Shane Warne Quotes

Damn, Claire. Warn a guy before you do a face-plant on the floor next time. I could have looked all heroic and caught you or something -Shane

I heard this girl worked for Bishop,' said one of the guys, who had a tire iron resting on his shoulder. 'Carrying around his death warrants. Like one of those Nazi collaborators.' 'You heard wrong,' Shane said. 'She’s my girl. Now back off.' 'Let’s hear from her,' said the leader of the pack, and locked stares with Claire. 'So? You working for the vamps?' Shane sent her a quick, warning glance. Claire took in a deep breath and said, 'Absolutely.' 'Ah hell,' Shane breathed. 'Okay, then. Run.

I’m not a kid!” she told Shane hotly. “I’m only, like, a year younger than Eve!” “And girls are much more mature.” Eve nodded wisely. “So you’re about ten years older than Shane, then.” “Seriously,” Claire insisted. “I’m not a kid!” “Whatever you say, kid,” Shane said blandly. “Cheer up. Just means you don’t have to put up with me telling you how much sex I didn’t get.” “I’m telling Michael,” Eve warned. “About how much sex I didn’t get? Go ahead.

Maybe she'd seen too many Japanese horror movies, and maybe it was just a tingle of warning from generations of superstitious ancestors, but suddenly she knew that what Alyssa wanted was not to be saved, but for Shane to join her. In death.

Part of the art of bowling spin is to make the batsman think something special is happening when it isn't.

That stuff Jesus warned us to beware of, the yeast of the Pharisees, is so infectious today in the camps of both liberals and conservatives. Conservatives stand up and thank God that they are not like the homosexuals, the Muslims, the liberals. Liberals stand up and thank God that they are not like the war makers, the yuppies, the conservatives. It is a similar self-righteousness, just with different definitions of evildoing. It can paralyze us in judgment and guilt and rob us of life. Rather than separating ourselves from everyone we consider impure, maybe we are better off just beating our chests and praying that God would be merciful enough to save us from this present ugliness and to make our lives so beautiful that people cannot resist that mercy.

Guns are not just for killing. Guns are for having, for showing; guns are a warning.

Yet cricket was never the problem. In some ways, challenging as it often was, it was the simplest part of my life. Bowling to Viv Richards, Sachin Tendulkar and Brian Lara or batting against Shane Warne, Malcolm Marshall or Muttiah Muralitharan was child’s play compared to handling the expectations of my nation, the turmoil of my team and the machinations of my administration.

We reach the trailer and Shane digs through the pockets of the cargo pants slung over his arm until he finds the key. He pushes open the door and waits for me to pass through. Maybe later I’ll tell myself I should have thought long and hard about what I was going to do, that I should have counted to ten and waited until I regained my sanity before stepping over the threshold, evaluated the pros and cons like a thoughtful, rational adult. But I do no such thing. Shane’s eyes are on mine as I step out of my wet sneakers, drop my damp clothes in a ball on the porch, and walk inside. He follows right behind me, and even through my wet shirt I can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. The man is a furnace. Every warning about playing with fire zings through my mind, but I dismiss them. I want this. I’m not playing games, and neither is Shane as he grips my shoulders and turns us so my back is to the door and he’s pressed up against me. He lowers his head so our eyes are inches apart and looks at me more closely and thoughtfully than anyone ever has. He’s checking to make sure I’m okay, that my expectations are in line with what today is about. And they are. Just once, we agreed. And that will be enough.

Hoop skirt and corset?" I glared at him. "Not one word," I warned, pointing my finger at him. "Why, yes, ma'am. I would nevah-" I cut him off. "I mean it, Shane. I will put the hurt on you." He straightened. "Frankly, my dear Isabel, I don't give a damn.

We really do see the pattern Jesus warns us about: “Pick up the sword and you will die by the sword.” Not only do innocent children suffer as collateral damage, but the one who picks up the sword also suffers. We’ve learned that lesson all too well. We are not made to kill. So when we do, it kills a part of us.

The father tells the good son off and everyone cries, ‘Hooray, Shane Warne is back!’ Now where is the justice in that tale, I ask you?)

England were 2/ 82 when Ricky Ponting threw me the ball. Andrew Strauss, on 48, and Paul Collingwood on 11, looked set.

