I am KP

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:

https://cricketerdiaries.wordpress.com/your-tributes/

Closed

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.

Goodbye.

Kenge, Carbody & Wilkinson LLC

Representing Mr Kiven Pietersen (BSc, Hon, MCC, LLC)

 

KP: The Twitter Files

August 8, 2012 § Leave a comment

I Kevin Pietersen am distraught.

Today was a bad day. It started off as a good day. But by the middle of the afternoon it got bad and come dinner time I can only say its turned into a fucking nightmare. I’ll take you through it:

7am:  I wake up like a child at Christmas. Go straight to my games room, and watch highlights package from yesterday.

9am: God that was good.

10am: I’m lying in a state of ecstasy when the phone rings. It’s my mole on the inside Charles Colville. Tells me that someone has set up a fake twitter account in my name. Someone close!

10.15am: I’m looking nervously out of my window. Fucking hell is that a cat? What the….

12pm: I’ve now called everyone in the team except Strauss and Swann. They’ve all denied it.

1.30pm: Right that’s it I’m taking legal action. Call my lawyer. Get Charles Colville on the other line to confirm what he’s just told me. The lawyer says this is serious– spoof accounts, fake blogs, satirical articles– they can destroy a man’s career. Am going to get medieval on this man’s arse. Whoever it is.

2pm: Both Swann and Strauss put out statements denying its them.

7pm: It’s not Beefy. Could it be Ryan Gosling? Well he never lent me that jacket….

7.30pm: Not Gosling. Clarkson’s probably too thick for this kind of caper. Peep nervously out of my window. It’s that cat again!

8pm: Pitt & Cruise,both have alibis….might call Josh Hamm

10pm: Hold on.

10.02: Checking through accounts I set up last month: KPLedge, KPSportsman, PremierKP, GuruPietersen, KPGreat, MammothKP, DonKP, KPAtlas, KPChrist, KPHumble, Modestlyyours, IKPFreely, KP6, JFKP, KevinGenius…

10:03pm: Ok mystery solved. I call Colville and give him the bollocking of his life. Then I tell him not to tell anyone, I could use this to my advantage.

 

Trott’s final letter

August 8, 2012 § Leave a comment

Dear cousin Bert

Howzit bru? How’s the bear shooting season going man? Bagged yourself any big guys this time? Cor I miss being back there with you.

It’s all kicked off here. You may have read about Kiv. He’s been acting real weird man.

He came in the other day and started to read out some parts of his book which he’s been writing. Some of the other guys didn’t like this. One of them told him to shut up. Kiv lost it man. Started to kick things. He went off into the men’s toilet. We could hear him shouting on the phone really loud.

Then he called us all ugly. And he said we’re all jealous. Poor Cooky man he couldn’t take it. He started to cry. Swanny said to Kiv

“Are you happy now Kevin. You wanted to make him cry. Well you’ve succeeded!”

All the other players mumbled in agreement. Then Kevin said

“Fuck you all, I don’t need you. I mean do you really think you are bigger than KP?”

And he jumps up on his feet, puts this green Saffer cap on and walks off into the other dressing room. Ten minutes later he comes back and locks himself in the toilet, angrier than iver.

And then he starts to smash things up. He was going around like a wild bull rhino headbutting everything. I tried to stop him and said to him

“What are you doing bru? Stop it man.”

But he just turned to me and said:

“Listen my little rounded-headed moonfaced crispy nostriled friend….I, not you, I, only I AM K P!”

And then he starts hurling things around like a mountain gorilla beating his arms into his chest. Well I don’t know! Tim Bresnan got so scared that he jumped right off the balcony. Broke all his feet.

I thought things had calmed down but a few hours later Kiv starts trying to burn Straussy’s bat. We also found that he’d hidden a lot of the boys’ whites inside the toilet.

It all ended after Broady walked in and asked what was going on. And then Mr Flower came round with his book of data and asked us what was going on. And then there were all these journos and TV guys came around to ask what’s up.

Cor its so stressful Bert.

I miss you bru. And I miss all the old boys– Fanie, Pommie, Biddie, Jorgs, Uwe-Karl, Tertius, Rabian, Cidric, Crispy, the Coetze Brothers, Chubby, Flooi, Johan, Adolfo, Birnger and Pim.

I wish I was back there now, playing cricket with the lads. D’you remember how we used to get into trouble with Mr Smuts for hitting the ball into this back garden? That time when he chased us with a shotgun and shot Pimmie Bundeke in the back? Good times man.

Anyway I’ll see you just now

Love

Trotty

Straussy: A Statement

August 8, 2012 § Leave a comment

Australians, Englishmen, and cricketlovers! hear me

and be silent, that you may hear: believe me

for my beliefs, and respect my honour, that

you may believe me for my honour, your honour: censor me in your wisdom, and

awake your brains, if you have any, that you may the better judge me, your judge.

I mean your honour.

