendos. 
 "Steve," say I, "You normally speak using one-liners. What animates you?" 
 "These vistas..." says he. "I am communing, among these vistas. Among these views, this rose-arbour and Portsmouth Harbour. I am alive with my sentimental memories...They...animate me..." 
 "But," say I, "You're such a model of pre-modern, ironic man, how can they possibly help you?" 
 "They remind me," says he. "They remind me... of my commitment to romance." 
 His nostalgic mood grew; a gentle breeze began to stir the rose-petals; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest sentimentality while watery reflections made the harbour lights twinkle. Tchaikovski's Romeo and Juliet Ouverture began to surge forth with its alternating lilts and agonisings. 
 "Steven. What memories? What passion?" A heart-beat palpitated as I looked at his corduroys and shock of grey hair. "Steve," I cried with fearful realization, "That is a love-potion you're drinking. That is primeval. It's 2000AD not 2000BC. You should be taking viagra!!!" 
 "That's it," he cried bouncing with excitement, "That's it. I knew there was something better than Ibuprofen ..." 
 "And just how do you know what to play for my favourite love-songs?" 
 "Sonar satellite," says he. "We know everyone's sonic output ... and input." 
 "Conversations as well?" 
 "Yes. And phone-calls, emails, twitter, web-cam, face-book, skyping, all social net-working sites." A tremor now gripped me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his spin-bowling technique and how he had achieved those elegant, leisurely fielding reactions... Instead, a passionate stare now possessed his eyes, which were fixed upon his wand and dongle. 
 "Steve," I hesitated, "Just tell me why you always arrive late for cricket-matches...and I'll go." 
 "What I reveal to you now," says he unhearing, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This wand and dongle, yes they know... but no-one living must know." 
 I promised. 
 "I have claims you know...claims to being masterful at match-making, magic-mating as my ancestors called it." 
 A warning siren sounded. Steve waved his wand. Metal shutters came down outside the windows as curtains closed; clanks of grinding machinery seemed to grip the room as it darkened. 
 "What is going on?" I cry .
 "Alien intruder alert," cries he. "Probably a dissatisfied client, I'll put some music on." He waves his wand - a smoothie crooner insults the airwaves. You muth remember thith "An asthmatic singer," says Steve apologetically. A kith ith juth a kith "But still romantic," he adds. A thigh ith thill a thigh … 
 "Steve," say I, "Your house on the outside looks like the epitome of an ultra-modern, eco-intimate house, built as it is, mainly underground. But why is it a nightmare just trying to get past security to see you? Are we descending?" 
 "Yes." 
 Pink Stannah 4 Steve love-hearts float ethereally around the walls. He waves his wand. Whoth thorry now vibrates unseen speakers. We walk along a sterile corridor. Hi-tech communication devices dominate; as an onlooker I go submissive. Realisation penetrates. "This is the Government's outdated, cold-war bunker HQ is it not? What's it used for now?" We pass rooms of StarTrek transportation imitations. "You can transport matter?" say I. 
 "Yes. And re-create life, clones past, present and imaginary." 
 We enter a room, windowless as all else had been. He waves his wand, a black leather chair appears, a red button on its arm fascinates me - I want to stroke it. "DON'T Touch That!" boom unseen speakers - I go frigid. "Sit down," says he. I sit - he waves his wand - leather straps fly out and pinion my arms and legs. 
 "You ask too many questions, Bob. And don't touch that button. One moment, I must activate Eros." A picture of Eros' statue in Piccadilly Square illuminates one wall as all other light goes down, a spotlight blinds my vision. "Robert Higgins, your specialist subject is My Ideal Partner - Stevie Judgie Style. Your questions start now...Where are you?" 
 "This is Cheltenham GCHQ, resituated, upmarketed and updated." 
 "Correct. What is my dongle used for?" 
 "It's the key to your match-making files." 
 "Correct. What do we claim to be?" 
 "You claim to be masterful with match-making and able to create fictional characters." 
 "Correct. What famous clients have we had on our files? That is my forbears and I. And what happened to them?" 
 "Hitler and Eva Braun. You were invited to the wedding - but Berlin Airport was closed at the time, so you couldn't go. And they shot themselves on their wedding night." 
 "Correct. Who else has been on our files?" 
 "Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton. He got shot and anyway she was married at the time."
 "Correct. Who else?" 
 "Edward II and Queen Isabella. He was, purportedly, homosexual. You introduced a homosexual to a highly sexed woman! And then she had him murdered ... stabbed in the rear-end in Berkeley Castle." 
 "Correct. Who else?" 
 "Mork and Mindy? Oh yes, Abelard and Eloise. You introduced a nun and a monk who had avowed chastity?" 
 "You've gotta think business." 
