Tim Graham, 1958-2015. R.I.P
Tim Graham was at university with me but we lost touch after graduation. A couple of years later we re-united when Tim witnessed Grace Jones grinding me onstage at The Lyceum to "Pull Up To The Bumper." I invited him to join my cricket team, VCC (aka The Currymen) and soon we were twirling away at opposite ends as the club's spin twins. Tim's classical onfield attire and attitude - the school tie knotted around the waistband, the batting stance from a sepia age - is at odds with the curious hindu sportwear combinations we see him sporting on the streets of north london. "The Cobra" is an homage to Tim the off-spinner and fragrant touring room-mate.
The Cobra
Oh
flannelled fool, bequiffed and
bewildered,
Marooned
at square leg, unused, unconsidered,
In
an island of fag butts you wait for the call,
A
glance at the captain as their opener stonewalls,
And
then a brief nod and the cobra unfurls
A
jaunty skip run up, a few practice hurls,
Huttonesque
jaw-line square-on to the pitch,
The
old school-tie waistband you give a last hitch
Then
an elegant back arch, time standing still,
The
cherry unleashed, the bitterest pill,
A
shimmering parabola fizzing to its destiny
A
puff of dust, oh blessed turn, the rest is history.
And
now sunkissed Currymen swoop and caress
The
Cobra’s taught sinews, oh up against him they press,
No
longer recalling his half-hour scoring zero,
No
longer a luxury tweaker, but the fragrant hero.