Ms Goss, whose main claim to fame hitherto was that she once dismissed Brian Lara at the Sydney Cricket Ground, is also believed to have been upset by the West Indian's insistence that she wasn't the only woman to take his wicket since he was bowled out many times in his youth by his sister. However, Zoe can now claim, without fear of contradiction, to be the only woman to have had Lara caught behind as well as being photographed nude reclining on a load of cricket balls.
It is unlikely her feat will be recognised by Lord's. A spokesman for MCC said the achievement of Ms Goss would be discussed some time in the future and a decision reached after a careful study of the photographs has taken place. There are rumours the editor of Wisden has asked Rachel Heyhoe-Flint to pose nude for the Millennium edition. Neither was available for comment as we went to press.
DENNIS LILLEE revealed one of Australian cricket's great secrets the other day when he explained how Rodney Marsh managed to sink 48 cans of beer on a flight between Sydney and London. Lillee said Marsh had to drink a can of beer every 30 minutes and was showing signs of flagging when the captain of the aircraft announced to the passengers that the wicketkeeper was on the verge of a great achievement and called for a supporting cheer. Suitably encouraged Marsh drank his way to legend and oblivion, having to be transported in a golf buggy upon arrival at London airport. Since the 1980s Marsh's achievement has symbolised the macho relationship between Australia's athletes and the brewing industry. It has been exploited by the advertisers - ``I feel like a Toohey's'' - and has passed into common parlance - ``I couldn't give a four x''.
It might also have something to do with the fact that whereas the Sydney Cricket Ground was once a noisy but pleasant place to watch a game of cricket, nowadays it is still noisy but ugly with it. The drunken and boorish behaviour of a substantial minority of spectators when South African beat Australia in a day-night game set new standards for our own louts. I can think of no higher praise. One young man sitting in front of me drank 12 pints of beer during the South African innings. I wasn't counting. He did it for me by stacking his empties like trophies. His friend, a mere 10-pint man, was removed by the stewards. The 12-pinter remained, mainly I suspect because he hadn't been to the toilet since he had started drinking and must have weighed as much as a fair sized swimming pool. He should leave his bladder to medical science. I cleared off before he flooded the stand but not before the South Africans had been pelted with rubbish including golf balls and a variety of chickens, some frozen some not.
It was a very good game of cricket but it made no difference. Nowadays the cricket is secondary to drinking. The next day the phone-in programmes were full of shame and suggestions. As one caller pointed out the reason for the drunkenness was plain to see - with the initials of the brewer sponsoring the game covering the area behind the stumps like some obscene tattoo. The answer is simple - stop serving drink during the game. There's as much chance of that happening as people not laughing at the story of Rod Marsh swigging his way to England and to glory.
I TOOK Mr Bird, the umpire, to see Keith Miller on the great man's birthday. He is 78 and I would be telling fibs if I reported he looks fit and well. But the spirit is strong and he never stops talking. God bless him. I was going to take them on a boat trip but Dickie declined. ``I don't get on with boats,'' he said. Lots of life's pleasures escape the World's Greatest Living Umpire. For instance, knowing I would share a birthday drink with Mr Miller I hired a chauffeur-driven car. They sent us a limousine as long as Oxford Street. ``What's this?'' asked Mr Bird. ``A stretch limousine,'' I explained. ``I don't get on with stretch limousines.'' He sat in the front with the driver pretending it was a family car. This left me in splendid isolation at the rear and in need of a telephone to talk to my friend.
At lunch Mr Bird's fish arrived garnished with a few lettuce leaves. ``What's this?'' he asked. ``Lettuce leaves,'' the waitress said. ``I don't get on with lettuce,'' said The World's Greatest Living Yorkshireman. During lunch he and Keith Miller scored a few runs and took a wicket or two. They started yarning about Wally Hammond, who they both admire, and Dickie told a lovely story passed on to him by Arthur Jepson, Nottinghamshire fast bowler, Stoke goalkeeper and legendary umpire.
Playing against Notts, Hammond had a row with team-mate Charlie Barnett about batting. Barnett relieved his anger on the Notts attack, scoring 99 before losing his wicket at lunch. He went into the pavilion, threw his bat in his bag and said to Hammond: ``That's how to bat.''
Hammond went to the middle and between lunch and tea scored 200. Jepson said he had never seen hitting like it. At the tea interval Hammond walked into the dressing-room, looked at Barnett and said: ``No. That's how to bat.'' ``He was a beauty, that Hammond,'' said Dickie Bird. It was a lovely day with enough wind to hum the rigging of the moored boats and I was just thinking how lucky I was to be in this paradise with treasured friends when Mr Bird broke my reverie.
``Do you think Barnsley will beat Sheffield Wednesday?'' he asked. He's a beauty, that Dickie Bird.