Review of a very funny book from Cricketworld.....could be us !!
'It’s Saturday 4th June 1966 and chubby 10 year-old Michael Simkins is about to have an epiphany. Settled by the TV in the back room of a warm Brighton sweetshop, chewing his way through triangles of Toblerone, he is witness to a sporting moment that will change his life. As larger-than-life Colin Milburn barrels down the steps of the pavilion and begins a statuesque innings of 94 for England, Michael discovers the only thing that can knock chocolate bars and sweet treats from their number one spot in his affections – cricket.
Fatty Batter is the hilarious story of one man’s lifelong obsession with cricket. From his earliest awkward days as a fat schoolboy, to his years running a team of dysfunctional inadequates, cricket has offered him a shelter from life’s irksome realities and a place in which to quietly dream. That place is a peculiarly English arcadia of occasional wondrous beauty, forests of comforting statistics and the endless life-affirming rituals of defeat, humiliation and disappointment – the perfect practice net for life.
Spending his afternoons in a Formica–filled caravan as a commentator for CricketCall, expecting his wife to while away their wedding anniversary operating a scoreboard and desperately sneaking off from filming with Martine McCutcheon in a Tesco’s car park to watch England’s Ashes triumph at the Oval, Michael Simkins’ calendar revolves around the sound of leather on willow, the dulcet tones of Brian Johnstone and a mass of runs, wickets, batting orders and statistics. Recounting the pivotal rites of passage, from getting his first pair of cricket flannels to scoring his maiden century, Fatty Batter wittily recalls a life lived in search of the perfect cover drive.
Sharply observed and quietly self-deprecating, Fatty Batter is the glorious tale of one podgy boy’s dreams on the outside edge of a cricketing life'
Fatty Batter is the hilarious story of one man’s lifelong obsession with cricket. From his earliest awkward days as a fat schoolboy, to his years running a team of dysfunctional inadequates, cricket has offered him a shelter from life’s irksome realities and a place in which to quietly dream. That place is a peculiarly English arcadia of occasional wondrous beauty, forests of comforting statistics and the endless life-affirming rituals of defeat, humiliation and disappointment – the perfect practice net for life.
Spending his afternoons in a Formica–filled caravan as a commentator for CricketCall, expecting his wife to while away their wedding anniversary operating a scoreboard and desperately sneaking off from filming with Martine McCutcheon in a Tesco’s car park to watch England’s Ashes triumph at the Oval, Michael Simkins’ calendar revolves around the sound of leather on willow, the dulcet tones of Brian Johnstone and a mass of runs, wickets, batting orders and statistics. Recounting the pivotal rites of passage, from getting his first pair of cricket flannels to scoring his maiden century, Fatty Batter wittily recalls a life lived in search of the perfect cover drive.
Sharply observed and quietly self-deprecating, Fatty Batter is the glorious tale of one podgy boy’s dreams on the outside edge of a cricketing life'
