Reflections of the Editor of the Wealdstone Junior Cricket Fanciers Gazette

Self expression - that's it: our theme. Just go to the Assembly Hall, take the cotton wool from your ears, and there it is, in all the beauty of its ear-drum-shattering, bone-shaking primeval simplicity self expression.

The editorial files await their fulfilment. 'Sport'; 'Hobbies'; 'Theme' (?). But nothing happens. Spies are posted, briefed to report signs of nascent self expression. Still nothing. Until, one day in Spring, an explosion of self expression shatters the silence of the Press. The 'Theme' file bulges with indiscriminately stored self expression, while the sport seems unhealthily thin, and 'Hobbies' shows signs of atrophy.

Suddenly a blasphemous voice cries out in the wilderness, "This isn't self expression. It's Cricket!" Oh heresey.' Anathema sit! Gasp! What is cricket if not self expression? In this noble institution, the English, notorious for their lack of overt feeling, find an outlet for emotional self expression - in the drama of the five minute run up, the bathos of the no-ball, the quivering thrill of the forward defensive, the breathtaking suspense of the appeal.

The heretic has a point though - the deprived sport file deserves the honour of holding the sum total of Salvatorian self expression, in which cricket has a monopoly. Only the willow can inspire us to creative writing. Why cannot rugby, soccer, basketball, athletics, table-tennis have such an effect? The answer is simple: these are simply not cricket.

The spies' brief is particularised: self expression, excluding cricket. Their reports continue to limp into the Press: "No signs of self expression". And what about our theme? The central interest of the magazine. What is there, in this world but cricket? The day before going to press an idea comes: the Play! There's a theme for you. Well provide the play article, and let the School decide what else should receive attention. If cricket be the food of love, play on; give them excess of it.

A Winter's day. The magazine is ready for distribution - the tension is too much - the editor is confined to bed until he is emotionally adjusted to the realisation of the fruition of a year's work, and until someone else has completed the chore of distribution. But to the bed of sickness a message comes. One spy has continued to operate; "Rumours of self expression - School notice board - not cricket". With the magazine in print the message is useless. But a conditioned reflex drives the moribund editor out of bed, into a cab - and don't spare the horses. And oh, the bliss. A gifted group of eminent literary critics have a comment to make on the magazine. Self expression at last. But too late. I die! Gasp!


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