Murder at the (other) World Cup
Much like a game of cricket itself, the mystery surrounding the death of Pakistan coach Bob Woolmer in his hotel room trundles on.
Except in Ireland, it would seem, the death has generated far more news interest than the competition itself.
Was he or wasn't he? Did he or didn't he? Was his killer a bad curry or a bad curry merchant? A disgruntled book-maker or an evil umpire? Unlike the man himself, this could run and run.
Theories surrounding the death have begun sprout like crab grass around the crease in April. Rumours that Woolmer was working on a book that would take the lid off corruption in the game have been shown to be unfounded. The truth is that he was working on an explanation of the LBW rule that the person in the street could understand.
In view of the 2 book deal offered to Twenty Major this week I sense an opportunity here for bloggers with aspirations to move into the literary mainstream. Why not try your hand at a classic cucumber sandwich and ladies in hats whodunnit not seen since the heady days of Agatha Christie and Margery Allyngham?
Need some inspiration? Look no further. Anything you need in the way of plot, character and cover design can be cribbed here.
The elements are simple:
The mysterious death of a top spin bowler disturbs the leather against willow serenity of an English afternoon somewhere in the home counties just before the 2nd World War.
The cast of characters:
An sprightly spinster of a certain age with a fondness for crotchet and an encyclopaedic knowledge of the poisoner's arsenal ;
A bumptious retired Colonel with a dubious military record and a string of bad debts;
An oily lascar named Aziz who seems a little too friendly with the Colonel's glamorous but brittle younger wife;
The club captain, a bluff non-nonsense Yorkshireman who prides himself on speaking as he finds and usually does;
A gauche, nouveau riche couple who made their money in trade, recently migrated to the locality from the East End, bought the freehold to the pavilion and are desperate to be accepted by the cocktails at eight set;
A moustachioed police inspector in a belted raincoat and his stout yeoman of a British bobby.
Throw in a couple of bright young things and an upper class dim-but-thick or two and Bob's your late uncle.
There now, I've laid the groundwork for you, all you have to do is step up to the crease and go to bat for Irish literature in this renascence of a classic but neglected genre.
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