When Worlds Collide

Today the English Cricket Team did a tour of London on an open-topped bus to celebrate bringing home the Ashes. Trust me, if you’re a cricket fan, it’s a big deal. Even if you’re not a cricket fan, it’s a big deal. England beat Australia, who usually cream our asses, and since our celebrations in the wake of winning the 2012 Olympics bid were curtailed when some stupid bastards blew up parts of the capital the next morning, it’s about time we had something to cheer for.

I’ve been watching in a bemused fashion; happy we won, barely grasping the basics behind it (wickets, runs, overs… huh?). However, today I got ridiculously excited because, during the team’s glorious lap of honour through London, someone in the crowd handed them an inflatable Dalek – which they hauled up on top of the bus and waved in a merry fashion.

Okay. Cricket. Doctor Who. Worlds colliding. Things like that always make me laugh. The stuffy, serious nature of England’s number one sport (well, number one in 1854, perhaps – football’s kind of stolen the wicket since then) entwined with the daft, sci-fi extravaganza that is Doctor Who. And it’s about time that cricket acknowledged the Whoniverse – after all, Peter Davison’s Doctor played a mean game in “Black Orchid”, and he did wander the galaxy in pseudo-cricket garb. At last, recognition!

I’m obviously taking it for granted that everyone reading this knows what a Dalek is. Or, for that matter, Doctor Who. It’s extraordinary how some things that are such a part of the British psyche are unheard-of overseas. How many Americans know what Blue Peter is? How many Russians have heard of Gardener’s World? Does anyone in Tibet pine for the Radio Times?

God, I hope so.

Moving on… there was an odd discussion in my office today. I happened to mention, off-hand, that since meeting Rob Lowe last week I’ve had the odd – um, how shall I put this? – “naughty” dream about him. (Which is actually very unlike me, because normally I do that whole “I’m about to sit an exam but ohmygod, where are my clothes?” kind of dreaming.) I jokingly commented that in my dream – I didn’t go into details, because that’s between me and subconscious, thank you kindly – Rob Lowe had a nickname for his tackle. Where it came from, I have no idea. Dreams are like that.

So, after informing my colleagues that Rob Lowe (in my head, at least) calls his todger “Uncle Willy”, a conversation ensued in which the merits of naming dangly bits were pondered. How many men do it? Is it common? Is it rare? Is it something us girls should know about? Would it help in the bedroom if we were introduced formally: “This is Mr Wriggler. How do you do?”

No-one would enlighten me as to their own personal monikers (if any had been applied). I’m actually kinda relieved.


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