THE ROLE OF DRUGS IN AMATEUR CRICKET
(An in depth report)
There has been much spoken and written by commentators and hacks on the use of drugs in sport. However, it seems to me there has not been much spoken or written by the drug takers themselves. So, your intrepid reporter took it upon himself to delve into this murky world and bring you his findings. This report is brought to you by the makers of Clembuterol - the official drug of the Olympic Games, in association with Crazy Crack - the official sponsors of the Lord Toad’s X1, as well as Scrumpy Jack - the official drink of the Editor of the Toad’s mouthpiece, the Daily Rivet. A hell of a combination! But don’t try this at home kids, leave it to the professionals (or amateurs in the case of the Lord Toads).
So, for today’s match I will be largely experimenting with mind altering substances in order to see if they really can improve performance. Deciding against the Viagra option, I head for the bathroom to begin my quest. A quick search of the cabinet reveals no Clembuterol, indeed it doesn’t reveal very much at all. I don’t fancy getting high on Smokers Toothpaste, but try a bit anyway before settling for half a bottle of Oraldene (the only mouthwash for consenting adults). Next, a handful of milk of magnesia tabs washed down with a few mouthfuls of Kaolin and Morphine, and a couple of very generous lines of Andrews Liver Salts taken intra nasally via a handy tampon applicator. Pausing momentarily for a quick dab of Haemorrhoid ointment on the nose to avoid sunburn and a quick swallow of Tesco Active Toilet Gel to make me more active (and reduce limescale), I stumble, eyes watering madly, out of the bathroom to collect my kit.. There is just enough time to knock back half a bottle of red wine left over from some long forgotten party and it’s time to head off for the match.
It isn’t a very long walk to our home ground, but tonight it is a very strange one. A few passers by stare at me, but I put this down to being recognised as a member of local heroes, the Lord Toad’s X1. I am feelin’ good, free as a bird now, gettin’ my kicks on Route 66, filled with all the confidence a fresh tasting mouth can give you.
It is a beautiful summer evening, wildebeest in nearby fields are quietly grazing and half naked nuns armed with Kalashnikovs lurk somehow comfortingly behind the hedgerows. ‘Let them lurk if they like’, I think, ‘It’s a free country, yeah, a FREE country’. Acting on impulse, I suddenly find myself cramming all the money I have on me into the hands of a startled little bird-like old lady passer by. I don’t need it, and I am sure Mother Teresa (for that’s who it was) could find a far better use for it.
I carry on, feeling strangely strange (but oddly normal), and then suddenly experience the giddy feeling of flight - or am I having a drug-induced out of body experience? Sadly, I am not. I find myself lying spread-eagled in the gutter - I seem to have fallen off the pavement which towers above me like Mount Doom in Lord of the Rings. I just hope it doesn’t take as long to scale it as the eternity it took Frodo and his mate (played in the film by Mathew Hoggard, I think). I have the presence of mind to inform a couple of concerned passers-by that I am merely practising Synchronised Swimming. They nod and continue to pass by.
By the time I reach the ground I am half a million strong, the Andrews Liver Salts are coursing through my blood stream (I make a mental note that I must try their pepper as well next time) and I feel as high as Withnail and I. I embrace a couple of startled team mates, tell them I love them (not in a gay way you understand, but more in the way of being part of a universal brotherhood, oh, and sisterhood as well). Their reply turns into steam and rises slowly into the evening sky. Colours and sounds are creating little soft fluffy clouds that go on forever within my mind I listen to a bird whistling “In the Attics of my Life” by the Grateful Dead (the live version from Winterland 1974, not the studio version on ‘American Beauty’).
Perhaps I have taken this dedication to my sport too seriously and am in danger of peaking far too early, before the game even begins. But no worries there, I have managed to arrive two hours late - but suddenly plunged back into what is commonly termed reality by the news that I am just in time to bat and that we need six to win off the last over and where have you been you fucking idiot. This information overload paralyses all the little connector things in my head that make it work like a brain instead of just a lump of organic stuff that prevents your head from caving in.
With two hastily fitted left pads flapping round my legs, I glide to the wicket. My super-sensitive hearing picking up the sound of the grass growing, and a faint echo of Jimi Hendrix final guitar solo at the Isle of Wight festival. All the fielders are staring at me. I feel a touch of paranoia. All they want to do is get me out, not to know me as a person, it’s not fair. I walk unsteadily to the crease, take guard, and am felled by a full toss that hurtles straight into my crutch. As I lie crumpled on the ground, feeling more pain than the baby Jesus who died to save all our sins and then watched on from above as we turned into a load of murdering wankers, I see the umpire raise his finger to signify lbw! Then BLACKNESS.