 "And he was castrated by her brothers! That's some success rate." 
 "Correct. We have some beautiful women on our files. Would you like to join?" 
 "Yes please. Can you unstrap me now?" 
 "Not for the moment - we're reading your brain, its deepest information and pulses." He inserted the dongle. "Now, Robert," says he, "Apparently you're a literary man, so who would be a satisfactory soul-mate for you?"Let's see who's on file from literature. What type of partner would you like to marry?" 
 Strapped as I was I think quickly - Queen Guinevere, no - she'd be too hung up on Lancelot - Juliet, no - rather young, anyway she sleeps too much and self-mutilates - Cleopatra, Queen Cleopatra ... Ah-ha, Cleo, a name to conjure with and not only a name - would there be enough milk ... things were looking up ... 
 "Hum. We're getting strange readings from your brain; it seems that no-one normal is appropriate. Ah-ha, I've found one. I have it," cries he, "A name to conjure with" ... he presses a button. "The name that struck terror into the East Saxons" ... heavy, ponderous footfalls approach. “and still strikes fear today" ...the door shakes. "Here she comes"... a hairy paw comes around the door, which falls off its hinges. "The most evocative name in literature"... and she is salivating grossly..."It's ... Grendel's mother!!!" 
 Her teeth were puckering in anticipation. Instant terror turned off all pain; despair turned on all panic. Her hot breath upon me, I slammed the forbidden red button. Immediately the chair flew backwards along its rail-track, crashing through swing doors, along a zig-zag, helter-skelter route - who knows how or where - I was light-years away, knowing that, through the clank of grinding machinery, the chair had violently upended me, not upon the slopes of her lap, but upon the slopes of Portsdown Hill - never had they looked less romantic but never too had they felt so welcome. I hugged and cuddled them closely for reassurance in disbelief. INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter (bruised and battered but still single - and alive) Robert Higgins '><img src="/images/gallery/general/poetscorner-steve-judge.jpg" width="540px" height="260px" alt="Robert Higgins on Steve Judge for Wickham Cricket Club" /> We continue our series of PROFILES and INTERVIEWS with famous cricketers at Wickham Cricket Club:
 
 NO. 4 STEVE JUDGE<ul><li>Cricketing skills - Providing humour and teas</li><li>Work - Top Secret</li><li>Other skills - Running a Dating Agency</li></ul>Today we exclusively reveal not only how Steve passes his time at work but also his strange and distinctive house AND name precisely Steve's futuristic secretsI finally discovered Steve inside his eco-friendly house surrounded by rose arbours at the top of Portsdown Hill - he was wearing a pink carnation and looking nostalgic. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The romantic vistas here are a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Wild and hairy they may have been, but they knew good romantic vistas when they saw them. And as for this wand and dongle. This wand and dongle have been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations." 
 Wagner's Liebestod fromTristan und Isolde began to play with its wave-patterns of motifs and crescendos. 
 "Steve," say I, "You normally speak using one-liners. What animates you?" 
 "These vistas..." says he. "I am communing, among these vistas. Among these views, this rose-arbour and Portsmouth Harbour. I am alive with my sentimental memories...They...animate me..." 
 "But," say I, "You're such a model of pre-modern, ironic man, how can they possibly help you?" 
 "They remind me," says he. "They remind me... of my commitment to romance." 
 His nostalgic mood grew; a gentle breeze began to stir the rose-petals; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest sentimentality while watery reflections made the harbour lights twinkle. Tchaikovski's Romeo and Juliet Ouverture began to surge forth with its alternating lilts and agonisings. 
 "Steven. What memories? What passion?" A heart-beat palpitated as I looked at his corduroys and shock of grey hair. "Steve," I cried with fearful realization, "That is a love-potion you're drinking. That is primeval. It's 2000AD not 2000BC. You should be taking viagra!!!" 
 "That's it," he cried bouncing with excitement, "That's it. I knew there was something better than Ibuprofen ..." 
 "And just how do you know what to play for my favourite love-songs?" 
 "Sonar satellite," says he. "We know everyone's sonic output ... and input." 
 "Conversations as well?" 
 "Yes. And phone-calls, emails, twitter, web-cam, face-book, skyping, all social net-working sites." A tremor now gripped me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his spin-bowling technique and how he had achieved those elegant, leisurely fielding reactions... Instead, a passionate stare now possessed his eyes, which were fixed upon his wand and dongle. 
 "Steve," I hesitated, "Just tell me why you always arrive late for cricket-matches...and I'll go." 
 "What I reveal to you now," says he unhearing, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This wand and dongle, yes they know... but no-one living must know." 
 I promised. 
 "I have claims you know...claims to being masterful at match-making, magic-mating as my ancestors called it." 
