Beans means cricket

I'm in Cambridge today ahead of our inter-site company cricket match. I'm keeping one eye on the BBC Weather reports and the other on the banks of grey clouds rolling in. It looks gloomy, but the groundsman -- who I had a quick chat to at lunch time whilst he was preparing the track -- is confident that it will remain dry. I am less confident and reckon my trip over will be wasted. I have a feeling that come five o'clock it will be wetter than Elliot's over-night nappy.

The skill level, like most company and pub team games, will be mediocre to mixed. I had been looking forward to it until Tuesday night, when my practice session in the local nets was abysmal. I was terrible, even managing to bowl one ball over the nets and into a hedge. i.e. I bowled the ball about 12 feet too high. If I do that later, I'm going to be ashamed of myself, give a load of runs away, and generally be a laughing-stock. I've now put some pressure on myself to deliver, and my mindset has moved from "just enjoy the game" to "don't be a donkey".

At the same time as the self-induced pressure, I now see a big spread on our UK corporate intranet page, biggin' up the match and announcing that there is to be a cup awarded to the winning team. There's even a photo of the damn gleaming thing. Worse still, there will be a globally published match report and in-play photos released across the company.

My cricket whites are so old they have 30" inside leg measurements. That's 4" too short. They come halfway up my calves. They also have a snooker ball sized hole in the rear end area. I shall be wearing a jockstrap and my bare cheeks underneath them.

That's going to look good beamed around the world.

The MD of our Japan operation is going to love the view of my arsehole.