The world's first cricket opera is dropped at silly point

THE world's first opera about cricket, Madam Butterfingers, premiered in this space yesterday. In it, George, a flashy young batsman, is hoping to be selected for the England tour of India, while continuing his opening partnership with Marguerite, daughter of Sir Roland, head of the England selectors.

The scene resumes in the Lord's Tavern. Albert, a sullen middle-order batsman, has told George he doesn't stand a chance of being selected.

George: Oh, that may be what YOU want, Albert. YOU may think it's all right to stay at the wicket all day, heading for another boring draw. But it's not what the public want. They want flair, dash, risk, romance]

Albert: Then they bloody well ought to get Gone With the Wind from the video library and settle down in front of the telly.

Exeunt all, except Albert and his sidekick, Randolph.

Randolph: Do you think they really will pick George for the side, Bert?

Albert: Not if I have anything to do with it.

Randolph: But everyone knows he's going out with Marguerite, Sir Roland's daughter]

Albert: I know. And that's why I'm not taking any chances, I'm putting something in George's cricket bag, which, when it's found, will put the kibosh on his chances for ever.

Randolph: Lumme] What's that, Bert? A photograph of David Gower?

Albert: No, you blockhead. A bit of high-quality grass]

He sings.

It really doesn't matter

If a cricketing bloke

Should now and then have

The occasional smoke.

When you're not batting,

You can always get a fag

And go into the dressing room

For a surreptitious drag,

And drinking isn't frowned on

in fact, it's de rigueur

For a chap to down the pints

Until the world's a blur -

But a chap who lights up

reefers,

Or passes round a joint,

Well, it simply isn't cricket

And we just don't see the point.

Oh, backhand sums of money

Are food and drink to me

But I simply can't condone

Illicit LSD]

The scene shifts to the nets at Lord's, where George, unconscious of the plot against him, is practising his cover drive against the wily bowling of the off-spinner Ian. What is wily about Ian's off-spinning is that the ball doesn't spin at all.

Ian: Did that one turn, George?

George: Of course not. Why?

Ian: Just asking. Thought it might have hit a bump . . . Do you think I've got a chance of going to India?

George: Yes, but only if some newspaper sends you along as cricket correspondent.

Ian: That's not very nice.

George: It's a good chance to get your own back on people and settle some old scores.

Ian: I haven't got any old scores to settle.

George: Then you're the first cricketer who never had. Think]

Ian: Well, I do sometimes get rankled by the commentators who go on about the great days of spinning, and how Laker and Lock ran through the Australians . . . 'Give the ball some air]' they cry.

But it's not so bloody easy . . .

He sings.

I gave the ball a little air,

It fell to earth I know not

where,

But when I walked to the Gas

works End

I found it stuck in the neck of a

friend.

I gave the ball a little tweak

And felt it come back past my

cheek

And as it did, the umpire cried:

'It's not cricket, it's suicide]'

Alas, I can reveal no more of this opera until a very rich impresario gets in touch with me.