Fucking mess that was. Oops.” Travis cringes. “Guess I shouldn’t swear in front of the teacher.” Shane snorts. “Don’t worry. I can’t believe the stuff that comes out of this one’s mouth sometimes.” “Only when it’s directed at you,” I throw back. “I usually deserve it, too, don’t I?” Shane grins slyly, like we have a secret between us, and I find myself grinning back like a fool. “Oh my God!” Penelope snaps her fingers. “That’s right! Shane, didn’t she have that massive crush on you all through senior year while we were together? Like, she was so obsessed with you—” “Give it a rest, Pen,” Shane warns, before offering me an apologetic glance.

I stand there, shivering slightly in a jacket that isn’t warm enough for the amount of time I’ve been standing out on this porch. I hear raised voices inside the house—Tim and his mother arguing. I can only imagine what they’re saying to each other. He doesn’t want to see me. That much is clear. After what feels like an eternity, the door swings open again. And there he is. Tim Reese. The boy next door. The guy I thought I was falling in love with before I temporarily sent him to prison for murder. Oh boy. He doesn’t look great. I remember how I swooned a bit when I saw him standing outside the elementary school on Josh’s first day of school. But now he looks tired and pale and about fifteen pounds thinner. And pissed off as hell. “Brooke.” His eyes are like daggers. “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t invite me in. He doesn’t even budge from the doorway. “Um.” I wish I had planned something to say. I could have written down a little speech. Why oh why didn’t I write out a speech? “I wanted to say hi.” His eyebrows shoot up. “Hi?” “And welcome home,” I add. There isn’t even a hint of a smile on Tim’s lips. “No thanks to you.” “Look…” I squirm on the porch. “This hasn’t been easy for me either, you know—” “I was in prison, Brooke.” “Yeah, well.” I raise my eyes to meet his. “Josh’s dad tried to kill me. So, you know, it hasn’t been any picnic.” “No kidding.” Tim folds his arms across his chest. He’s wearing just a sweater, and I’m cold in my coat, so he’s got to be freezing, but he doesn’t look it. “I’d been telling you all along that Shane was dangerous. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I warn you repeatedly?” I hang my head. He absolutely did. “The guy stabbed me in the gut.” His fingers go to the area on his abdomen where he still has that scar. “I was practically bleeding to death, barely conscious, and I dragged myself off the floor when I saw you make a run for it. I grabbed that baseball bat off the floor and hit Shane as hard

You have to decide for yourself whether you're bowling well or not.

Then the guys arrived in twos and threes and the room took on a new life.

Sanju Samson will be the next big Indian superstar batsman, along with Rishabh Pant.

A Thank You to My Body I just want to say "Thank You." Thank you for keeping your promise Thank you for... having kept our heart beating, and healing it when it was broken Thank you for... recognizing the negativity and toxicity in others before I did, and for warning me by making me feel that shit in our gut Thank you for... nursing us back to health, when our immune system either rebelled or failed Thank you for... loving me during the times, that I neglected you, or just outright failed to love you Thank you for... being the ballast when our mind, felt unstable, in the midst of chaos Thank you for... always having recovered when I, nearly destroyed us, or pushed us past our limit Thank you for... always having believed in us, and not quitting on us when I, stopped believing and wanted to quit Thank you for today, and for waking us up ---"ready!" Excerpt from: Jacob's Ascent, New Collected Poems by Mekael © Mekael Shane 2024

Without a word of warning, Shane yanked his shirt over his head, then—thank the lord—dropped his pants, giving me a solid eyeful of his seriously impressive plunger

Four people, six guns. That’s a much better equation than we ever could have hoped for. There are, I guess, more guns floating around in Australia than most people would imagine. But there still aren’t that many, and I reckon we’re doing better than most survivors. On the other hand, maybe the only reason we're survivors at all is because we have guns. If we hadn’t found that Glock, what might have happened as we ran for Liam’s truck in Manjimup? If we hadn’t traded the Kawasaki for the Winchester, what might have happened the night we met Ellie, when I fired a warning shot to scare off her attackers, and they left without a fight? I don’t need to ask what might have happened the night in Albany, when the soldiers were chasing us over backyard fences. I know exactly what would have happened.

