The Bullstrode, Hounslow is a cricket pub. Such can not be said often of a London boozer, but on this occasion, never a truer description spoken. Hounslow is neighboured by Southall and together constitute an Indian stronghold in West London. The sheer mania, down The Bully that accompanied the 2007 T20 Cricket World Cup Final between India and Pakistan was an event to behold. I have made lifelong friends in this pub by simply walking in the door, seeing the cricket on the tele and sidling up to a bloke to ask the simple cricket lovers’ question “What’s the score, mate?”

In Australia, cricket and Christmas are synonymous with summer and a comedian has cottoned on to this opportunity, releasing a stocking filler cricket CD that captures the mood. His name is Billy Birmingham and he is an uncle by marriage of a mate of mine. Grimace describes him as a great partner in solitude at large family gathering and I can imagine such from his work. The title of the comedy is The Twelfth Man within which a cricket game is called in parody, mimicking the Chanel 9 former legends of the game cum commentators. Fortunately for Birmingham, there are some colourful voices within the original cast ripe for exaggeration.

The content is particularly non-PC, tapping into the VB swilling, rugby league loving, okka bloke. Bets are made on the coin toss, released in the summer that Mark Waugh and Shane Warne were caught up in an Indian bookmaker controversy. A large part of the humour revolves around the inability of the commentators to get their tongues around the complexity of sub-continent cricketers’ names. There is also an adaptation of the Abbott and Costello skit “Who’s on First” with non-descripts Issy, Wazzy and Azzy in the Pakistani line-up. This isn’t sophisticated humour and it’s not meant to be.

Unfortunately, if you are unfamiliar with The Twelfth Man then the rest of this bar-room yarn isn’t going to mean too much to you. Go and have a listen then probably not come back.

 

So I walked into The Bullstrode to see Sri Lanka on the tele and a group of Sri Lankan lads gripped with proceedings. We engaged following my simplest of cricket questions and started commentating to the collective on the state of play. It was a one-day international and the Sri Lankan players were looking resplendent in their yellow and blue when one of the lads turned to me.

“You know my nephew played for Sri Lanka?”

“No, really? Who”

“Graeme Labrooy”

Pause. Long pause. Really long pause.

 

The voice of Max Walker came careering into my head like the overnight Southern Aurora.

Max – “Excuse me please, but don’t you mean Graehemey Labrooy?”

Closely followed by Bill – “He’s name’s Graeme, Max”

Max – “It just seems a shame to me that all the other Sri Lankan players should have such colourful names and he just got Graeme. So I think I’ll keep calling him Graehemey.”

Bill – “You’re fucked in the head, Max”

 

All the while, Uncle of Graehemey is awaiting my reply, even acknowledgement of his comment that his nephew is former Sri Lankan International Cricket, Graeme Labrooy. His look of confusion is starting to turn to bewilderment with anger just around the corner.

Bill is back in my head – “It’s not as if he didn’t have an illustrious career.”

The recognition that I have the voice of Bill Lawry in my head, telling me I better sort my shit out is not lost on me and certainly isn’t helping the situation. “It’s not even in the script!” All the while the Uncle of Graehemey is watching, waiting. It’s also becoming painfully evident that The Twelfth Man has not made it to Sri Lanka, and why would it?

 

Finally, I manage to splutter out – “All-rounder wasn’t he? Medium pace bowler?”

“Yeah, that’s right” as a smile comes across his face.

“Yeah I remember him. Played for a good few seasons.”

“Would have been more if it weren’t for injuries.”

“Shame that.”

 

I manage to excuse myself and disappear around the other side of the pub, put my elbows on the bar, head in my hands and am sucking in the big ones.