Synchronous perhaps?
Saw a guardian article on 47.2 being the age of peak guttedness. They harnessed this mass of moaning cunts, who all ran the confirmation bias of age & some kind of co-morbid depression. Nearly all sounded financially secure, well paid, bellying on about “but this happened which wasn’t in my life’s Christmas list & then my husband fucked my sister”.
At least you’re not on the waiting list at Advanced Hair Studio, looking at decrepit ex-cricketers all smiling cos they got their hair back. Roll with it, or googly it or whatever the term is for unpredictable deliveries in a sport that can’t be played in the rain, despite being invented in Britain. Raise your bat when you hit a half ton. Dose David Gower with a strong hallucinogen. Read Wisden in one hand while fisting your favourite fistee with the other. It could be worse without being flippant, non, like in Italy, or Stourbridge