 A warning siren sounded. Steve waved his wand. Metal shutters came down outside the windows as curtains closed; clanks of grinding machinery seemed to grip the room as it darkened. 
 "What is going on?" I cry .
 "Alien intruder alert," cries he. "Probably a dissatisfied client, I'll put some music on." He waves his wand - a smoothie crooner insults the airwaves. You muth remember thith "An asthmatic singer," says Steve apologetically. A kith ith juth a kith "But still romantic," he adds. A thigh ith thill a thigh … 
 "Steve," say I, "Your house on the outside looks like the epitome of an ultra-modern, eco-intimate house, built as it is, mainly underground. But why is it a nightmare just trying to get past security to see you? Are we descending?" 
 "Yes." 
 Pink Stannah 4 Steve love-hearts float ethereally around the walls. He waves his wand. Whoth thorry now vibrates unseen speakers. We walk along a sterile corridor. Hi-tech communication devices dominate; as an onlooker I go submissive. Realisation penetrates. "This is the Government's outdated, cold-war bunker HQ is it not? What's it used for now?" We pass rooms of StarTrek transportation imitations. "You can transport matter?" say I. 
 "Yes. And re-create life, clones past, present and imaginary." 
 We enter a room, windowless as all else had been. He waves his wand, a black leather chair appears, a red button on its arm fascinates me - I want to stroke it. "DON'T Touch That!" boom unseen speakers - I go frigid. "Sit down," says he. I sit - he waves his wand - leather straps fly out and pinion my arms and legs. 
 "You ask too many questions, Bob. And don't touch that button. One moment, I must activate Eros." A picture of Eros' statue in Piccadilly Square illuminates one wall as all other light goes down, a spotlight blinds my vision. "Robert Higgins, your specialist subject is My Ideal Partner - Stevie Judgie Style. Your questions start now...Where are you?" 
 "This is Cheltenham GCHQ, resituated, upmarketed and updated." 
 "Correct. What is my dongle used for?" 
 "It's the key to your match-making files." 
 "Correct. What do we claim to be?" 
 "You claim to be masterful with match-making and able to create fictional characters." 
 "Correct. What famous clients have we had on our files? That is my forbears and I. And what happened to them?" 
 "Hitler and Eva Braun. You were invited to the wedding - but Berlin Airport was closed at the time, so you couldn't go. And they shot themselves on their wedding night." 
 "Correct. Who else has been on our files?" 
 "Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton. He got shot and anyway she was married at the time."
 "Correct. Who else?" 
 "Edward II and Queen Isabella. He was, purportedly, homosexual. You introduced a homosexual to a highly sexed woman! And then she had him murdered ... stabbed in the rear-end in Berkeley Castle." 
 "Correct. Who else?" 
 "Mork and Mindy? Oh yes, Abelard and Eloise. You introduced a nun and a monk who had avowed chastity?" 
 "You've gotta think business." 
 "And he was castrated by her brothers! That's some success rate." 
 "Correct. We have some beautiful women on our files. Would you like to join?" 
 "Yes please. Can you unstrap me now?" 
 "Not for the moment - we're reading your brain, its deepest information and pulses." He inserted the dongle. "Now, Robert," says he, "Apparently you're a literary man, so who would be a satisfactory soul-mate for you?"Let's see who's on file from literature. What type of partner would you like to marry?" 
 Strapped as I was I think quickly - Queen Guinevere, no - she'd be too hung up on Lancelot - Juliet, no - rather young, anyway she sleeps too much and self-mutilates - Cleopatra, Queen Cleopatra ... Ah-ha, Cleo, a name to conjure with and not only a name - would there be enough milk ... things were looking up ... 
 "Hum. We're getting strange readings from your brain; it seems that no-one normal is appropriate. Ah-ha, I've found one. I have it," cries he, "A name to conjure with" ... he presses a button. "The name that struck terror into the East Saxons" ... heavy, ponderous footfalls approach. “and still strikes fear today" ...the door shakes. "Here she comes"... a hairy paw comes around the door, which falls off its hinges. "The most evocative name in literature"... and she is salivating grossly..."It's ... Grendel's mother!!!" 
 Her teeth were puckering in anticipation. Instant terror turned off all pain; despair turned on all panic. Her hot breath upon me, I slammed the forbidden red button. Immediately the chair flew backwards along its rail-track, crashing through swing doors, along a zig-zag, helter-skelter route - who knows how or where - I was light-years away, knowing that, through the clank of grinding machinery, the chair had violently upended me, not upon the slopes of her lap, but upon the slopes of Portsdown Hill - never had they looked less romantic but never too had they felt so welcome. I hugged and cuddled them closely for reassurance in disbelief. INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter (bruised and battered but still single - and alive) Robert Higgins

Archive?

