CrickiLeaks: The Secret Ashes Diaries
Alan Tyers, Beach
Cricket's greatest legends. Sport's fiercest
rivalry. Wisden's fakest diaries.
CrickiLeaks charges headlong onto the players' balcony and imagines 40
cricketing diaries of rare wit and invention, along with the illustrated book
covers they might have inspired.
Featuring spoof journal entries drawn from throughout Ashes history,
CrickiLeaks reveals for the first time the innermost thoughts of the greatest
cricketers of the last 129 years. And Mitchell Johnson.
CrickiLeaks includes imagined diaries from players on the most recent tour
(Andrew Strauss, Ricky Ponting), diaries from the all-time greats (Shane Warne,
Freddie Flintoff, Sir Ian Botham, Geoffrey Boycott, Donald Bradman, W.G.
Grace), as well as contributions from less obvious personalities.
An irreverent and entertaining collection of Ashes diaries, CrickiLeaks finally
lays to rest some of cricket's greatest mysteries:
- What exactly was going through Gatting's mind as he faced the ball of the
- Why did Ricky Ponting lose his rag with Ronald McDonald?
- What really went on between Douglas Jardine and Daphne the Koala in Adelaide
A riotous and uniquely scurrilous addition to any cricket-lover's library.
come to the bar for a drink – it being tradition for a century-maker to buy a round for the team. I acted quickly, as quickly as I do when using my feet to a spinner: I said I had lost my wallet. They did not believe me. I said I would go and get it from my room, then. Fled through kitchens. Hid in a dumb waiter until bar closed and they had all gone to bed. Spent remainder of the evening in my room alone. Managed to fashion a primitive ball out of a couple of pairs of tightly rolled-up socks,
which I then hardened by dipping in hair pomade and drying on the radiator. Practised bouncing this off the corner of bathroom sink and playing it with toothbrush for five hours. Scored an unbeaten 965. July 12th Awoke in middle of the night troubled by unfinished practice at Sockit. Got up approx four o’clock and played until toothbrush broke. Sat quietly in dark until breakfast, thinking about how to convert Headingley 309* into significant score. July 14th Still utterly disheartened about
there was just time for a quick cup of tea in the dressing-room. I get in there, and guess who’s had the last of the good sandwiches? Nancy Nine-Fer. He comes over, all friendly like, and you know what he has the cheek to say? “Great spell at the other end there, Tony. Here, I saved you the last of the cheese and pickle, mate.” He knows fine well that I’m an egg and cress man, the selfish sod. Old Trafford, July 29th Rest day. Boring. But at least Laker didn’t get any bloody wickets. My
the lads, but Kevin has reacted very negatively to (in his words) “a younger pin-up coming along and turning everyone’s heads”. He has taken to working obsessively in the aerobics/dance studio with his shirt off, shouting “I’ve still got it” and watching Black Swan over and over again on his iPad. While a bit of healthy competition between the boys is great, I think today’s episode went too far. Kevin found out that Stuart was on his way to a photo shoot and substituted the baby oil that Stuart
custom, and later perambulate around the deck. There I am accosted by a most frightful Australian female who appears to be suffering from sea sickness, although the water is as flat as the sort of pitches upon which the charlatan Bradman makes his runs. The individual is clinging desperately to the gunwale like an Australian Member of Parliament holding a flagon of their insipid beer. Of course, this sort of cowardice is bred into your Australian when they are but babes in arms, and I tell her as