Bring back the ballcock!!

Over the Christmas period the landlord's trusty toilet cistern finally surrendered to old age and refused to flush. The management agent was duly summoned and a replacement instructed to be fitted. Within hours the new device had developed the ability to whistle, a feat that it mastered soon after. Within weeks its skills had transcended those of a virtuoso.

The performances post New Year increased in length, varied in pitch and occurred at irregular intervals whenever the toilet had been flushed. From a mild irritant at the outset this odious noise soon became the bane of both my wife's and my lives. All we could do was flush the loo and wait for the noise to 'erupt' as the water cascaded into the tank. First the rumble in the pipes, then the dripping / gushing of water, followed by the inevitable whistle. The annoying aspect was that it was impossible to predict when it would happen. Sometimes the whistling would occur within 2 to 5 minutes. On occasions nothing would happen for up to an hour. There were even days when nothing would happen, then suddenly you would be woken by the shrill whistling at 2 o'clock in the morning for no apparent reason. Invariably it was difficult to stop, normally resulting in frantically plunging my hands into the freezing cold water and re-seating the flap while trying to stem the inlet flow.

It took 3 visits from a plumber, and 6 weeks before the situation was resolved.

It was with a deep sense of dismay that I looked at the 'gubbins' inside the tank for the first time. My mother used to tell me of the mischievous joy she felt whenever the topic of conversation at school made mention of parent's chosen professions. As a supplier of sanitaryware to the building trade, she took great pride in announcing to her year 3 classmates that her father 'travelled in toilets'. Quite what my grandfather would have made of the said 'gubbins' in the modern bathroom I hesitate to think.

He had retired by the time I had started school but I can well remember his house festooned by all variety of strange looking appliances (not everyone's idea of wall hangings). Coloured ballcocks, valves, tools and fittings of every shape and size, just one of his many eccentricities.

As for the ghastly contraption that had been placed inside our tank, the source of the dreaded whistle, it was horrid and I suggested to the management agent that the plumber had found it in a Christmas cracker. It looked like the rubber baby's shaker that I used to beat my brother over the head with. It made a similar noise, too (the shaker not my brother's head – he just made burbling noises; then, he still does).

Little could flush toilet pioneer, Thomas Twyford, expanding on the work of J. G. Jennings, have anticipated that his wonderful brass fittings would evolve into a float of opaque moulded plastic, smaller than a tennis ball, a flap the size of a tea strainer and a filler pipe that looks more like a discarded condom.

I am not a sentimentalist, nor do I share my grandfather's taste in wall hangings but there is a certain amount of reassurance to be gained knowing that Mr. Twyford's original designs have been around since the 1880s whereas the modern replacements would appear to have a lifespan of no more than 2 years.

Dust to dust

So, once again a professional sportsman has made the front page of the Dailies by coming out as gay. This time, Steven Davies, the England wicket-keeper no less. I can only hope that this earth shattering news does not prompt a backlash of angry MCC members returning their 'egg'n'bacons'. As a fully paid up member of the stumping fraternity I can't honestly see what Steve Davies' sexual orientation has to do with his ability to do the job for which he has been selected to represent his country. Nor do I really see what it has to do with anyone other than himself and his family.

Most wicket-keepers are not 'dealing with a full deck', it goes with the territory, but what exactly does he hope to achieve by openly proclaiming his sexual preference, and why should any of the broadsheets think the story merits the front page in 2011, especially given so many more pressing stories on the international stage.

In the 30+ years that I played this glorious game I never once stopped to think about the sexual persuasions of a player of the opposition, or any of my own team-mates, being far too engrossed in throwing myself in the way of any ball that came within reach at around 100 mph.

If I could be accused of having any particular foibles, or displaying any animosity towards fellow cricketers, it was directed at those who chose to stride to the crease sporting earrings or other assorted body jewellery. Once you have seen the damage that a ball can do to a hand when the batsman has forgotten to remove a ring, you tend to remember that this is not a game for the feint hearted. To this extent anyone choosing the occasion to show off their latest 'bling', wearing the trendiest mirror shades to bat, sporting a bandana, or psychedelic beach hat represented not only a challenge but also a target. On many occasion I have encouraged a bowler to bang the occasional ball in short in the hope that it might clout the blighter square on the lughole.

There was a certain prestige bestowed on any bowler who could land a ball on a misplaced mobile phone, especially if the ball then spooned conveniently into the hands of one of the waiting close fielders. Usually, if the phone had rung during a batsman's innings they would have the good sense to remove it from the field, (or at least hand it to the umpire), though not all did, and some paid the price.

What people choose to wear off the pitch is up to them, but on the field of battle, etiquette would demand that any transgressor should be dispatched back to the pavilion at the earliest opportunity.

Early in my career I played in a team with an opening batsman who, on one occasion, between innings had mistaken an early declaration for the tea interval. Hurriedly padding up he took to the field with his tea still in his trouser pocket. Come the tea break, having sustained 3 hefty blows on the thigh, the batsman prepared to inspect the anticipated bruising to his leg. It was at this point that he realised that he had neglected to wear a thigh pad and it was a pork pie that had prevented any serious injury. Thereafter, this batsman, who shall remain nameless, would forsake the more usual thigh guard in favour of his lucky pork pie. I can't recall the make of the pork pie, it didn't impair the batsman's prowess, but I do remember that it was several seasons before he was forced to seek a replacement.

Call me a cynic but there was a time when coming out either went hand-in-hand with an imminent book release or was a last ditch attempt at resurrecting a floundering musical career, neither of which applies in this instance.

If Steven Davies' coming out makes him a happier person and improves his wicket-keeping then so much the better. I just hope that this is not a sign of things to come. People who are in the limelight, whether it be sport or entertainment deserve recognition for their ability on the public stage and for no other reason.