Wednesday mega round up, Plus The Spy Who Came into the Pavilion

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Hi Everyone

Last Friday saw one of the best moments on British TV in a while, The fan and amazing Davina Mccall in Latex on the Masked Dancer semi final on British ITV.

  The dress was by Yves Saint Laurent so in a way this is a crossover with the Katy Perry post a few weeks ago and it seems the YSL collection has proved a big success, both the the brand and to getting Latex back on the front pages.

  But before we take a look at the YSL sensation, let's have a quick tribute to Davina, present and past .

XXX

Andy

So a quick look at some of the famous beauties who have taken up the YSL Latex collection.

Kylie Jenner

                                                       Haily Baldwin/Bieber gets the entire look

Need I say more, the stunning Sharon Stone

                                     The cute Lily Collins at the MTV Awards and in Vogue Arabia

And one for us KPop fans, the beautiful Rose, from BlackPink

Following on from the Gemma Arterton/Andy Prince of Persia clip last week, we have a request from our very own Mistress Leather Beth,to re-visit this amazing moment from The Jonathan Ross show a few years ago when Gemma Arterton walked on in the tightest pvc/vinyl pencil skirt imaginable. So tight even she had a wobble.

Ignore the thumbnail LOL

Short version

Long version

   Well you can't deny you get content on here, but now after all that waffle, Chapter 7 of The Spy Who Came into the Pavilion, with a little extra tweat (sic) in honour of and with thanks to our author .

The Spy Who Came into the Pavilion

 By

Mistress LeatherBeth

 

Chapter 7

Chapt 6 http://smoothslicknshiny.blogspot.com/2021/06/the-spy-who-came-into-pavilion-plus.html

   The tenth over began, and Will and Alice had been making good progress, in spite of the ball acting unpredictably on occasions, moving the score on to 48 for 1. Will had had no compunction in targeting the two younger fielders, and had forced at least three miss fields, much to Mills’ anger. Now he and Alice were just a couple of runs from a fifty partnership. A change of bowling had brought on an off spinner, accurate enough, but no great turn. Will stroked the ball through cover point and called ‘two’ as he set off running. Just as he reached the other end, he heard a squeal. He looked round to see Alice writhing on the ground in the middle of the pitch. The ball flew in to the ‘keeper, who lifted the bails, and Alice was run out. Will trotted down the pitch to where Alice was lying, to find her in tears.

“It’s an old ballet boot injury. Sorry, Will. The Extravaganza must have aggravated it,” whispered Alice.

“Never mind about that now,” said Will. “Let’s get you back to the dressing room.” With that he slung Alice’s arm round his shoulder, lifted her to her feet, and helped her inside.

        Alice Aldridge run out, 18 (48/2)

Yevgeny was, in equal parts, frustrated, confused and fascinated. The frustration came from his inability to circumnavigate the field. He instinctively didn’t want to be noticed, which led to him keeping close to the hedge. But every few yards there were small groups of people, some standing, some lounging on chairs or benches, and a few were pickynicking, and he only felt able to progress when he was satisfied that nobody in any group was looking in his direction. This made progress painfully slow.

The confusion and fascination were both generated by the ritual on the field. He appreciated that the English believed it to be some kind of sporting event, but to a good son of the steppes like himself it was completely bizarre. The ball throwers all used different techniques, and there were no fixed positions for the ball chasers. And the ball itself; it seemed to follow him around. On three occasions it had been hit over the edge of the field quite close to him, and he’d had to toss it back to a chaser. The first time he’d noticed how smooth the red leather was, and how tight the stitching. A few minutes later, and the leather was scuffed, the threads beginning to come loose. The third time the leather on one side was starting to flake, whilst the stitching looked as though someone had been trying to peel it off. If this was part of the game then these adjustments to the ball must be one of its main skills.

48 for 2 had soon become 53 for 3. In spite of Kat’s warning, Stuart Parker had been trapped on his crease by off spin which had turned just enough.

        Stuart Parker lbw Manship 1 (53/3)

This had, however, brought Rufus Kadenga out to partner Will. Rufus had been born in Francistown, Botswana, but brought up in South Africa. A PhD in cellular biology from Witwatersrand, Rufus was a big man with a big personality. At the bottom of the Pavilion steps he took a slight detour and silently stood next to Chris Mills for a few seconds before giving the Derrington skipper a huge grin and a cheeky wink and moving into position at the crease. No verbal sledge could have been as intimidating.

As George Cooper, standing at the Grange End, gave Rufus middle and leg, he glanced at Will and quietly muttered, “My boy, the next time you’re on strike from the Pavilion End it may be a good idea to smack one over long on.” Before Will could request clarification, the bowler was in and Rufus immediately got off the mark with a single to cover point. George casually removed his phone from his pocket and tapped a couple of numbers.

Will considered what George had said. Obviously he didn’t mean for Will to put his wicket at risk, but he plainly knew something, and that was good enough for Will. As it happened he didn’t have long to wait. The next delivery was a slow half volley. Will did precisely what Stuart had failed to do, got to the pitch of the ball with his front foot, and his full follow through saw it climb into the sky, then drop well inside the paddock at The Grange. George raised both arms to signal Will’s first six of the afternoon.