"Mark," say I, "You normally speak using one sentence of two or three words. What animates you?" "These gravestones..." says he. "I am communing, among these gravestones. Among the thistles, this yew-tree and wild grasses. With the souls and spirits...They...they are alive...They...animate me..." "But," say I, "You're such a model of modern, macho man, how can they possibly help you?" "They remind me," says he. "They remind me... of my lineage." "Mark," say I, "Who are they and why are you staring at that archaic headstone?" His pensive mood grew; a primitive wind began to stir the yew-tree needles and heady grasses; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest fear while age-old echoes made the stones reverberate. "Mark. Who are they?" A heart-beat palpitated as I looked at his braces and Doc Martens. "Mark," I cried with fearful realization, "This is ancestor-worship. This is primeval. It's 2000AD not 2000BC. You're living in a time-warp!!!" "That's it," he cried bouncing with excitement, "That's it. A time-warp. A time-warp...I have claims to majesty you know. I am a regal...a royal descendant." A chill gripped me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his neck muscles and how he had achieved that elegant, wicket-keeping reaction-speed ... Instead, a wild stare now possessed his eyes, which were fixed upon the royal insignia and sceptre fadingly inscribed upon the oldest and most noble of the tombs, lichen-imbued over the aeons ... "Mark," I faltered, "Just tell me why you make such marvellous cakes, coffee-cream, Victoria sponge, chocolate fudge for the cricket teas... and I'll go." "What I reveal to you now," says he, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This ancestral mortuary, yes it knows, and they know... but no-one living must know." He raised his truncheon. I promised. "Our culinary skills began with that greatest of Kings, King Alfred Raven, when he was lost and alone. Disguised as a minstrel he was making his way to the enemy Danish camp to reconnoitre their strength. Family archives tell us that one Daffith Wulfan Chetaudrie offered directions, which were repeated at great length with great encouragement - you know, statements like, "You can't miss it, trust me. You know you can trust me, Alf." As a result, King Alfred became more lost and alone; and, tired, wet, cold and hungry, ended up at a peasant-widow's shack. She said, "You can stay here as long as you look after my baking cakes while I go down the ale-house." And she returned to find my royal forbear asleep and the cakes burnt. What isn't so well known is that the widow's shack burnt down as well. Anyway ..." "So you claim descent from King..." "Not only King Alfred. From King James Raven 1st as well. Did you know that on November, 4th, 1605, he received intelligence that a gunpowder plot was afoot. The informant was Welsh; however, help was at hand. Family archives tell us that one Daffith Dai Chetrigavenny offered to translate. The conspirators had been overheard to say, "Let us set fire to the Houses of Parliament in Parliament Square with gunpowder; it will be a scream, a piece of cake." Sadly, this was translated by Daffith as, "A square, cream cake will be flambeed in Parliament using lettuce." Luckily, nothing untoward happened to our national institution." "It's amazing," say I, "How fire and cake come together in your family history.” "And Royalty," says he, "Don't forget the Royalty. I'll prove it to you again. King Charles Raven 2nd. Did you know that on September, 2nd, 1666 he received intelligence that a baker's house in Pudding Lane, Cheapeside was a fire hazard due to uncleaned residue of hot yeast, flour and sugar. The informant was Russian; however, help was at hand. Family archives tell us that one Davikov Ivan Chetrovski offered to translate. Sadly this information was mistranslated into, "Bake a hot pudding cheaply, with dirty yeast and sugar. Add flowers." Unluckily, 13,200 houses and 87 churches were destroyed, in the Great Fire as it became known." "So these past family experiences have coalesced into your present expertise with both cake-making and fire prevention," say I? "My present royal expertise," says he. "Anyways let's go inside - it's coronation time and I want to rule. Did you know that we Ravens donated the six ravens to the Tower of London. When they all die England dies," he adds ominously. "Now, "he bellows to his courtiers, "Have you got the coronation ready?" A young flash courtier with black gel-hair steps forward. "What's your name?" "David Chetri, Sir." "Show one where one must go." "Sir. Well you turn left at the cathedral gates, go into the park, mount the stage. You can't miss it, trust me. I'll just see if they're ready for you..." Here a flash new mobile zipped into view... "Yes they've just sung with candles Pattacake the Yeast - it's your turn." Mark strode forward, head high with regal longings. Bemused I gaped as in the distance Mark's noble image weaved its way onstage; he donned his green club-cap as a crown, lifted his truncheon to his lips for a microphone and prepared to sing... A pale light began to dawn. "David,” say I, “You've sent him to the wrong place! He said coronation not karaoke. And he should have gone inside the cathedral to Handel's Zadok the Priest, not outside to the vicarage tea and cake