April 17, 2014 § Leave a comment
Christmas is almost upon us. Chill does the wind lie and slant falls the rain. It reminds me of the time of our tender conjugation, last winter. Do you remember it like I do?
I was playing for the Duke of Marlborough XI while you were a mere tea lady, a chit of a girl, in the employ of the Scullery Maids Dias CC XI.
Do you recall my heroics? A century before lunchtime and six wickets after tea? Like Titan I bestrode the game, trampling foe and enemy with the swish of my bat.
I approached you over the luncheon interval and asked if you would picnic with me. You said “Oh yes,” the diamond crush of your eyes squeezed tight into the porcine folds of your cheek.
Thus we sat, side by side, on the grass verge, my hamper spread out before us. You told me you had never seen a hamper like it as your eyes devoured the vast array of cucumber sandwiches, teacakes, cakes, scones and creamy tart.
Soon you could not resist and greedily you took a double cucumber from the hamper, relishless however. I asked whether you would like some sauce and you acquiesced. And so I took a big dollop of the Fry special and smeared that cucumber in gentlemen’s relish. Do you remember how you gorged yourself on it? Ere sipping from the nub, there nibbling on the crest. O and do you remember your laughter as you spilt the relish all adown your laced petticoat? Do you remember it? I recall like it was yesterday. How mightily annoyed I was that you had wasted my sauce in such a stupid, slipshod fashion.
And then the snow flakes fell over the pitch and play was abandoned.
I remember it so well. And how could I not? For it was indeed the fastest cricketing century off the season—scored off a mere 372 balls. How I was lauded. Man after man came to shake my rough hand. O but that was not all for I also took six wickets for a mere sixteen runs.
But the fairest thing was the maiden I bowled that day. My fourth over— six deliveries of such artistry, such control that the next day the Times wrote—“never has bowling of such controlled artistry been seen on the cricket field.” Yes the mighty WG Grace (less, if I may), reduced to the status of a bumbling fool. He couldn’t touch one of those balls. Not one! The fool; the bewhiskered, bumbling, arrogant fool. My mastery of him was complete, how I rejoice looking back. How he ever dared to denigrate the great name of Fry! I taught him, by God, I taught him!
Oh but I digress dear Poesy, my Poesy. Later that evening we went back to my quarters on the Albermarle where I performed the backwards jump onto the mantelpiece for you. I can still see the embers ignite in your eyes, caused by my displacement of the mantel coals, one of which landed on your petticoats and set it aflame. How you shrieked with fear as the burning took hold of your underskirts and crept inexorably up towards your hidden middle. How you burnt, Miss Haversham-like, reduced to a tinder cinder, my crispy kinder.
And then how you quivered as I rubbed liniment all over your seared left leg. A short silly leg it was dear Poesy. A short silly leg…..
And then the snowflakes fell over old Piccadilly passage….the sky sighed…..and all was white.
February 4, 2014 § 1 Comment
“Kevin, you were my friend. You were my confidante, you were my lover. I miss you.” Ian Bell.
“Why do the good always retire young?” Monty Panesar.
“A maverick. A gamechanger. A gunslinger.” Aleck Stewart.
“Kevin and I never really got on.” Graham Goochy.
“Kevin– suffice to say I had the last laugh.” Nasser Hussain.
“Doos.” Graeme Smith.
“A one-off, a trendsetter, a maverick, a gamechanger.” Alec Stewart.
“At the end of the day, well, he was a great batsman, and he, well you know when he hit a shot, a square drive, caught at slip, I mean silly point, caught at cover, he hit shots that were hard. I enjoyed his contribution to the team but I’m not gonna sit here and talk to you, erm what?” Alistair Coook.
“O Godd…” Pope Francis.
“Fuck, he’s dead?” David Gower.
“Massive, massive, massive news. Massive. Massive.” Sky Sports.
“RIKP” BY KP.
February 4, 2014 § Leave a comment
This is it. This is the end. I Kevin Pietersen, a humble man, am bowing out of cricket. Thank you England cricket– you will survive without me.
Goodbye and godspeed.
December 19, 2012 § Leave a comment
23rd of Febrary 1899
Yesterday I attended the illustrious Olympiad for the World’s strongest man held at the Crystal Palace of London. They came from all four corners of the world.
