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I'm the newly-appointed Future editor at Business 2.0 and the former San Francisco correspondent for Time Magazine.
Wow, so does this mean everything you write reflects Time Inc's opinion? Or do you perhaps have some sort of standard disclaimer to the effect that it doesn't?
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An experiment for a column I wrote about blogging back in December 2001. All these years later, I haven't been able to kick the habit.
If it's called Daily Blah, how come you don't ... hey, wait, you're writing every day!
See? Told you I'd try harder.
Mister, you talk funny. Are you one of them furrners?
Why yes I am, as it happens. I was born, raised and educated in Great Britain. I've been living in the U.S. since 1996 and identify as British.
I say, old chap, you forgot the "u" in "colour."
No I didn't. I may identify as British, but I am also an American journalist writing for an American audience about mostly American issues. These two different sides of me are a constant source of tension. Nevertheless, Daily Blah will adhere to American English grammar and spelling.
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Daily Blah for... Friday, March 14, 2003
Cricket Gets Angry
One of the things I remember fondly about growing up in England is the dependably dull drone of cricket commentary. I have about as much time for cricket as I have for baseball, which is to say none whatsoever. But my father invariably listened to the play-by-play on the radio -- even, as is common, when watching the same match on TV with the mute button on. Cricket is an interminably slow game designed for drowsy, sunny afternoons; like fishing, it's practically a Zen meditation. Rather than try to get around that fact -- as an American commentator would by blurting endless statistics -- the benign, grandfatherly cricket announcers turned being boring into a fine art. "And there's a number 39 double-decker bus pulling up outside the grounds ... sparrows seem to be nesting in the pavilion ... a gentle breeze stirs the freshly-cut blades of grass around the wicket ... the new bowler has a rather fashionable haircut ... I have here a delightful carrot cake sent in by a Mrs. Wadsworth of West Riding, Surrey ..." And so the old voice would ramble brightly on, even when -- especially when -- rain stopped play.
As ever, technology seems to be changing things. Emily sent me this link to the Guardian's online commentary on the current India vs. New Zealand match by London-based reporter Scott Murray, who is apparently having something of a bad day: "Meanwhile, have you ever thought WHAT SORT OF LIFE IS THIS AND WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING BOARDING A TRAIN FOR MOORGATE AT 6.30 IN THE MORNING AND THEN STANDING AROUND FOR AGES WAITING FOR A TUBE WHILE STARING AT A SIGN TELLING YOU THAT IF YOU WAIT FOR FOUR MINUTES YOU CAN BOARD A TRAIN TO UXBRIDGE I'D RATHER WAIT FOUR HOURS FOR A JOURNEY WITH THE GRIM REAPER," he writes in a sudden splurge. "LOOK I'M SORRY THIS ISN'T EXACTLY THE SORT OF QUALITY EDITORIAL COPY YOU EXPECT FROM THE GUARDIAN BUT LOOK AT THE FACTS I'M ADRIFT IN THE MIDDLE OF ONE OF THE WORST CITIES IN THE WORLD SITTING IN FRONT OF THE SAME COMPUTER SCREEN I FACE DAY AFTER INTERMINABLE DAY HELL ... No? Only me then? Good."
Murray then proceeds to have an e-mail dialog with readers around the world about whether his job is really that bad, how he could be living in worse places, and what results you get when you bang your fists on the keyboard. As in the old-school commentary, any actual cricket is no more than an interlude -- but the style is far from sunny. "The rest of the over passes without incident," he writes at one point, "much like our lives." It's hilarious and astonishingly iconoclastic stuff, as if an MP just got up in the House of Commons and started doing an impromptu rap. Murray's voice is the flipside of the English character, the side that finds a cloud to every silver lining. They should put him on the radio; that would really put the cat among the pigeons. Or perhaps he can come over here and do baseball play-by-play. After all, if American Idol is any guide, the U.S. really loves sour Brits.
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