party with candles and Pattacake, Pattacake, Baker’s Yeast," but the courtier had disappeared and my thoughts were drowned down, by Mark, singing...If I ruled the world, Every cake will taste like the first day of Spring, Every gateau will be dedicated to the Fire Brigade When one rules Britannia, Britannia rule the waves Britons never, never, never-never shall be... “Just a moment... He's done it again!!!"Here realisation must have dawned as Mark is reported to have thrown his truncheon down in disgust, which hit a candle over, onto the paper tissues which set off the paper table-cloths, which set off the wooden trestles which ignited the wooden floorboards which set off the power-points and the rest is sadly ashen history. Mark’s diary records that Today I sang to the Vicarage Tea-Party – went down very well; they particularly liked the noble way I tuck my trousers into my socks. Lost my truncheon and felt very hot afterwards. Must choose courtiers with more care. INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter ( bemused, unfed and hot ) Robert Higgins '><img src="/images/gallery/general/poetscorner-mark-rave-bob-higgins.jpg" width="540px" height="260px" alt="Robert Higgins on Mark Raven for Wickham Cricket Club" />We continue our series of PROFILES and INTERVIEWS with famous cricketers at Wickham Cricket Club:NO. 3 MARK RAVEN<ul><li>Cricketing skills - Slow right-arm bowler</li><li>Work - Fire Prevention Officer</li><li>Other skills - Making cakes</li></ul>Today we exclusively reveal: not only how and where Mark gained his cake-making skills but also why his family tree is so distinctive AND name precisely who repeatedly misinformed his family I finally discovered Mark outside Winchester Cathedral in its cemetery, - he was wearing a fireman's helmet and looking pensive. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The safety-standards here are a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Wild and hairy they may have been, but they knew good safety-standards when they saw them. And as for this truncheon. This truncheon has been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations." "Mark," say I, "You normally speak using one sentence of two or three words. What animates you?" "These gravestones..." says he. "I am communing, among these gravestones. Among the thistles, this yew-tree and wild grasses. With the souls and spirits...They...they are alive...They...animate me..." "But," say I, "You're such a model of modern, macho man, how can they possibly help you?" "They remind me," says he. "They remind me... of my lineage." "Mark," say I, "Who are they and why are you staring at that archaic headstone?" His pensive mood grew; a primitive wind began to stir the yew-tree needles and heady grasses; shades of a dusky dimness began to suggest fear while age-old echoes made the stones reverberate. "Mark. Who are they?" A heart-beat palpitated as I looked at his braces and Doc Martens. "Mark," I cried with fearful realization, "This is ancestor-worship. This is primeval. It's 2000AD not 2000BC. You're living in a time-warp!!!" "That's it," he cried bouncing with excitement, "That's it. A time-warp. A time-warp...I have claims to majesty you know. I am a regal...a royal descendant." A chill gripped me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his neck muscles and how he had achieved that elegant, wicket-keeping reaction-speed ... Instead, a wild stare now possessed his eyes, which were fixed upon the royal insignia and sceptre fadingly inscribed upon the oldest and most noble of the tombs, lichen-imbued over the aeons ... "Mark," I faltered, "Just tell me why you make such marvellous cakes, coffee-cream, Victoria sponge, chocolate fudge for the cricket teas... and I'll go." "What I reveal to you now," says he, "Do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. This ancestral mortuary, yes it knows, and they know... but no-one living must know." He raised his truncheon. I promised. "Our culinary skills began with that greatest of Kings, King Alfred Raven, when he was lost and alone. Disguised as a minstrel he was making his way to the enemy Danish camp to reconnoitre their strength. Family archives tell us that one Daffith Wulfan Chetaudrie offered directions, which were repeated at great length with great encouragement - you know, statements like, "You can't miss it, trust me. You know you can trust me, Alf." As a result, King Alfred became more lost and alone; and, tired, wet, cold and hungry, ended up at a peasant-widow's shack. She said, "You can stay here as long as you look after my baking cakes while I go down the ale-house." And she returned to find my royal forbear asleep and the cakes burnt. What isn't so well known is that the widow's shack burnt down as well. Anyway ..." "So you claim descent from King..." "Not only King Alfred. From King James Raven 1st as well. Did you know that on November, 4th, 1605, he received intelligence that a gunpowder plot was afoot. The informant was Welsh; however, help was at hand. Family archives tell us that one Daffith Dai Chetrigavenny offered to translate. The conspirators had been overheard to say, "Let us set fire to the Houses of Parliament in Parliament Square with gunpowder; it will be a scream, a piece of cake." Sadly, this was translated by Daffith as, "A square, cream