LittleJohn of the North, from a grim place named Cleethorpes, the mighty Tom Cribb from Hackney Wick, Goliath, who lives in Runcorn, and a French pretender named Xerxes who heralded originally from the Rhone valley, but left to set up a roofing business in Paignton in 1872, where he has resided ever since. All were in attendance, the mightiest men in the world, brutes Poesy. .
In amidst this muscular symphony I caught sight of a familiar face. For there, dressed in a leopards-printed maillot, whiskers twitching four to the two, was the cur himself, Mr David Nivens. He had recovered the cock that had so deserted him that fateful night last December. Indeed, despite a certain paleness of his cheek, which may have indicated gout or perchance jaundice, I know not which Poesy, despite this ague, the presence of this unwholesome corona, Mr Nivens appeared in fruitful health.
He bounded up to me like a dog with constipation as I stood performing my stretching routine and hollered in his chafing tone
“What Ho Fry! Planning a little performance are we?”
To which I countered with disdain
“Like the performance you gave us last Christmas Mr Nivens?”
To which he replied
“Yes my performance, good, hahahaha, very good Mr Fry…”
The argument won, I sauntered off to take my mark in the wings.
It was quite obvious that I was going to trump all and sundry and trump them I did. For the first event, the clutch, I set a new champions ship record of 40kg, which nobody else perforce could master. It was indeed the third year I had set this mark. This was followed by the second event the lunge, wherein I took a bell in each hand and thrust the leg out in forwards motion. My score of 32kg was a new world record.
And thus it came to the final event the clunge.
Somehow the reedy Dr Niven had made it to the final stages. However it was time for misfortune to strike. As he strode onto the stage, a moment after Xerxes of Ramsbottom and two minutes before Goliath of Paignton, I noticed something amiss. Indeed Poesy, twas a small thing visible to only the keenest of human eyes.
For as he strode onto the stage, there, cradling in the leopardskin maillot (which in latter days has come to be known as the ‘leotard’ after that French chagrin Leo Tard) was a bulge! Yes dear Poesy, priapus stirred. Of course no one else noticed this but I did. I had to! For herein lay Mr Niven’s secret!
And so he climbed onto the stage to tackle the biggest beast of them all—the never before stirred 50kg bell.
As he was doing this I, yes I Poesy, was in the wings rifling through Dr Niven’s surgery bag. And there I found it—the horny root! Clutching the horny root I paced it back to the stage just as Dr Niven was raising the old iron over his head and bellowed—“Mr Dr Nivens! Once again your felony has been discovered. You are unmasked and now you must pay.”
Well his eyes fairly bulged, while his moustaches twitched with that feverish anxiety that one only sees displayed on the face of the mountain goat (capra hornus) during the mating season.
O glorious conclusion Poesy, for he fell back in a perfect parabola, the iron slipped from his clutches and flew into the face of Xerxes who collapsed with a roar. The resultant hulbubabaloo rendered him moribund and he fell down clutching his face in a vain attempt to feign injury! The cur. The damned insolent cowardly cur. While the judges (bufoons all) clamoured around him to look I, of course, was not to be fooled and ran onto the stage to deliver him a procession of blows and kicks of such dexterity that priapus was, for once and for all, quenched.
They gave me my medallion and sceptre and crowned me the World’s Strongest Man for the third year running. Meanwhile Mr Nivens was banned from the Olympiad for three years hence and slumped home with his sceptre shattered. Yet again I triumphed.
October 31, 2012 § Leave a comment
I have been out in the wilderness.
For 200 days and nights I roamed. But now I am returned. And I am a different man. Like a great leader who walked in the desert for a number of years I am now reborn. This is my second coming.
It’s true that I have hated many in my time. Mandela, Smith, Straussy, Flower, Botham, Strauss. The list is a long one. Some of these men crossed me. Some of them were just evil. Some of them said they were only doing their jobs.
But it is time to let bygones be bygones. I was wrong. Yes. I said it. I KEVIN ROGER SEAN TIMOTHY PIETERSEN was wrong. I want to shout it out from the rafters. I want to write it in the sky. I was wrong. I was wrong world.
Yes I am man enough to admit it. It’s something I should have done a long time ago.
I blamed everyone for my faults. My team, the players, the board, my coaches, my parents, men with beards, my dog Toby, my agent for convincing me to do the Youtube confessional, Ryan Gosling for the jacket incident etc etc. Everyone except myself.