Over and over, early Christian writings tell us of how Christians were branded atheists by the imperial courts and executed for this capital crime. They had lost all faith in the empire and had become faithful to God alone as the one who could preserve peace and prosperity. They claimed Jesus as their only emperor (Acts 17:7), they preached the kingdom of their God, and they pledged allegiance to the slaughtered Lamb. Today, there are many things I love about “America the Beautiful,” and yet the book of Revelation sounds a clear warning that any glory we give to Babylon is glory that belongs only to God. As my friend Tony Campolo says, “We may live in the best Babylon in the world, but it is still Babylon, and we are called to ‘come out of her.’” John warns the church in Asia Minor to be “faithful unto death” (Rev. 2:10). He describes a marriage between God and God’s people. They are to be loyal to their lover, Yahweh, their faith remaining in God alone, adorned as a bride, the New Jerusalem. Describing Rome as the whoring seductress Babylon the Great, John warns the Christians that the empire will entice them with a counterfeit splendor, and he warns against flirting with her pleasures and treasures, which will soon come to ruin. They are not to be shocked and awed by Babylon’s power nor dazzled by her jewels. Rather than drinking humanity’s blood from her golden cup of suffering (17:6), they are to choose the eucharistic cup filled with the blood of the new covenant. We are faithful not to the triumphant golden eagle (ironically, also an imperial symbol of power in Rome) but to the slaughtered Lamb.

A young man like Michael Clarke, sharing the dressing room with the likes of Shane Warne, Glenn McGrath, Ricky Ponting, Mathew Hayden and Adam Gilchrist would have learnt how to win and how to close matches, as part of his grooming in international cricket.

She felt as wild and free as a little kid, running up the steps with Shane in hot pursuit, and when he grabbed her around the waist and spun her around into his room and kicked the door shut, she squealed in delight. And wiggled to fit herself against his warm, hard body as she kissed him again, breathless and flying. He kissed like their lives depended on it. Like it was an Olympic event and he intended to earn a medal. Somewhere in the back of her head she was chattering to herself, warning that this was going to go too far, that she was just making things worse for both of them, but she couldn't help it. Before long they were stretched out together on Shane's bed, and his big, warm hands were teasing under the hem of her shirt, stroking the fluttering skin of her stomach and stealing her breath. She lost it all when he spread his fingers out, pressing his palm flat against her, and she felt an almost irresistible impulse to feel those hands all over. Everywhere. Her heart was hammering hard enough to make her dizzy, and it was all just so ... Perfect.

Jimmy’s goal since childhood, he explained to Siegel, had been to join the cast of Saturday Night Live. He was endearing. After a two-hour call, Siegel offered to represent him. She had one question, however. “Why don’t you stay and graduate?” Jimmy was a semester shy of a degree. Siegel suggested that they get started in the summer, so he’d have a bachelor’s degree to fall back on, just in case. “No, no,” Jimmy insisted. “I need to get on Saturday Night Live, and you’re going to make it happen, because you know Adam Sandler! I don’t want to do anything else.” Siegel knew this was a long shot—and a long-term endeavor—especially for an out-of-town kid with zero acting credits. But for some reason, she couldn’t turn him down; she had never met someone as focused and passionate about a single dream as this grinning bumpkin from the tiny town of Saugerties, New York. And though his skills were rough, given some time in the industry, she thought he might just make it. “OK, let’s do this,” she said. So, in January 1996 Jimmy quit college and moved to Los Angeles. For six months, Siegel booked him gigs on small, local stand-up comedy stages. Then, without warning, SNL put a call out for auditions; three cast members would be leaving the show. Having worked with one of the departing actors, David Spade, Siegel pulled a few strings and arranged a Hail Mary for the young Jimmy Fallon: an audition at The Comic Strip. SO HERE HE WAS. Fresh-faced, sweating in his light shirt, holding his Troll doll. In front of Lorne Michaels and a phalanx of Hollywood shakers. When Jimmy ended his three-minute bit, the audience clapped politely. True to his reputation, Michaels didn’t laugh. Not once. Jimmy went home and awaited word. Finally, the results came: SNL had invited Tracy Morgan, Ana Gasteyer, and Chris Kattan, each of whom had hustled in the comedy scene for years, to join the cast. Jimmy—the newbie whose well-connected manager had finagled an invite—was crushed. “Was he completely raw? A hundred percent,” Siegel says. But, the SNL people said, “Let’s keep an eye on him.

Two cricketers who were excellent at this were the Australian captain, Steve Waugh, and the champion Indian leg spinner, Anil Kumble. Neither of them was possessed of the kind of glittering talent that a Brian Lara or a Shane Warne had, but Waugh and Kumble constantly raised the bar on their performance themselves. Waugh in fact called his book Out of My Comfort Zone and Kumble memorably said, ‘All his life Sachin Tendulkar had to live up to people’s expectations, I had to change them!’ Both set themselves very high personal performance goals and had no time for mediocrity, whether in their own cricket or anyone else’s. They proved that a combination of work ethic and challenging goals could lead you to achieve anything.

