In 1996 I spent a year teaching in England. My home base was Birmingham. On the very first evening of our arrival in this midlands city, a group of pommies, who were soon to become firm friends, took my wife and me to a Balti restaurant.
I’d never heard of ‘Balti’, and the little side street ‘hole in the wall’ café didn’t fill me with a lot of confidence. Little did I know that Birmingham was the British heart and soul of this style of cooking and that Balti was to become one of my all time favourite ‘easy cook, easy eat’ meals. I wrote this poem during the Indian cricket tour of Australia 2011/2012 after watching a decision I disagreed with. Since Aust. is playing India again I thought it a good time to trot it out.
It’s Not Cricket
“ Have you ever heard of Balti?”
We were sitting at the cricket.
The Indians were bowling
and they thought they’d got a wicket.
I didn’t answer Robbo
‘cause I heard the players shout.
I was waiting for the umpire.
Was he in, or was he out?
“Oh bugger! Look, his finger’s up.
They’ve called it ‘out’. Ahh shucks!
A few short of his hundred.
Man, I really think that sucks.
No way that our bloke nicked that ball.
I can’t believe the shout.
Hope our bowlers give ‘em curry
when it’s their turn to come out.
Now who’s this Balti fella?
He sounds Indian to me.
And Robbo, if he’s in their team
He’s not my cuppa tea.”