You see like James Dean I’ve always been an outsider. I’ve battled my inner demons all my life. It comes with the territory I suppose. What God gives with one hand he takes away with another.
Now it’s time to stop!
Look at the trouble I caused. Andrew Straussy retired! We lost the T20 cup in the second round. Sachin Tendulkar’s hair turned ginger. All cos I didn’t give my all for the team and was dropped.
But yes I have made a mistake. I wish to hold my hand up and say I’m sorry. Infact I will hold both my hands up and say I am sorry. For I am man enough, big enough, wise enough and now knowledgeable enough to admit that I have made a mistake. I was wrong. I was bad man. I bordered on mad man. Insane. Psychotic. A monster.
Practical tips to beat depression
What’s changed Kevin you ask? It’s taken a long time, a huge amount of soul searching, of fighting my inner demons, of finding somewhere I can be at peace with myself to get here. But I’ve learnt about compassion. I’ve learnt that giving is the greatest good. It’s not come easily. I’ll admit it.
For I tried it all. Yoga, meditation, talking. But let me be a little more detailed.
My first step was to check into a rehab clinic. So I went to Betty Ford and spent the night there. That was a hard place. A building full of broken down celebrities desperately crying for better times. My room was next to Angus Deayton who used to present Have I got News For You ten years ago. I used to wake up in the dead of night to the sound of screaming.
“I want to be in showbusiness get me out of here.”
Eventually I got so scared that in a moment of madness I locked myself in and swallowed the key. It took a full two days to get ME out of there. That was agony.
I then went to find religion and travelled to Rusell Brand’s meditation centre in the midlands. I had heard about this as long ago as 2011, heard about the power he wields, his genius, how he became famous for doing nothing like a modern day Rasputin. There I learnt a hymn which I sometimes sing to myself. It is below, with translation:
“Om Shanti Om—Our father who art in heaven
Om Shanti Om—halloed be thy name
Om Shanti Om—forgive us this day our
Hare Rama Hare Rama Hare Rama—as we forgive our tresspasses against us. Thanks.”
Unfortunately it wasn’t for me. One day Brand himself turned up to give a sermon. He said the only sure way to nirvana was to lose the ego. He pointed to various objects and said they were happy because they had no ego. The table leg, it has no ego. It is happy because it is a table leg. Then he started to hump the table leg. “It will not say no, it will never say no,” he was screaming, “lego no ego, lego no ego.”
After that he had sex with all the females. They were all screaming take me Russel, take me and he was laughing at them like a maniac. Laughing until his sides split.
In the face of this overwhelming ego fest I gradually started to lose my grip on reality. I felt my own ego slipping away. I didn’t know where I was, what I was doing. I was falling, falling into the jaws of infinity. I was letting go. In desperation I turned to therapy. It’s true! I’m big enough to admit it. I battled my inner demons for so long that I had to do it.
I found a small practice in Harley Street run by a Jewish guy called Dr Habanero. Seven days and seven nights I sat there talking, talking, talking. It was such a release. I told him everything. From my earliest childhood memories dancing infront of the telly in my whites, to the day I got my first hundred batting against our cook Mali in the back garden.
In all that time that doctor never said one word. He was so compassionate.
And at the end I had to ask him.
“Doctor,” I said. “You have helped me so much I can’t thank you enough. But in all that time you haven’t said even one word.”
He looked at me, gazed deep into my eyes and then replied.
“No hablo ingles.”
So things are different now. It’s all changed. I used to call myself KP! Now I call myself quite simply Kev. I’ve learnt to walk in the shade. I’ve learnt to eat unleavened bread. I’ve learnt that life isn’t all about me.
Yes God works in mysterious ways. Even us sinners get another chance. Even us flawed….men, humble men, get one more shot to shine on the world stage. And I intend to use it.
Yes I am back. They tell me there is no I in team. Nor is there a K P. Now there is simply a: Kev.
August 12, 2012 § Leave a comment
We are all indebted to Kevin in one form or another. If you like him (and this site) post your tributes, comments and slander at:
August 10, 2012 § Leave a comment
This website has been closed by order of her Majesty’s Court of Law.
Do not read any further.
Those found reading further will be in violation of Article 213 of Directive 312 of the 1998 EU Libel Rule and will be prosecuted to within an inch of their lives.
This is the law.
Kenge, Carbody & Wilkinson LLC
Representing Mr Kiven Pietersen (BSc, Hon, MCC, LLC)