cake will be flambeed in Parliament using lettuce." Luckily, nothing untoward happened to our national institution." "It's amazing," say I, "How fire and cake come together in your family history.” "And Royalty," says he, "Don't forget the Royalty. I'll prove it to you again. King Charles Raven 2nd. Did you know that on September, 2nd, 1666 he received intelligence that a baker's house in Pudding Lane, Cheapeside was a fire hazard due to uncleaned residue of hot yeast, flour and sugar. The informant was Russian; however, help was at hand. Family archives tell us that one Davikov Ivan Chetrovski offered to translate. Sadly this information was mistranslated into, "Bake a hot pudding cheaply, with dirty yeast and sugar. Add flowers." Unluckily, 13,200 houses and 87 churches were destroyed, in the Great Fire as it became known." "So these past family experiences have coalesced into your present expertise with both cake-making and fire prevention," say I? "My present royal expertise," says he. "Anyways let's go inside - it's coronation time and I want to rule. Did you know that we Ravens donated the six ravens to the Tower of London. When they all die England dies," he adds ominously. "Now, "he bellows to his courtiers, "Have you got the coronation ready?" A young flash courtier with black gel-hair steps forward. "What's your name?" "David Chetri, Sir." "Show one where one must go." "Sir. Well you turn left at the cathedral gates, go into the park, mount the stage. You can't miss it, trust me. I'll just see if they're ready for you..." Here a flash new mobile zipped into view... "Yes they've just sung with candles Pattacake the Yeast - it's your turn." Mark strode forward, head high with regal longings. Bemused I gaped as in the distance Mark's noble image weaved its way onstage; he donned his green club-cap as a crown, lifted his truncheon to his lips for a microphone and prepared to sing... A pale light began to dawn. "David,” say I, “You've sent him to the wrong place! He said coronation not karaoke. And he should have gone inside the cathedral to Handel's Zadok the Priest, not outside to the vicarage tea and cake party with candles and Pattacake, Pattacake, Baker’s Yeast," but the courtier had disappeared and my thoughts were drowned down, by Mark, singing...If I ruled the world, Every cake will taste like the first day of Spring, Every gateau will be dedicated to the Fire Brigade When one rules Britannia, Britannia rule the waves Britons never, never, never-never shall be... “Just a moment... He's done it again!!!"Here realisation must have dawned as Mark is reported to have thrown his truncheon down in disgust, which hit a candle over, onto the paper tissues which set off the paper table-cloths, which set off the wooden trestles which ignited the wooden floorboards which set off the power-points and the rest is sadly ashen history. Mark’s diary records that Today I sang to the Vicarage Tea-Party – went down very well; they particularly liked the noble way I tuck my trousers into my socks. Lost my truncheon and felt very hot afterwards. Must choose courtiers with more care. INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter ( bemused, unfed and hot ) Robert Higgins

Archive?

"Sam," say I, "You normally speak using one sentence of five or six words. What animates you?" 
 "These monoliths..." says he. "I am communing, amongst these monoliths. Amongst this prehistoric scene with its gorse and wild grasses. With my previous lives and souls ... They...they are alive... They...Have a beer."

"But," say I, "You're such a model of modern, party man, how can they possibly help you?"
 "They help," says he, "by reminding me ... and DNA has proved that I am connected to ...Look. If I tell, do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. These stones, they are alive, they know... but no-one living must know." 
 I promised. 
 "I am... connected ... to Goliath Ryan." 
 "Really. Well, I suppose he was 6 feet 6, girthy and bestrode the world like a Colossus," say I. 
 "Yes. He did. Mind you, I had a bad time in that life. Some kid called David, David Bate, bowled me a slinger, got me right in the forehead. But that's what gave me the idea!"

"What idea?" 
 "Well, what the Bible doesn't tell you is that I transmuted into Samson Ryan and picked up the jawbone of an ass. To defend myself from lads like David slinging stones." 
 "And Samson, um, Samuel," I continue, "I suppose Samson was 6 feet 6, girthy and Earth shook as he moved above it?" 
 "Yes. He was and it did. Mind you, I had a bad time in that life as well. My girlfriend, Delilah, Delilah Bate, she cut all my hair off. I couldn't hit any sixes for a long time. But I got my revenge. She used to enjoy chaining me to stone pillars so I pulled the pillars down at her palace. Smashed it. Took me 6 seconds. That's what gave me the idea. Have a beer." 
 "What idea?" 
 "Hitting a missile with a weapon. Six at a time. That's why umpires carry six stones. More beer?"
 "So you're telling me that you invented cricket and it was originally played with missiles and jawbones."

"Yes. In my six previous lives. Goliath, Samson, Hercules Ryan, Geoff Capes, Charles Atlas and Mick Jagger. Have a coke." 
 " I can't help noticing that some of these stories are connected with stones and sixes. Why are you staring so at Stonehenge?" 
