To My Dearand Loving Husband

If ever two were one,

then surely we.If ever man were loved by wife,

then thee;If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me ye women if you can.

I prize thy love more that whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay,T

he heavens reward thee manifold I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

by W. B. YeatsI went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a streamAnd caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floorI went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girlWith apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ranAnd faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wanderingThrough hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun

Robert Burns - A Red, Red Rose

O, my Luve's like a red, red rose,

That's newly sprung in June.O, my Luve's like a melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.As fair as thou,

my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun:

I will love thess till, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run:And fare thee well,

my only luve!And fare thee weel,

a while!And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.

poetry

THE POETRY OF ROBERT BURNS

When chapman billies leave the street,And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;As market days are wearing late,And folk begin to tak the gate,While we sit bousing at the nappy,An' getting fou and unco happy,We think na on the lang Scots miles,The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,That lie between us and our hame,Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,For honest men and bonie lasses).O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;That frae November till October,Ae market-day thou was na sober;That ilka melder wi' the Miller,Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe onThe Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,She prophesied that late or soon,Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,To think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!But to our tale: Ae market night,Tam had got planted unco right,Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;They had been fou for weeks thegither.The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;And aye the ale was growing better:The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:The Souter tauld his queerest stories;The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:The storm without might rair and rustle,Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!But pleasures are like poppies spread,You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;Or like the snow falls in the river,A moment white-then melts for ever;Or like the Borealis race,That flit ere you can point their place;Or like the Rainbow's lovely formEvanishing amid the storm. -Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,The hour approaches Tam maun ride;That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;And sic a night he taks the road in,As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:That night, a child might understand,The deil had business on his hand.Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,A better never lifted leg,Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,Despising wind, and rain, and fire;Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,Lest bogles catch him unawares;Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.By this time he was cross the ford,Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;And past the birks and meikle stane,Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;And near the thorn, aboon the well,Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.Before him Doon pours all his floods,The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,The lightnings flash from pole to pole,Near and more near the thunders roll,When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,And loud resounded mirth and dancing.Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!What dangers thou canst make us scorn!Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,She ventur'd forward on the light;And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!Warlocks and witches in a dance:Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,Put life and mettle in their heels.A winnock-bunker in the east,There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,To gie them music was his charge:He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -Coffins stood round, like open presses,That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)Each in its cauld hand held a light.By which heroic Tam was ableTo note upon the haly table,A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;A garter which a babe had strangled:A knife, a father's throat had mangled.Whom his ain son of life bereft,The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;The Piper loud and louder blew,The dancers quick and quicker flew,They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,And coost her duddies to the wark,And linkit at it in her sark!Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,A' plump and strapping in their teens!Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,Louping an' flinging on a crummock.I wonder did na turn thy stomach.But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:There was ae winsome wench and waulieThat night enlisted in the core,Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;(For mony a beast to dead she shot,And perish'd mony a bonie boat,And shook baith meikle corn and bear,And kept the country-side in fear);Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,That while a lassie she had worn,In longitude tho' sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie.Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!But here my Muse her wing maun cour,Sic flights are far beyond her power;To sing how Nannie lap and flang,(A souple jade she was and strang),And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,And thought his very een enrich'd:Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:Till first ae caper, syne anither,Tam tint his reason a thegither,And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"And in an instant all was dark:And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.When out the hellish legion sallied.As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,When plundering herds assail their byke;As open pussie's mortal foes,When, pop! she starts before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;So Maggie runs, the witches follow,Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,And win the key-stone o' the brig;There, at them thou thy tail may toss,A running stream they dare na cross.But ere the keystane she could make,The fient a tail she had to shake!For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie prest,And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;But little wist she Maggie's mettle!Ae spring brought off her master hale,But left behind her ain grey tail:The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare

poetry

THE POETRY OF ROBERT BURNS

When chapman billies leave the street,And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;As market days are wearing late,And folk begin to tak the gate,While we sit bousing at the nappy,An' getting fou and unco happy,We think na on the lang Scots miles,The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,That lie between us and our hame,Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,For honest men and bonie lasses).O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;That frae November till October,Ae market-day thou was na sober;That ilka melder wi' the Miller,Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe onThe Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,She prophesied that late or soon,Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,To think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!But to our tale: Ae market night,Tam had got planted unco right,Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;They had been fou for weeks thegither.The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;And aye the ale was growing better:The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:The Souter tauld his queerest stories;The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:The storm without might rair and rustle,Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!But pleasures are like poppies spread,You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;Or like the snow falls in the river,A moment white-then melts for ever;Or like the Borealis race,That flit ere you can point their place;Or like the Rainbow's lovely formEvanishing amid the storm. -Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,The hour approaches Tam maun ride;That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;And sic a night he taks the road in,As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:That night, a child might understand,The deil had business on his hand.Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,A better never lifted leg,Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,Despising wind, and rain, and fire;Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,Lest bogles catch him unawares;Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.By this time he was cross the ford,Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;And past the birks and meikle stane,Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;And near the thorn, aboon the well,Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.Before him Doon pours all his floods,The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,The lightnings flash from pole to pole,Near and more near the thunders roll,When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,And loud resounded mirth and dancing.Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!What dangers thou canst make us scorn!Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,She ventur'd forward on the light;And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!Warlocks and witches in a dance:Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,Put life and mettle in their heels.A winnock-bunker in the east,There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,To gie them music was his charge:He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -Coffins stood round, like open presses,That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)Each in its cauld hand held a light.By which heroic Tam was ableTo note upon the haly table,A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;A garter which a babe had strangled:A knife, a father's throat had mangled.Whom his ain son of life bereft,The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;The Piper loud and louder blew,The dancers quick and quicker flew,They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,And coost her duddies to the wark,And linkit at it in her sark!Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,A' plump and strapping in their teens!Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,Louping an' flinging on a crummock.I wonder did na turn thy stomach.But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:There was ae winsome wench and waulieThat night enlisted in the core,Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;(For mony a beast to dead she shot,And perish'd mony a bonie boat,And shook baith meikle corn and bear,And kept the country-side in fear);Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,That while a lassie she had worn,In longitude tho' sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie.Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!But here my Muse her wing maun cour,Sic flights are far beyond her power;To sing how Nannie lap and flang,(A souple jade she was and strang),And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,And thought his very een enrich'd:Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:Till first ae caper, syne anither,Tam tint his reason a thegither,And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"And in an instant all was dark:And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.When out the hellish legion sallied.As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,When plundering herds assail their byke;As open pussie's mortal foes,When, pop! she starts before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;So Maggie runs, the witches follow,Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,And win the key-stone o' the brig;There, at them thou thy tail may toss,A running stream they dare na cross.But ere the keystane she could make,The fient a tail she had to shake!For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie prest,And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;But little wist she Maggie's mettle!Ae spring brought off her master hale,But left behind her ain grey tail:The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare

funny news

Who better to share with members of the International Olympic Committee the commitment and enthusiasm that Chicago has to host the Olympics than the President and First Lady?" asked rhetorically Richard Daley, Chicago's long-serving mayor. As a late reserve, Barack Obama is hardly a bad addition to any team. After much indecision about whether he would go or not, midweek the president finally confirmed his appearance in Copenhagen today as the IOC votes on which four cities get to host the 2016 Games.
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Chicago used to be the strong favorite because of its believed ability to bring in bumper sponsorship and TV revenues. Its lead has recently been eroded by Rio de Janiero. Then, when Tokyo confirmed that Japanese prime minister, Yukio Hatoyama, would be in Denmark, joining Spain's King Juan Carlos who's backing Madrid's bid, Obama decided to try to tilt things back in favor of his old home town. Back in February, when Israelis were voting in their new prime minister, it was reported that the new man in the White House let it be known that he'd learn of the results of the Knesset poll "later" since he had a prior golf appointment: That prompted at least one Israeli voter to observe that he was confident Obama would make a good president, "since he's clearly someone who has his priorities right." This time, his judgment may be not quite so spot on. IOC president Jacques Rogge downplays the importance of big political hitters lobbying the 106 IOC delegates at the final presentation. But, it's widely accepted that Tony Blair's presence in Singapore in 2005 helped win the 2012 Games for London, and Vladimir Putin's personal support was a big factor in landing the 2014 Winter Games for Sochi. Chicago has made a fair case. But South America probably just about deserves its first opportunity to host the Olympics - just as Africa next year gets its first-ever World Cup. And anyway, a true globalist like Obama would do much better to join the sports internationalists who are fed up with this quadrennial battle between rich cities. They argue that the Olympics would be best served if staged permanently in one location. In which case, the obvious choice would be Greece, their original home. But since the IOC seems entirely disinclined to consider the Athens option, there'll again be just one winner - as is generally the case in sport. No longer in pro golf, though, it would appear. Following his failure to win a Major this season, Tiger Woods had to stomach the disappointment of finishing the prestigious Tour Championship runner-up to his great rival Phil Mickelson. But the world number-one's disappointment was eased by the fact that he came out first in the FedEx Cup, the new season-long points race that carries a $10 million bonus for the winner - golf's biggest single prize. Mickelson, delighted at his five-under 65 that bested Tiger by three shots, followed up one of his year's better rounds with one of his better jokes: "Let me get this right - Tiger shoots 69 and I shoot 65. He gets a check for $10m and I get one for - I'm joking, of course." Tiger can't ever be counted on to laugh at coming second. But he saw the funny side of the fact that he and Mickelson had never won on the same day before. Then he got serious again: "The whole idea of the cup was to play consistently through the year and position yourself for the playoffs." Still, the FedEx Cup format has failed spectacularly to produce drama at the end of a long season, because its rules are so complex that even most of the players don't get them, let alone us lesser mortals. There should be a special bonus for any of the top 20 finishers who can explain the arcane points system. They ought to know a thing or two about big numbers, after all, at least when there's a dollar sign attached. And when they feel it necessary, they berate their accountants, though Spain's Gonzalo Fern?ndez-Casta?o chose to lash out in a different direction. He caused a greater media stir during the Vivendi Trophy pitting Britain and Ireland against Europe than he would've with a hole-in-one with this: "Message to Zapatero; you are stripping us all naked." His complaint referred to Madrid's left-leaning government's intention to increase taxes on the very wealthy - presumably including guys who get paid at least 50,000 euros for pitching up to play four days of pressure-free golf. Carlo Ancelotti, the Chelsea boss, looks more and more like a guy capable of level-headed decisions - especially in adversity. After watching a wretched performance at Wigan last Saturday he said the priority was to retain "a degree of public trust" in his players. "The most important thing is not to do a drama," he added, an injunction he probably muttered a hundred times under his breath on Wednesday evening in Nicosia, as his millionaires huffed and puffed before barely getting past the APOEL minnows. The best quotes of the week, though, came from the management of the Indian national cricket team, according to secret documents leaked to the Hindustan Times before the Champions Trophy in South Africa. All squad members received a dossier suggesting an active sex life will translate into good results on the field of play. "Does sex increase performance?" and the equally straight-to-the-point answer: "Yes, it does, so go ahead and indulge." "Sex increases testosterone levels, which causes an increase in strength, energy, aggression and competitiveness," the dossier explains. "Conversely, not having sex for a few months causes a significant drop in testosterone with corresponding passiveness and decrease in aggression." Q.E.D. - though it goes against the grain of the customary advice of sports trainers who advocate abstinence because sex soon before a match drains the athlete of energy. The document spells out the do's and don't's from Tim Noakes, a Cape Town "sports scientist": "Sex is not a problem, but being up till 2 A.M. on the eve of a game, having a few drinks at a bar while trying to pick someone up, almost always is." We've yet to be told which of the sex scientist's avenues the Indians pursued: Unfortunately, they were eliminated before this weekend's semifinals. At least, the captains of two teams who upheld the "fair play" factor - England's Andrew Strauss and New Zealand's Daniel Vettori - have the satisfaction of survival into the last four. "It was a tough decision to make with a semifinal up for grabs," said Strauss after the Kiwi skipper courageously overruled the umpire, who had been technically correct in calling England batsman Paul Collingwood "out" once he strolled prematurely out of his ground. Vettori called on Collingwood to continue his innings. Similarly, in an earlier match, Strauss had called a Sri Lankan player back. "Under the laws it was probably out," said Vettori, "but we have discussed the spirit of the game a lot lately, and that was the basis for the decision." Added Grant Elliott, one of the Kiwi bowlers: "When something like that happens, you know what's right and what's wrong. Whether it was the World Cup final, whatever, I think we would make the same decision." That flies directly in the face of advice from one of the great proponents of the art of football management, Joe Mercer. He once told his fiery Manchester City assistant, Malcolm Allison, "When in doubt, do nowt," which is Yorkshirese for "do nothing." But it does add up to a welcome understanding that's rather rare among modern sportsmen - accepting that the sin of omission is as bad as the sin of commission, and that on the field of play, what's important is not only not to do what's wrong, but also to decide to do what's right.