Sorry…If there’s anyone here, any dear friend of

KP’s, even a single one, to him I say, that Strauss’ love to KP

was no less than his, meaning KPs. If then that friend, if there is one, even one solitary one, demand

why Straussy rose against KP, this is my answer:

–Not that I loved KP more than he loved himself, but that I loved

him less than KP loved himself. Had you rather KP were living than dead?

As KP loved himself, I weep for him; as KP was fortunate in many innings,

I rejoice at it; as KP was media-loving, camera hungry, cliché-making and wanted a slot on the Graham Norton show, well

I honour him:

but, as KP was egotistical, I slew him.

There is tears for his self-love; joy for his

Self-death; honour for his self-pleasure; and death for his ambition.

Who is here is so basic that he would be an Australian?

If any, speak; for him have I offended and he has offended me.

Who is here so rude that would be an Australian? If

There are Aussies here speak; for they have offended me. Who is here so

vile that will love this country? If any, speak;

for I am offended. I pause for a reply.

Kevin Pietersen: A Statement

August 7, 2012 § 7 Comments

This has been a hard time for me, my fans, English cricket fans everywhere, the game of cricket specifically and the world in general.

As you all know I, KP, have always given my all for English cricket. I sacrificed everything to come to England. My ranch in South Africa. My friend. My pet dog, Kip. Pommie. The love of the South African people. And my parents.

I gave it all up to live in this little country. Why? Because I wanted to let the English spectators see me, KP, play. It would have been selfish of me, KP, to stay in South Africa and not let the world know of me, KP. Hell even Jesus came to these shores so who am I, KP, a modest great guy by nature, to refuse?

Yes I came to London. The people told me London is a big country. It’s got a lot of nice things. But fucking hell it was hard. I mean it was so cold here. And the facilities were crap. Also the newspaper coverage was slim to moderate at first. I used to wander about looking for attention. But it was so hard to find.

But I forgot all that and made a new life. Gradually I was able to show them the modestly great cricketer that is KP. Soon I was easily the greatest cricketer in the country/world and still the controversies didn’t stop.

It was never about the money. I told them straight:

“Look all I want is a few months off in the middle of the year to play cricket in India. A car– an Audi or Lexus– a decent contract, a Harvey Nichols storecard, my own changing room, a gold chain an agreement to do 62 interviews with various media outlets per year, including two guaranteed slots on the Graham Norton show.”

They said no. I even offered to compromise—Parkinson instead of Norton, I said. But no.

They said I am arrogant or aloof. Are you serious? If you want to know about me you can. I’m everywhere.

You can read my Twitter feed @cricketlegend and hear from me. You can read my blog, you can buy my biography KP: A legend in his lifetime, you can connect with me on Facebook, KPL, buy my video, The Ledge, and all that. Arrogant I am not. The truth? The truth is that they’re jealous.

You see every man needs his own identity.

I, for example, am KP. You may be a John or Joe or Jonno. I dunno. You could even be an Ian, to which I say each to their own. But there are a few out there who just don’t have their own identity. Let’s call them Andrew for the sake of ease. You see these Andrews are jealous. Yeah Andrew. if you’re there—you think you know me? Well you don’t. Infact Andrew do one mate. Stop reading now. Go on fuck off right now. You’re a muppet.

But that’s irrelevant. These guys hate me. Their own house is small and shitty and they don’t own a Range Rover car or live in Fulham. Jealousy—it’s so sad.

You know when I first came into English cricket I had that innocent gleam in my eye. I was like a young angel. I’d even dyed my hair blonde and used to curl it.

But that young angel has gone now. It’s sad. I’ve grown a goatee and my grizzled hair is all dark and grey. My soul is like the devil. It’s shit.

In recent times I’ve had a chance to think. And this whole sad situation, well you know what? It reminds me of something I read at school. It was a poem about persecution. A poem which I relate to. I feel it. For it is me.

It goes:

“I am a Jew. Hath a Jew not eyes? Hast not a Jew hands, feet, a head and a body? If you beat a Jew will he not hurt you? If you slap a Jew will I not slap you back? At the end of the day if you tickle me will I not laugh? Will I not punch you in the face if you try to wrong me. Cut me and will I not punch you really hard in the balls? Will I not destroy you if you insult me! I am a Jew. And does a Jew not seek revenge all the time in the markets of Kentish Town?”

Shit I can’t remember the rest. But I think you get it. What I’m trying to say is that I have been betrayed. I only wanted to play cricket. But they abused me man. Some people even called me a racist! I said are you mad? How can I be racist– I’m fucking South African! Do they know the struggle my peoples have been through?

Let me tell you a story: When I was a kid growing up in Joburg with my friend Pommie Umbangwa. I used to shout over at him every day: “Hey Pommie man, come round and throw me some balls mate.”

He’d come running over and we’d play cricket for four or five hours. Joyful hours with me teaching him every shot in the book. After that Pommie would mow the lawn and do a few odd jobs here and there and I’d give him some cash and maybe a lemonade or something. But that’s me. That’s KP.

That is the man I am. And yet this is what they’ve done to me. Ostracised me. Cut me off. Betrayed me.