For this particular stretch of the perimeter the hedge was replaced by the paddock wall, which contained a gate specifically installed to assist fielders to retrieve big hits such as this. As one of Derrington’s youngsters set off towards the gate, a cricket ball flew way over his head, thrown from the paddock. Yevgeny, seriously wondering whether he would ever get that vodka, caught it second bounce. Except… what was this? The ball was almost as good as new, the leather barely marked and the seam in almost perfect condition. Really, he thought as he lobbed it to the nearest ball chaser, this game is ridiculous.

Meanwhile, in the paddock, Izzy just smiled, then went into The Grange to change.

   

When the ball arrived back in the bowler’s hands there was uproar. He ran over to Chris Mills who examined it, then strode across to George and brandished the ball in his face.

“Umpire, what the hell is going on?” he almost screamed.

“Some problem, Mills?”

“This isn’t the original ball. It’s been switched while it was out of sight.”

“Really? Let me have a look. Mmm. This looks rather like a ball which has had ten to fifteen overs use. A couple of marks, but in pretty good condition. And here we are in the thirteenth over. I really can’t think what you are implying.”

Chris Mills suddenly realised what his only explanation could be. “But we’ve been tampering with it!” lnstead, he remained silent. His fury at having been thwarted was clear. He snatched the ball out of George’s hand, tossed it to the bowler and almost screamed, “Let’s get these cheating bastards beaten.” A couple of Derrington players had the good grace to look sheepish.

Olga wouldn’t describe herself as an expert on the game of cricket, but she had learned more than the basics a couple of years earlier whilst sharing a bed for a couple of weeks with Babs, Nikki and Charlene, agents based at the respective Moscow Embassies of the UK, New Zealand and Australia. They’d all quickly worked out why their masters had arranged these rendezvous (to discover what the Fifth Directorate was involved in), called a truce, and got down to the serious business of discovering which one of them was the kinkiest. Nikki had proved to be the undisputed winner and had credited her success to her coming from a country where sheep outnumbered humans five to one.

  Will and Rufus went on something of a rampage for the next few overs, and by the end of the thirtieth they had advanced the score to 168/3. Yet, by the fortieth, they had slumped to 213/8. First, Rufus had ignored Will’s call of ‘two’, tried for a third, and been run out by half the length of the pitch. But even as he took his leave, his smile was as big as ever. He was soon followed by Kat, who had snicked to slip. Then Roger Travers-Macy, after successive fours, went for a third and holed out at square leg. Chloe lasted two balls before she nurdled into short leg’s hands, and JoJo was caught and bowled.

Through all this Will had progressed, and was on 89 as Budgie took JoJo’s place.

“Let’s see if wi can get thi’ that ton, shall wi?” he said.

“Jane, dear,” said Mayfield, “would you mind awfully if I dispensed with the glasses?”

“Mayfield, of course, if they’re more of a distraction, just pass them here. If you’re feeling up to it, maybe you’d care for a stroll around the boundary”

“That would be delightful,” said Mayfield. He returned the Ray Bans to Jane, stood, and let his gaze slowly take in his assembled parishioners and their friends.

Olga had become engrossed in the match. Nothing that Babs, Nikki or Charlene had said had quite prepared her for the excitement of the real thing, even at village level. But for all that she was engrossed, she was still aware of her surroundings, and she immediately noticed when TB12 began to stir. Firstly, he handed his dark glasses to his companion. Then he stood, and began gingerly putting weight on his foot, something that Olga had never seen him do before. But then, before he and his companion set off on a stroll, he turned his gaze on the general scene. Olga grabbed the binoculars from the seat next to her and quickly focussed on her adversary as he looked in the general direction of the Audi. What was she seeing? No, it couldn’t be! He did NOT have a glass eye! And it was well known that TB12 had lost his right eye during Operation Pumpernickel, back in 2004.

Surely Olga couldn’t have been mistaken in her identification. Then she saw confirmation. As the pair set off to circumnavigate the field, he totally failed to grope and fondle his companion’s cream leather bottom. That was proof enough. This was not Agent TB12.

Yevgeny tensed as Kerry made an excuse to Andy, got up and headed indoors to the toilet. With only one person sat at the table, maybe he could slip past, and get that vodka. Then he swore, as Alice appeared, with the limp of a dodgy ankle.

“Andy,” she said, “we’re going to need you as 12th man. Do you want to come inside so that we can sort out some kit for you?”

Actually, all Andy wanted was to hang on and hopefully see Will get his century. But he could also see the sense in what Alice suggested, rather than waiting until the tea interval, so he followed her into the Pavilion.

“At last,” breathed Yevgeny, as he made his move up the side steps of the veranda. But he was to be thwarted yet again. Andy had realised that he had left his phone on the table and, coming out to retrieve it, almost collided with a shifty looking character.

Yevgeny finally broke. He was not a violent man. OK, he made a living as a gopher in a shady world, and love and friendship forever seemed to pass him by, but this job had taken its toll. He certainly didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Putin; but again, there were some semi autonomous sections of the FSB (such as 5D) which were hardly more attractive. He was stuck in this ridiculous country, with its preposterous sports, on the point of dehydration (that’s another thing. Isn’t it supposed to rain here all the time? The temperature must be over thirty), but even getting a vodka seemed fraught with danger.

Yevgeny snapped. He lunged for Andy, grabbed his wrist and dragged him to him. With his wrist pinned behind him and a forearm across his throat, Andy froze as Yevgeny shouted, “Lyisten, yeffrybdy. Lyisten to me veh cyefully. Kropotkin is not happy man, and your prytty fryend is my hostyge. Do exactly ess I say!”