On the off-chance you might be mourning the existence of a real British summer (unless the combination of cold snap and piss-wet drizzle can be counted as a "real British summer") this week we're revelling in an idyllic slice of patriotism.
For what could possibly be more British than a finely tended village green, a sunny day and a game of cricket?
Apart from crumpets, of course. And inherited privilege. And binge drinking. But apart from those, there's very little that screams BRITISH like a game that lasts all day, involves wearing jumpers in the height of summer, and is so slow you could catch a chill just standing around doing nothing. I suppose, to be exact, it shouts ENGLISH, as the majority of the countries that make up our sovereign union would probably claim they have better things to do.
"What an exciting end to the match we have," comes the voice of a commentator that sounds for all the world like Alan Partridge, but isn't.
"The Manuvas still need two runs to win, one to draw" he explains, helpfully. Unless you don't understand cricket, in which case unhelpfully and perhaps even incomprehensibly. Before we have a chance to explain to the cricketly-challenged among our readers - which is a shame, because being English, I clearly know all there is to know about cricket, so I totally could - something dramatic happens.
"OUT!", shouts the commentator in a whisper as some bloke throws a ball and it knocks some smaller bits of wood off some larger bits of wood when another man swings a third piece of differently-sized wood at it but misses. For those unfortunate enough not to be fans of the game, let me tell you, this is one of the most exciting things that can happen in cricket (I think) and we're only 15 seconds into the video!
Next on the batting order - last man in, in fact (that's a technical term, please keep up) - is Roots Manuva, and as the song actually starts, we see our man heading in to the changing room, strapping on his specialist shin-doofers and picking up his hitty-stick, and walking out again to face the fierce attack of the little red ball of doom.
But not before heading over to the commentator, who sits in the middle of the scoreboard like a lonely puppet in a really big seaside puppet show (a really big seaside puppet show covered in indecipherable numbers). He apparently tries to bribe the commentator with some diamonds. I assume he was trying to bribe him to change the scoreboard rather than to say nice things about how well his trousers had been pressed.
His bribery is refused. Most likely on the grounds that this practice "would not be cricket". He instead is sent out to the little rectangle in the middle of the playing field, where he will have to play cricket instead (which IS cricket, and therefore not as objectionable as things that aren't).
On reaching the central rectangle - please excuse me if I'm getting too complex and technical for anyone, being English and naturally knowing this much about cricket, I may get ahead of you - he is told by a man in a hat that he has to go "over there" and he does, crossing another man wearing an identical outfit and also carrying a hitty-stick on the way there.
He reaches the other end and stands in front of his stick collection (he must protect the sticks with his life or the Queen will come and chop off his head. It sounds harsh, but those are just the rules of cricket, I'm afraid).
As the ball-thrower takes his long run-up, winding his arm to get maximum power from the little red ball of doom, it all suddenly becomes too much for our man Manuva and he collapses on the floor, out cold.
The screen goes all wibbly, and - presumably in unconscious dreamland - we find our hero in a bar...
Where he is serenaded by a chubby barman and downs a large glass of brandy...
... Which miraculously revives him in real life. As the umpire and his helper - apparently a small child in a big hat - look worriedly down upon him...
... He comes flickering back to life. Without any of the medical attention he might have had foisted upon him after a black-out in wussier, less hardcore sports (like American football and rugby and such), he is forced to stand straight back up in front of his stick collection and face the little red ball of doom with his hitty stick.
With great bravery, and British pluck, he does so - the ball comes flying toward him, and in order to save his life (and the game) he swings hard and true, and the ball goes flying off. He shoots! He scores! As they say in cricketing circles. The game is won. The video is over. But not before we come to the entire point of this week's column.
That's right, it's SPOT THE BALL!
The first person to send a copy of this screengrab to the usual address detailing where the ball is, why, how they feel about that, and their favourite recipe, could win our grand prize (of 20 pence and a really ugly clutch bag)!
Good luck, one and all!
