I used to play cricket with the best mix of stereotyping I think you can ever hope for.
Neville Murphy was, as the name might suggest, the descendant of irish settlers in Barbados. He had a classic bajan accent, which confused the hell out of most people given he had typically irish complexion and went bright red at the merest hint of sunlight. He combined a daftness bordering on being a risk to his own health, with the laidbackness of the Caribbean, which meant he often found himself fielding in positions of great danger (like at silly point when i was bowling my right arm filth) but simply couldn’t be bothered to take evasive action most of the time as that would have meant exerting some effort.
However, put a bat in his hand and he’d come alive – if we’d found a way to harness the output of his outrageous swings and wafts we could have powered the national grid for days on end. If he came off, it was devastating – memorably making 100 out of an opening stand of 113 in one game – but usually it didn’t and he’d trudge off after having scored 20-odd in 8 balls, to relax with a pint of Guinness and a sleep.
