I'm one of those irritating bastards (what do you mean 'Stop there, Flashy'?) who picks up sports at a canter - almost as quick as I pick up the fillies, but not quite - and my prowess in all fields from tennis to golf can prove rather irritating for those set against me.
But it is in cricket that I truly excel. Turned out for the Village XI at the weekend, gaining a bad dose of sunstroke into the bargain - as regular readers of my fascinating blog will already be aware (click on the link below, if you've half a mind, which is all you'll need).
Did I ever tell you I once took a hat-trick in the Lancashire League with my deceptively quick seamers, including Hallet clean bowled for a duck, before he went on to star for Hellifield B's. Not a bad middle order bat either - averaged 37 one season, including a couple of big hundreds.
Anyway, before I go off on some great whimsy, I'll tell you about my guile and skills over the weekend. I agreed to turn out, on the proviso of batting where I wanted (depends on state of hangover, which was ringing at the time). I plumped to come in at 7, which would hopefully give me sufficient time to wet the whistle - hair of the dog and all that rot.
Sadly, the wickets tumbled quicker than I anticipated and so was still quite groggy and rather tetchy when I staggered to the middle, ready to weave my willow.
I was in no state to run, so I hit everything with bad intentions. It was one of those days when I was seeing it as big as a football, and my swashbuckling 72 not out came entirely in boundaries, and helped us to a defendable total of 157.
Well, that knock cleared my head completely, and I steamed in to bowl the first of my overs, sending them down with an extra yard of pace. The portly opposition had no answer to my 'chin music', and in no time at all, they were 84 for 6 with yours truly on a 5-for.
Gad, I was snorting away like Lillie in his pomp, and was all set to polish off the tail when I caught a glimpse of a quite enchanting creature, all blond hair, tits and legs, bending over by the pavilion stairs. The sight of all that fresh mutton - the first unchartered territory I've seen all season, blew my rhythm - and I proceeded to chuck down six straight overs of absolute tosh. To rub salt into the wound, the chief assailant of my mundane trundlers was a wee lad of no more than 15, who giggled away as he dispatched my efforts to all sides, including one on the pavilion roof and two in the river.
With my concentration shot to pieces, I had no choice but to first threaten violence at the little pipsqueak, then offered a £200 bung to the umpire if he would procure some decisions to swing the match our way.
Sure enough, next delivery I had him plumb LBW, even if it was a no-ball, and he clearly got an inside edge. "Go on, you little bastard! " I screeched manically. "Go on back to your mother!"
Which he promptly did - to the very same blond piece I mentioned earlier (Jeepers, she didn't look old enough, though! Or she had a great surgeon), who gave me a withering stare and hugged her cretinous offspring and said something along the lines of 'Don't listen to the nasty man'.
Bah, we ended up losing by three wickets, but I made amends with the object of my desires, getting in her good books by offering to get her boy tickets for the Ashes at Lords.
And got in a lot more later that night, when after treating her to a steak meal (nowt but the best for my ladies), I whisked her back to her house and rode her for six hours solid (she was in great shape), rounding off a wonderful day of sporting activity.
Even better, made that little upstart choke on his breakfast when he watched me strutting out of the back door this morning, pausing only to give him a fatherly wink on my way out.
So what are your sporting stories?
FLASHMAN STRIKES AGAIN!
Paul Rodgers is not the best thing since fried Fred.