Poetry Corner: A Christmas Tale

Not very seasonal, I have to confess! But all the same I did enjoy penning this poem. I want to make it perfectly clear, because I have no wish to be taken to task for defamation of character, that to my certain knowledge none of the people whose names pop up in this ditty behave remotely like this in real life. Although given the recent Lord's 'windowgate' maybe not...

At the time this was written the late, great Bill Frindall was great and not late, and Kevin Pietersen had not yet been relieved of his 'head boy' responsibilities. Which is why it all seems a little dated now! Anyhow, I hope you enjoy it, and if you are Phil Tuffnell, Mark Ramprakash, Freddie Flintoff and especially Mike Gatting, please don't sue me...

A Christmas Tale


T’was the night before Christmas
And down in the pub
The cricketers sat down
To cheap booze and grub.

The WAGs all gyrated
To bad karaoke.
Whilst Tuffers attempted
A poor hokeycokey.

It was a night of celebratory fun
And back slapping.
The applause rang out
In continuous clapping.

Butch stood on a table
Conducting the tunes
Played by his team mates
On their knees, using spoons.

In the midst of their chorus
There came a loud swoosh
In the chimney stood a man
With a beard like a bush.

A jolly old soul
With a nose red from drink.
And a belly that had no
Inclination to shrink.

The cricketers stood open mouthed
In surprise.
It looked as if Santa
Had scoffed lots of pies!

The big fellow in red stood
All aglow from the kindle.
“Don’t you know who I am?”
Tuffers answered. “Bill Frindall?”

He exclaimed, “I am Santa!
There’s no need to fear.
I’ve come to imbibe
And spread good Christmas cheer!”

“I have presents,
For all you young cricketing scamps.”
He looked down at his list
And then asked “Which is Ramps?”

A timid young man
Slowly raised his right hand.
Santa asked “Are you really
The best in the land?”

“You’re joking!” Laughed Warnie.
“He’s never the best!
Any fool can wear sequins
And puff out his chest!”

“Ah, shuddup!” Exclaimed Tuffers.
“You loud-mouthed buffoon!”
And he pulled down his trousers
And gave his best moon.

The more that Ramps squinted
The more he felt certain
It was someone he knew
Dressed in a red curtain!

The large, jolly figure
Delved around in his sack
And pulled out a long parcel
From amidst a great stack.

He said, “I know what you want;
It will help with your batting.”
And then Ramps clicked his fingers.
And declared. “You’re Mike Gatting!”

Santa shushed his young friend
With a raise of his brow.
His cover was blown
But he wanted no row.

Ramps gave a loud whoop
And held up his present
The handle felt comfy
The grip was quite pleasant.

“A brand new Gray-Nicholls,
Exactly your thing.”
Santa warned, “However, take off
both the paper and string!”

The cricketer swished
With his bat in his hand
He was surely the greatest
In all Eng-er-land!

He thought, “Santa Gatting’s
A very fine bloke.”
And removed Murray Goodwin’s right leg
With one stroke.

A cry came from behind
“Hey, what about me?”
“What’s your name?” Asked Santa.
The reply came “KP!”

Santa looked down his list.
“Do you deserve a new toy?”
“But of course!” Cried young Kevin.
“I am the head boy!”

Tuffers was sniffling.
“I’m not on the list.
This party is rubbish
And Santa is pissed!”

“There, there!” Soothed Santa,
As he looked round the halls.
“What was it you wanted?”
Tuffers cried “balls!”

Nel glared with the warmth
Of a predatory hunter.
“I’ll have those, thanks.
One for me, one for Gunther.”

One by one all the cricketers
Clamoured for gifts.
And then all the counties
Began to show rifts.

Whose presents were better?
Whose bats were more flash?
Who had shinier willow
Than Mark Ramprakash.

The Middlesex players
All huddled together
They jumped on poor Sussex
To give them a leather.

Kent turned on Essex
And Hants, in a hurry.
Whilst everyone banded
Together ‘gainst Surrey.

Before too long had passed
An almighty fight
Had broken out in the pub
And raged on through the night.

The fists they were flailing
The punches rained down.
Santa Gatting could only
Look on with a frown.

Time for a swift exit,
He thought with a sigh
As he watched Michael Vaughan
Get a bail in the eye.

He turned to retreat
Whilst the building caught fire.
Tripping over the still form
Of poor Matthew Prior.

But as he ran out
To catch up with his sleigh
He could see it was not
Where he’d parked it that day!

In its place was a note
Weighted down with a stone.
Santa Gatting clutched
At his head with a moan.

“Dear Santa,
I’ve stolen your getaway car.
Rudolph told me that you're
Just too heavy by far.

Do not fear, I’ll return it
Just as soon as I’m ready.
But for now, here’s my pedallo.
Lots of love, little Freddie.” xxx