 "Some say that Stonehenge," says he mystically, "Was a centre for ritual sacrifice, some believe it was an astronomical observatory; others yet more recently claim it was a healing centre ... but I ... I know differently..." 
 His pensive mood grew; a primitive wind began to stir the remote ash leaves and arouse the primeval gorse and heady grasses; shades of dusky dimness began to suggest fear; age-old echoes made the hills reverberate. 
 "Some say that cricket originated in China but again... I know differently... They tell me..."

"Samuel. Who are they?" A heart-beat palpitated as he lifted a potion towards his lips - Agape I watched, as with eyes transfixed, green club-cap on, his shorts and designer T-shirt mutated into a white flowing robe with colourful motifs. He raised the chalice - and drank heavily - Awestruck I gawped as in the gloom his hair transformed, from a cropped skinhead to a matted hippy. He struck a Jaggeresque pose and waved his chisel manically. 
 "Sam," I cried with fearful realization, "You've changed into a Rolling Stone! This is transfiguration. It's 2000AD not 2000BC. You're changing into a time-warp!!! Come back. Come back." 
 "That's it," he cried bouncing with excitement, "That's it. Time-warp. Time-warp...I'm a magician... I'm a druid...Now I'm Geoff Capes lifting six heavy stones, the World's Strongest Man; now I'm Charles Atlas lifting the world with my six-pack!!! Hey! Haven't you heard of Ryancarnation!!!" 
 A chill gripped me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his batting style, with that unusual crouch and solid wallop; instead, a wild stare now possessed his eyes, which were fixing upon one spot at the top of those supernatural stones, transfixing entranced upon that stone-age monument, that site of atavistic, previous lives... 
 "I made that," he shouted.

"Sam," I faltered, "Please just tell me why you're here and I'll go." 
 "Don't you see? I built this place. I erected the monoliths, I'm a monumental mason; I put the bails on. Don't you see? Stonehenge is a gigantic wicket." 
 "Why's it in a circle then?" 
 "Why not? You just run round the circle, not in a straight line. It's like rounders. Anyway, you try getting the bails on?" 
 "Do you mean the lintels?" 
 "Same thing."

"And what do you do for a bowler?" 
 "We use the pre-sacrificial maidens. David Bate brings them over. That's how the words originated. Maiden over." 
 "And what do use as a ball?" 
 "Oh, goatheads, sheepheads, pebbles, anything really." 
 "I suppose you use cowheads and that's how cow-corner originated."

But he paid no attention, merely saying, "I’ve transmutated again, from rolling rocks to rock n roll. Come inside. David Bate says it's our clubhouse and I've got to sing. No more stones and throwing, we've updated. I can't decide whether to sing I Can't Get no Satisfaction or Jumping Jack Flash." 
 And so I went inside the vast, moody shell of Stonehenge, with the inventor of our national game and watched as he shook his chisel like marracas and grasped his jawbone as a microphone, put his Mick Jagger wig and green club-cap on and began to sing: 
 "When you get no cricket-action; Why don't you try Ryan-carnation; Like I try, and I try, and I try, and I try When I can't get no, when I get no When I'm drinking at my magic potion And chiselling at my monoliths, I use my creative imagination, Rolling stones to make a wicket And I invented the game of cric-ket Hey, hey, hey - that's what I say" 
INTERVIEW CONCLUDED Your reporter (stoned, hung-over and bemused) Robert Higgins '><img src="/images/gallery/general/poetscorner-Bob-higgins-sam-ryan.jpg" width="540px" height="260px" alt="Robert Higgins on Sam Ryan for Wickham Cricket Club" />
I finally discovered the large frame of Sam Ryan at Stonehenge - he was holding a chisel and jawbone and looking pensive. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The stones here are a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Wild and hairy they may have been, but they knew good stones when they saw them. And as for this chisel and jawbone. They have been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations." 
 "Sam," say I, "You normally speak using one sentence of five or six words. What animates you?" 
 "These monoliths..." says he. "I am communing, amongst these monoliths. Amongst this prehistoric scene with its gorse and wild grasses. With my previous lives and souls ... They...they are alive... They...Have a beer."

Archive?

