Cow Corner

The Dull Monty

Cow Corner

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Is anyone other than Cowers getting a bit tired of the whole Monty Panesar show?

The Luton Bore took his own particular brand of crazed appealing to a new level in the first Test at Lord's, begging to the umpire like a four-year old desperate to go pee-pee.

Now Monty claims his rabid-eyed, maniacal arm-flailing is down simply to his "love of the game". Nothing to do with a breath-taking ignorance of the basics of the LBW law, then?

At this point, Cowers is prepared to admit to possessing a decent level of dislike for Panesar, stemming from an interview he did with him last winter.

If Shakespeare thought a twice-told tale was tedious, he should try sitting in a room with Monty Panesar for twenty minutes - he'd soon be grateful for a tale only told twice.

The mere thought of the phrases "Keep working hard," "Bowl in the right areas" and "Improve my fielding and batting" are enough to send Cowers into a wrathful fury.

It was, without question, the dullest twenty minutes of Cowers' existence. After five minutes of Monty droning on like a Leonard Cohen song, Cowers was absent-mindedly gazing out of the window, quietly humming the theme tune to Test Match Special to himself.

After ten minutes of toe-curling, fist-clenching, teeth-grating tedium, Cowers was contemplating a vicious attack with his biro, recording the whole incident on his mobile phone so as to be able to shamelessly post the video on Facebook and let all his friends tell him how "wicked" and "sick" it was.

At the fifteen-minute mark, Cowers was having fantasies about leaping across the table, grabbing him by the collar of his impeccably-ironed ECB polo-neck and shaking him like a brain-sick rottweiler savaging a helpless toddler on a Middlesbrough sink estate.

Finally, after what seemed like an interminably long time, Cowers politely ended the interview, forcibly contorted his features into the merest of smiles, shook hands with Monty, walked out the door - and went on a Falling Down-type rampage through central London. Weapons included.

No-one was spared. Not even women and children. In fact, especially women and children. The owner of that secret Nazi memorabilia shop in Soho took one hell of a beating, too.

Thankfully, Cowers was spared a lengthy spell of bird thanks to our capital city's completely inadequate policing, and lives to blog another day.

But if that walking controversy Darrell Hair chooses to turn judge, jury and executioner again and decides to forcibly eject Monty from the Old Trafford playing surface because of excessive appealing, you won't find Cowers complaining.

It's not that Cowers thinks Monty is a bad person, you understand. Just that he is ball-achingly boring. 

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TALKING POINT: People who drive you to the brink of genocide. Perhaps a work colleague with forceful opinions on American foreign policy? Or a television presenter so smug he looks like he'd drink his own bathwater? Or the incomprehensibly impatient man you had behind you in the queue at the supermarket at the weekend?

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