Allen Stanford's year (well kind of)
In a totally made-up interview, Texan cricket-bothering billionaire Allen Stanford discusses his eventful 2008
Posted by Barney Ronay
Monday 29 December 2008 00.00 GMT
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What a year it's been. You might even call it the year of the little guy, the man with just a message of hope for a new dawn of a shining tomorrow, plus a big old helicopter full of money and his own cricket ground with a giant set of fancy golden stumps in the doorway.
Right from the moment I first came up with my Stanford Twenty20 for 20 idea, I knew it was special. "Vijay," I said over iced tea one evening with my contractually obliged close friend and golfing buddy Vijay Singh, "I have a dream. A dream where I'm being chased by someone and then I'm in the John Lewis bedding department and I have to help Ronnie Corbett make the perfect sponge pudding. But that's not the only dream I have," I added.
"I also have an idea for a $20m winner-takes-all Twenty20 cricket match between England and A Very Excited West Indian XI at my personal Antiguan crick-o-drome." Vijay paused and thought for a moment. "You know Mr Stanford," he said, a slow smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "I kind of preferred the Ronnie Corbett one."
Well, after that I was happy as a gopher in soft dirt. In June I made my historic first trip to Lord's to meet my new buddies at the ECB. Folks say the British can be cold and reserved, but as I stepped out of that helicopter I had a great, warm feeling of love, somewhere between the knee and upper thigh region. But as soon as Mr Collier had been removed and helped back up to his feet he was fine.
"There you go, little fellow," I said, slipping him a little something for his trouble. "But ... I'm chairman of the ECB," he said, still drying his eyes. "My mistake," I said, replacing it with a fifty. "Now don't drop that valise, son. I'll be in your office. If you need me I'll be drinking a Dr Pepper with my feet up on your desk."
And so it was that the Stanford Twenty20 came to pass, one fine and glorious October week of good ol' fashioned third-rate English one-day international cricket played out to the finest inappropriate snatches of commercial hip-hop and the familiar slap of the Sir Allen high-five as I greeted my people round the ball-park edge.
Of course the whole week was a triumph, but I would like to clear up one unfortunate so-called incident. You might have seen pictures of yours truly giving a proper Texan welcome to the lovely womenfolk of the England team, offering a knee to sit on, making the right kind of lascivious gestures at the TV camera, sticking my tongue out like a proper Texan gentleman. That's just our tradition and as a decent host it's right that folks expect it.
Luckily I went round to see the players and straightened the whole thing out. I got down on my knees right there in front of them and I begged them, "Fred, Broady, Kapes. Can you boys forgive me?" They said, "Allen, Mr Stanford sir, we're just trying to have a shower in here." And after that we was finer than frog hair.
In fact, I never saw the boys so happy as the morning after they'd been base-hit right round the ball-park by my good friend Chris Gayle and were getting on the Sir Allen Stanford Airport Shuttle. I called out "Hey boys, we get to do this all over again next year." Seemed like from the amount of fingers they waved they might have got the wrong idea. "Actually boys, it's five years not just two!" I called back as the bus pulled away.
Of course, there will always be doubters. There are still those who say my grand plan to sell Twenty20 to America starting with a sample TV marketing drive in Coleslaw City (Pop: 2,036), Mayonnaise County, Nebraska has failed, leaving me desperate to cut my losses where I can and dump West Indies cricket like a skunk at a lawn party.
To them I say just take another look at those Stanford Twenty20 Project USA viewer satisfaction polls. Of those who understood the question 13% said they would drive a cricket long as it ain't one of them hokey electricalised vehicles. 6% asked if it came in barbecue. And 47% said "Now ain't that the doodliest".
Amen and hallelujah to that, I say. Change has come, cricket. Change has come.
Right from the moment I first came up with my Stanford Twenty20 for 20 idea, I knew it was special. "Vijay," I said over iced tea one evening with my contractually obliged close friend and golfing buddy Vijay Singh, "I have a dream. A dream where I'm being chased by someone and then I'm in the John Lewis bedding department and I have to help Ronnie Corbett make the perfect sponge pudding. But that's not the only dream I have," I added.
"I also have an idea for a $20m winner-takes-all Twenty20 cricket match between England and A Very Excited West Indian XI at my personal Antiguan crick-o-drome." Vijay paused and thought for a moment. "You know Mr Stanford," he said, a slow smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "I kind of preferred the Ronnie Corbett one."
Well, after that I was happy as a gopher in soft dirt. In June I made my historic first trip to Lord's to meet my new buddies at the ECB. Folks say the British can be cold and reserved, but as I stepped out of that helicopter I had a great, warm feeling of love, somewhere between the knee and upper thigh region. But as soon as Mr Collier had been removed and helped back up to his feet he was fine.
"There you go, little fellow," I said, slipping him a little something for his trouble. "But ... I'm chairman of the ECB," he said, still drying his eyes. "My mistake," I said, replacing it with a fifty. "Now don't drop that valise, son. I'll be in your office. If you need me I'll be drinking a Dr Pepper with my feet up on your desk."
And so it was that the Stanford Twenty20 came to pass, one fine and glorious October week of good ol' fashioned third-rate English one-day international cricket played out to the finest inappropriate snatches of commercial hip-hop and the familiar slap of the Sir Allen high-five as I greeted my people round the ball-park edge.
Of course the whole week was a triumph, but I would like to clear up one unfortunate so-called incident. You might have seen pictures of yours truly giving a proper Texan welcome to the lovely womenfolk of the England team, offering a knee to sit on, making the right kind of lascivious gestures at the TV camera, sticking my tongue out like a proper Texan gentleman. That's just our tradition and as a decent host it's right that folks expect it.
Luckily I went round to see the players and straightened the whole thing out. I got down on my knees right there in front of them and I begged them, "Fred, Broady, Kapes. Can you boys forgive me?" They said, "Allen, Mr Stanford sir, we're just trying to have a shower in here." And after that we was finer than frog hair.
In fact, I never saw the boys so happy as the morning after they'd been base-hit right round the ball-park by my good friend Chris Gayle and were getting on the Sir Allen Stanford Airport Shuttle. I called out "Hey boys, we get to do this all over again next year." Seemed like from the amount of fingers they waved they might have got the wrong idea. "Actually boys, it's five years not just two!" I called back as the bus pulled away.
Of course, there will always be doubters. There are still those who say my grand plan to sell Twenty20 to America starting with a sample TV marketing drive in Coleslaw City (Pop: 2,036), Mayonnaise County, Nebraska has failed, leaving me desperate to cut my losses where I can and dump West Indies cricket like a skunk at a lawn party.
To them I say just take another look at those Stanford Twenty20 Project USA viewer satisfaction polls. Of those who understood the question 13% said they would drive a cricket long as it ain't one of them hokey electricalised vehicles. 6% asked if it came in barbecue. And 47% said "Now ain't that the doodliest".
Amen and hallelujah to that, I say. Change has come, cricket. Change has come.
P.S. Bolds and Highlights added for emphasis.............Arsenio.