"Malcolm," say I, "You normally speak using one sentence of five or six words. What animates you?" "The hills..." says he. "I am communing, among the hills. Among these thistles, the gorse and wild grasses. With the souls and spirits...They...they are alive...They...help me..." "But," say I, "You're such a model of modern, sensitive man, how can they possibly help?" "They help," says he. "They help me... perfect my run-up." "Malcolm," say I, "Who are they and why are you looking up at that stone-age barrow?" His pensive mood grew; a primitive wind began to stir the ash leaves and arouse the gorse and heady grasses; shades of dusky dimness began to suggest fear; age-old echoes made the hills reverberate. "Malcolm. Who are they?" A heart-beat palpitated. "Malcolm," I cried with fearful realization, "This is ancestor-worship. This is primeval. It's 2000AD not 2000BC. You're living in a time-warp!!!" "That's it," he cried bouncing with excitement, "That's it. Time-warp. Time-warp...You're a magician... a druid..." A chill gripped me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his bowling style, with that unusual sidestep, jig, hop and squiggle; I also wanted to know why he always bowled uphill, and at low speed ... Instead, a wild stare now possessed his eyes, wich were fixing upon one spot at the top of those old Wincastrian hills, transfixing entranced upon that stone-age barrow, that site of primeval ancestral burial..."Malcolm," I faltered, "Just tell me why you bowl the way you do and I'll go.""If I tell, do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. The hills, yes they are alive, they know... but no-one living must know."I promised."They help me perfect my run-up but, to thank them, I have to sidestep, hop, jig and squiggle to get to the top... to avoid the gorse and the thistles. They'll rip your feet to pieces, they're so prickly."Agape I watched, as with eyes transfixed, green club-cap on, bowling arm ready, bomber-jacket turning black, he raised the divining rod to his mouth for a microphone. He was preparing to sing, worship and bowl!!! All at the same time!!! Awestruck I gaped as in the gloom he weaved his way up through the difficult terrain, singing:"And now, the time is near, as night-time brings, day's final curtain; It's time," he cries aloud, "They call me there," in sanity most uncertain; "I come at once, I hear your call, with sidesteps, jig, hop and squiggles; Cos if I don't, I know that I, get scratched by grass, gorse and thistles."INTERVIEW CONCLUDEDYour reporter (wet, cold and scratched) Robert Higgins'><img src="/images/gallery/general/poetscorner-Bob_Higgins_Malcolm_Burt copy.jpg" width=540px height=260px alt="Robert Higgins talks about his experiences of Malcolm Burt for Wickham Cricket Club" title="Robert Higgins on Malcolm Burt for Wickham Cricket Club" />I finally discovered Malcolm at the source of the River Meon - he was holding a Y-shaped piece of wood and looking pensive. "You know," says he, shaking his head, "The water table here is a pleasure. It's the main reason my ancestors settled here. Wild and hairy they may have been, but they knew a good water table when they saw one. And as for this rod. This divining rod has been passed down, in our family, through generations. Generations.""Malcolm," say I, "You normally speak using one sentence of five or six words. What animates you?" "The hills..." says he. "I am communing, among the hills. Among these thistles, the gorse and wild grasses. With the souls and spirits...They...they are alive...They...help me..." "But," say I, "You're such a model of modern, sensitive man, how can they possibly help?" "They help," says he. "They help me... perfect my run-up." "Malcolm," say I, "Who are they and why are you looking up at that stone-age barrow?" His pensive mood grew; a primitive wind began to stir the ash leaves and arouse the gorse and heady grasses; shades of dusky dimness began to suggest fear; age-old echoes made the hills reverberate. "Malcolm. Who are they?" A heart-beat palpitated. "Malcolm," I cried with fearful realization, "This is ancestor-worship. This is primeval. It's 2000AD not 2000BC. You're living in a time-warp!!!" "That's it," he cried bouncing with excitement, "That's it. Time-warp. Time-warp...You're a magician... a druid..." A chill gripped me. I had wanted to ask him how he had developed his bowling style, with that unusual sidestep, jig, hop and squiggle; I also wanted to know why he always bowled uphill, and at low speed ... Instead, a wild stare now possessed his eyes, wich were fixing upon one spot at the top of those old Wincastrian hills, transfixing entranced upon that stone-age barrow, that site of primeval ancestral burial..."Malcolm," I faltered, "Just tell me why you bowl the way you do and I'll go.""If I tell, do you promise never to reveal it ever to a living soul. The hills, yes they are alive, they know... but no-one living must know."I promised."They help me perfect my run-up but, to thank them, I have to sidestep, hop, jig and squiggle to get to the top... to avoid the gorse and the thistles. They'll rip your feet to pieces, they're so prickly."Agape I watched, as with eyes transfixed, green club-cap on, bowling arm ready, bomber-jacket turning black, he raised the divining rod to his mouth for a microphone. He was preparing to sing, worship and bowl!!! All at the same time!!! Awestruck I gaped as in the gloom he weaved his way up through the difficult terrain, singing:"And now, the time is near, as night-time brings, day's final curtain; It's time," he cries aloud, "They call me there," in sanity most uncertain; "I come at once, I hear your call, with sidesteps, jig, hop and squiggles; Cos if I don't, I know that I, get scratched by grass, gorse and thistles."INTERVIEW CONCLUDEDYour reporter (wet, cold and scratched) Robert Higgins