At Least Get it in the Basket...

I haven't blogged for a while, no real reason I guess, other than self loathing and the morbid fear of dying whilst eating a choc ice...oh my, I seem to have my blogs mixed up again! Ah yes, The Back Foot Punch, cricket...

The scene, a cold and blowy English summers morning (is England the only place where climate change seems to be having the opposite effect?) A giant set of oak gallows casts a shadow across the lush green grass. At it's side stands Twenty20, a big, fat figure, dressed in just a pair of skin tight black trousers (not sure why, I am a little worried that my vision of Twenty20 as a human is wearing trousers such as these) with a matching black mask (yeah, I am worried) He holds the rope which in turn allows the giant razor sharp blade on the other end to hang in the air. A whimper is heard beneath it and at first glance you find it hard to believe, but your eyes have not deceived you. In front of the device kneels a familiar face, the once pressed shirt hangs crumpled, the trousers hang loose, their once white hue dirty and brown. Twenty20 laughs and lets the blade drop a little further, as test cricket closes it's eyes and waits for the inevitable sound of the thunderous cutter as it slices through it's soul...

Over the top? Probably. A little melodramatic? Of course. But how long my friends until the executioner has his way?