I am not going to say any more at this stage. I will preserve my dignity and not stoop to the level of those muppets in power. All will become clear after the next Test Match at Lords. But before I go I do have one more thing to say.

Et tu Belly?

KP: Fencing

July 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

Day 1

Feeling nausea mixed with bouts of paranoia and insomnia. It’s been a bad month. Robin Gibbs’ death ruined my plans to announce my T20 retirement. And then public favour swung towards Nick Knight after my tweet about him. Is there any justice in this world?

Day 2

Rethinking strategy. Perhaps I quit too early.

Day 3

Trotty calls.

“Hey bru howzit? Listen bru me and the lids we’re off on a bonding exercise eh. Why don’t you come along. It’s no fun being in that room all day by yourself.”

“Look Trotty if I needed company and I was desperate like you I might go to a team bonding exercise. But why don’t you ever get it into your thick round skull that I’m KP. I don’t need friends!”

“C’mon bru, don’t be like that. We’re off fincing. It’ll be good for you. You know with swords and shit.”

“Look Trotty I know what fincing is. I’m a fucking pro. I mean who. I mean…Fucking hell I. AM. KP. D’you want me to spell it out for you?”

“Ok great I’ll tixt you the details. See you just now bru!”

I hang up and search for fincing on the Google. Unfortunately nothing comes up. Fincing….what the hell could it be? Then I realise that he must be talking about swordfighting. I order a DVD off Amazon to check it out.

Day 4

I’m walking down the road singing aloud. I’ve grown myself a pointy mustache and chin beard and I managed to buy Antonio Banderas’s Zorro costume from Amazon and a pair of jackboots from a vintage Nazi memorabilia shop.

As I swagger down to the studio I spot this fit chick rummaging in her car outside from behind. When I get closer I get a shock when it turns out to be Alistair Cook.

“Hey KP.”

“Cooky.”

“Er why are you dressed up like that?”

“What are you talking about? Why are you wearing that?”

“What?”

“That tight t-shirt. Those jeans!”

“But it’s just a t-shirt and jeans.”

“Yeah you freak!”

Cooky turns bright red. I ignore him and walk in. Swanny’s there with Strauss.

“KPPPPP what the hell mate? Very niiice.”

Straussy’s looking at me up and down, checking me out, like a ferret.

“So you ready for a few bouts today Kev? En garde.”

“What?”

“En garde, en garde! C’mon man what’s wrong with you.”

“I’m not on anything. I’m K..”

Suddenly I see Nas coming over from the other side of the room. He looks threatening holding a massive sword in his hand. I try not to stare at his hair.

“Lads. Straussy. How’s it going fellas, ready for some action? I know I’m pumped.”

He suddenly turns to me and stares really hard. I feel uncomfortable and look down at the ground.

“Nice one Nas,” says Swanny. “Heard you’re a bit of a lad at sword poking. Oi, Oi, eh?”

“Yeah better than being an uphill gardener,” retorts Nas and immediately turns and stares right at me again.

I’m feeling a little sick when the teacher walks in. He’s French, his names Ludo. He starts giving us a few instructions in a fancy French accent. He keeps looking at me in my zorro outfit. I wonder if he is attracted to me. We are given swords.

I take my cape off and prepare to face this French guy. He starts telling me how to fence. The nerve. Telling me where I’m going wrong. I’m getting pissed off. We start fighting and I charge towards him to stab him but he moves out of the way and I go crashing into Belly who’s standing behind, pissing around and putting me off!

I get Belly instead and stab him over and over in the back until he screams like a pig.

Eventually the teacher says we better swap partners. So I pair off with Belly. Again I give him the fucking hiding off his life. Teach him to put me off while I’m trying to fence.

Later

The Frenchman’s arranged a tournament. If you win the first round you get to the semis. I tell Belly to forfeit his match and so I’m through. This should be easy. I’ll wipe the floor with Cooky or Trotty. If only everything in life were this smooth.

I’m polishing my jackboots, ready for the semi when I see someone approaching. It’s Nas. O God.

“Kevin. ”

“Er Nas….”

“Looks like it’s me and you in the semi. Good luck.”

He walks off with an evil leer on his face. I get to my mark. I’m shitting chunks man. The referee blows the whistle and Nas charges at me screaming, holding his sword aloft over his head. I try and get out of the way but accidentally manage to poke him in the face. The point is mine. Victory to me.

O God what have I done? I want to scream, shout, complain, basically just blow my brains out. But Straussy and the rest of the lads are looking at me so I can’t.

Suddenly there is a handclap. I turn around– it’s Belly. The clapping turns into a ripple of applause, gets louder, more people join in. It’s growing, getting thunderous, the whole room has now exploded, shouts of “Bravo” and “Victoire.” I tell them all to shut up. No, no, please you’re just making things worse, stop, please. But it’s now a cacophony.

Over on the other side, Nas is standing there with a grim smile playing on his lips. His eyes are fixed on me. Just on me. Twitching.