YOUR GAME HAS ELECTRIFIED MANY AND YOUR DEATH HAS SHOCKED EVERYONE ... REST IN PEACE SHANE WARNE

Opening the freezer, Easy smiled. God bless the Rixeys’ ice-cream addiction. There were so many containers, it seemed entirely plausible that they’d robbed an ice-cream delivery truck. He sorted through the tubs until he found a container of chocolate. Bingo. Next, he grabbed the milk from the fridge. And then he opened a bunch of cabinets until he found a blender at the back of one of them. The layer of dust on its surfaces told of how long it had gone unused. He rinsed and wiped it off, then brought the detachable pitcher to the other counter, where the ice cream lay waiting. Shane’s expression was two seconds away from amused. “Not a word, McCallan.” He held up his hands and shook his head, but he couldn’t hold back the smile. Fucker. Scoop, scoop, scoop, milk. Lid on, Easy placed the container on the blender and hit mix. Two minutes later, he had something approximating a very thick milk shake. He spooned it into a glass, then gathered the bagel and soup. Next he built his sandwich, sneaking pieces of beef and cheese as he worked. “Damn, that looks good,” Shane said, pushing off the stool and grabbing a plate for himself. “Think I’ll make some food for me and Sara, too.” Easy suddenly felt less self-conscious with Shane making food for his woman, too. Whoa. He froze with a piece of rye bread in his hand. Jenna was not his woman. But maybe she could be. Slapping the bread on top of the lettuce, Easy’s thoughts spun—he came up with lots of reasons why it probably wasn’t a good idea, but that didn’t make him want it any less. Mid-sandwich-making, Shane spoke in low, even tones. “We don’t have to do that thing where I tell you to handle Jenna with care if you’re thinking of starting something with her, do we?” For. Fuck. Sake. Not that Easy was particularly surprised by the question. Hadn’t he been half expecting it? And, his brain noted with interest, it wasn’t a warning off. “Nope.” “I didn’t think so,” Shane said in that same casual, even tone. “I see how protective you are of her, Easy, and I’m glad for that. I know you’ll treat her right, so I’m not saying a thing about it, except handle with care.” Nodding, Easy concentrated on making the floor stand still under his feet. “I like her, Shane,” he finally said, echoing the conversation he and Shane had had a few nights ago about Shane’s growing feelings for Sara. And, well, hi, how ya doin’, Mr. Hypocrite, Easy had told Shane he had to come clean with the team. Despite the fact that Easy hadn’t done so himself. Still. “Yeah,” Shane said, clapping him on the back of the neck and squeezing. “I know.” Wow. From the thin cabinet next to the oven Easy retrieved a baking sheet to use as a tray. Improvisation he could do. He loaded it down with everything he thought they’d need, lifted it into his arms and then he was all about getting back to Jenna.

In 1884 the editor of the Daily Picayune wrote that it would be 'more humane to punish with death all prisoners sentenced to a longer period than six years,' because the average convict lived no longer than that. At the time, the death rate of six prisons in the Midwest, where convict leasing was nonexistent, was around 1 percent. By contrast, in the deadliest year of Louisiana's lease, nearly 20 percent of convicts perished. Between 1870 and 1901, some three thousand Louisiana convicts, most of whom were black, died under James's regime. Before the war, only a handful of planters owned more than one thousand slaves, and there is no record of anyone allowing three thousand valuable human chattel to die. The pattern was consistent throughout the South, where annual convict death rates ranged from about 16 percent to 25 percent, a mortality rate that would rival the Soviet gulags to come. Some American camps were far deadlier than Stalin's: In South Carolina the death rate of convicts leased to the Greenwood and Augusta Railroad averaged 45 percent a year from 1877 to 1879. In 1870 Alabama prison officials reported that more than 40 percent of their convicts had died in their mining camps. A doctor warned that Alabama's entire convict population could be wiped out within three years. But such warnings meant little to the men getting rich off of prisoners. There was simply no incentive for lessees to avoid working people to death. In 1883, eleven years before Samuel L. James's death, one Southern man told the National Conference of Charities and Correction: 'Before the war, we owned the negroes. If a man had a good negro, he could afford to take care of him: if he was sick get a doctor. He might even put gold plugs in his teeth. But these convicts: we don't own 'em. One dies, get another.

Leg spin is infinitely and uniquely fascinating. Subhash Gupte and Bhagwat Chandrasekhar, Shane Warne and Abdul Qadir and all those other artists have provided individual nirvana to millions of cricket lovers. Our love for leg spin is the love one has for an impish, unpredictable clever child who will thrill, please, surprise and frustrate you depending on his mood.

I swear to God, Alfred, if I walk in on some sort of baby-making kobold orgy and you didn’t warn me, I’m requesting a new AI.