funnycirketnews

England are out to do a South Korea

It is funny how times change. Not so long ago the Champions Trophy was supposed to be a blight on the international landscape and a shoo-in for Room 101, a television series where people discussed pet-hates.Then, suddenly, it is the last chance of salvation for the 50-over game, a short jolt to subdue that pesky kid, Twenty20.
The competition has at various times been termed the “mini-World Cup”. Thank goodness for the “mini” bit. If 50-over cricket needs a major tournament, then this should be the template. It should swap names with the World Cup, that over-sized beast of boredom.It only has the best teams, and, mercifully, it does not feel the need to play a thousand-odd matches, just to prove that Australia were, just as everyone suspected, the best.
If there is an upset or two, and the best team does not actually win – the hosts South Africa, are already out of this Champions Trophy – then all the better.Someone else termed it the League Cup of international cricket this week. More like the FA Cup, for which the cliche “the form book goes out the window” was originally written.Barely a week ago, England were useless at one-day cricket. They might still be, for all we know, but they are doing a good job of hiding it.
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Graeme Swann, the England off-spinner, has drawn parallels to football’s 2002 World Cup. “We can do a South Korea and maybe get to the semi-finals,” he tweeted, prophetically, in the build-up. Which makes Andy Flower, whose coaching alchemy has already made England Ashes winners this year, a Guus Hiddink.Ahn Jung-Hwan, who scored the giant-killing goal for Korea which felled Italy, was played by Owais Shah on Sunday night, when England sealed their place in the last four and knocked out the hosts in the process.
“You always enter a competition to win it and the way we are playing at the moment I don’t see why we can’t go all the way,” said Shah, whose scintillating 98 was the bedrock for that win.“I have always had belief in my own ability and I know what I am capable of doing. It’s just about doing it when it matters.”England’s revival has been brought about by a trio of Middlesex teammates – the Karachi-born Shah, Dublin-born Eoin Morgan and the captain, Andrew Strauss, who was born just down the road from The Wanderers in Johannesburg.
Morgan has already had success in one competition in South Africa this year – leading Ireland to the World Cup in the Qualifiers, which also involved the UAE, in April.If his sparkling form continues – his 67 against South Africa came at a strike rate of nearly 200 – he could end up triumphant for his adopted nation also.Strauss, who put the Proteas’ captain Graeme Smith’s nose out of the joint by refusing him a runner in the latter stages of their encounter, will not be particularly popular with today’s opponents either.
The captain is accused of being stubborn and shedding his sportsman spirit when it came to a match being at a crucial stage and Smith going great guns.His New Zealand counterpart Daniel Vettori would be hoping a defiant England side does not turn up to ruin their chances.They need to beat England tonight if they are to advance with them to the last four, at Sri Lanka’s expense.Their task remains sizeable after Jesse Ryder, the big-hitting opener, was ruled out of the competition after sustaining a groin injury while setting up their win over Sri Lanka. He has been replaced in the squad by Aaron Redmond.