Regular readers of this column and the nine or so stalkers that have somehow managed to get my phone number and address, will no doubt be wanting to know all the inside gossip about my stay on Puff Daddy’s yacht during the tiresome Monaco Grand Prix/Cannes film festival weekend, Well sadly, because of my contractual obligations with ‘Hello’, ‘Heat’ and the politically upbeat ‘Shavers Weekly’ magazines – I can’t. Combine this with the paltry rental agreement I receive from this publication for my monthly 800 words of wisdom and you’ll understand why I can only teasingly reveal the following: Sir Elton has had that piercing removed and Liz Hurley stinks like a goat on heat.

Still, this is a sports column and a big boned hardy handsome one at that, primarily interested in the ups and downs of your local cricketing heroes Leith Franklin Academical Beige, or Leith FAB to those who like to read the results of a Monday morning in The Scotsman.

A typical night at Leith Franklin Beige cricket clubhouse. Leopold Simpson is on the left...

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To be honest things haven’t been going so well, with all three teams loitering around the mid to bottom of their respective 2nd 5th and 8th divisions. This can however be counterbalanced by the sheer amount of drop dead knock-out totty (of both sexes) that has been piling down to watch the matches of a Saturday afternoon on the links, run rates may be down but heart rates are racing to the top. It seems the entire world loves losers after all – Gavin Fisher and Stevie Middleton are really bringing things around. Just last week in a division 5 clash between the seconds and Stirling county we had to turn away Johnny Depp, the Olsen twins, Kev Spacey, Nat Imbruglia, Alberto Contador and that guy from Jaws 9.

I’ve been thinking though, serious, high-minded thoughts, and if we are to go by past mental evaluations, I’m probably spot on. What might give us even more impetus is an openly gay player. That’s right a player who is completely open about their sexuality and fancies members of the same sex. I had big hopes for Stevie Middleton – he’s not had a proper date in ages – but he assures me (almost constantly) that celibacy is just a ‘lifestyle choice’ he’s making for himself at the moment. Then there’s the awkward fumblings of Ben Wood. But his wife is expecting twins so he’s out, or not, if you know what I mean. Maybe it’s down to me to do the decent thing and camp it up for a bit and see what happens. That could be a problem though. Being so attractive isn’t all it’s made out to be. It does (occasionally) have it’s pitfalls – whilst women will quite naturally and unsurprisingly fall at my feet, men seem to be a bit more shy, scared even, tending to be overpowered by my sheer presence on or off the field, so it’s no go there. In truth we can only look to team mascot Tam ‘hair bear bunch’ Heinitz to do his bit for the team. I happen to know he does already have a following in ‘the community’, witnessed by the times I’ve seen him mentally undressed by the ‘mixed’ crowd that visit his place of work, the tawdry Tourmalet Tavern on Iona Street, with it’s air of opulence but seedy underbelly. The fact that eyes are drawn towards the plucky left hander’s buttocks as he bends over to fetch the fresh, crisp, German beer from the fridges isn’t Tam’s fault. However his penchant for light trouserings leaves him open to fuller observation than say the poncho and heavy dungarees I’d probably wear in the same situation. Yes, in fact, the outgoing wicketkeeper/batsman might well be trying to tell us something with his reinvention as a sta-press trouser wearing chap with a nice line in tight fitting patterned shirts.

Enough of that, lets concentrate on the bigger picture, a sweltering Scottish summer with its promise of at least four or five stifling days over 6o degrees in the shade and, with that, the increased earning potential of our clubhouse on Leith Links. Imagine yourselves down there – cocktail in one hand (lager and lime), The Times spread out over the lush savannah with a copy of ‘Attitude’ magazine tucked safely in its centre pages. Watching young athletes jumping around like newborn gazelles, unsteady on their feet, noses twitching to the scent of ale in the air, led on by the more senior wildebeests, those who have been to the watering hole a little too often, their overcautious approach to fielding showing the shameful fear of the beast beyond it’s rightful flexible age. Worrying not of torn trousers but of torn ligaments leaving them short of cash and mortgage repayments.

There’s the tapestry huge readership, now you need only attend and sew yourselves in…

A Bientot

Leopold Simpson