Brisbane

1 = Australians I've met called Shane

1 = times I've seen Westlife perform

16 = hours until The Ashes start

1 = number of Southerners I've met since Sunday

6 = number of people from Hull that I've been hanging around with

So it comes to this.  After all the expense, drunkenness, plush pads, broken ribs and flying into ceiling fans the day is almost upon me.  The reason I am here, let's not forget, is to watch England's attempt to retain The Ashes.  In less than 16 hours I'll be sitting in a packed Gabba, in Brisbane, alongside 40,000 spectators.  It's so close.

It's a bit like when you were a kid on Christmas Eve when all you wanted was to get to sleep so that you can wake up on Xmas Day.  Except for one thing.  The stuffing on Christmas is usually reserved for the turkey.  And that's the risk I've taken shelling out a million, billion pounds and traveling 12,000 miles to watch this.  Although England won last year, the task facing them over the next six weeks is a monumental one.

Australians, as we know, are pretty damn good at sport.  They don't lose very often.  And when they do, they make damn sure it doesn't happen again.  They haven't lost at home since 1992 and we haven't beaten them here since 1987.  Last years Ashes win was the first for nearly 20 years.  Plus we're missing some key players.  The odds on us keeping hold of the urn aren't good.
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But the optimist in me knows that all of this will make winning that much sweeter.  I have had so many e-mails from mates back home (most of them at talkSPORT) who are sick with envy that I'm out here.  And that's what I'll be reminding myself as I make the 30 minute walk to the ground tomorrow.

Okay non-cricket fans.  Are you still with me?  I'll bring you up to date with what's been going on since I left Surfers and got to Brisbane.  We arrived at around midday after a convoluted journey that took a lot longer and more modes of transport than it should have done.  After yet another big night on the town the previous night I was determined to get to at least 8pm without starting on the booze again.  Unfortunately, Tom and our host for the evening had other plans.

We were staying at Tom's mates house for the evening.  Tim and Alex are ex-pats and had recently upped sticks and moved to Brisbane after spending the previous four years in Sydney.  I can't think why.



The house they were living in wouldn't buy you a garage in Brixton.  I know this for a fact.  About a year ago Gabe and I got excited when we found a property we thought we could afford.  We didn't realize it housed cars rather than humans.  The place that Tim and Alex were staying would set you back about a hundred grand.  Nice.  Think about that the next time you're being offered a 2-bed terraced in Colliers Wood.

We awoke the next morning following another night on the sauce, coupled with BBQ and an 8-hour poker session.  It was the last day of Tom's holiday and I felt pretty damn sad when the cab came to pick him up for the airport.  But not as sad as Tom.  For he had work the next day to fly back to.  We'd had a fantastic couple of weeks and I wasn't sure what I was going to do without my travel partner.

I was staying in a hostel in town and I got dropped off there in the early hours of the afternoon.  Apart from a couple of nights in Boston with Dave, I haven't really done the hostel thing.  And my fears weren't allayed by the conversation I listened into whilst waiting to book in.

Disgruntled backpacker: my bed is infested with some form of creature.  I've got bites all over me and I can see them crawling around my sheets.

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place: See if you can change beds.

Disgruntled backpacker:  My rooms full

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place:  Look I can't do anything about it today.  Try another room and we'll fumigate it tomorrow

Disgruntled backpacker:  Okay

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place: Oh and one other thing.

Disgruntled backpacker: Yep?

Stereotypical 45-year old stoner who runs the place: Try and get a top bunk.  The bastards find it more difficult to get up there.

I'm pretty damn sure that if I went and found the aforementioned bed it would still be infested.  Yuk.

Somehow I resisted the urge to turn round and walk away from the place.  I was being paid to be inside the Barmy Army camp and it wouldn't sound good if I'd rung Tim and asked if I could crash at his place for the week.  So I've been there all week and I'm pleased to say am yet to find the missing link between my bedsheets.

Since then I've spent a few days chilling out, checking out the town and meeting up with fellow cricket fans.  It's been fantastic.  I feel really relaxed.  The city of Brisbane is very modern and with the constant 30 degree heat nobody seems in much of a rush.  I went on a river cruise and took about 100 photos which I intended to put up on this site.  But somehow I managed to delete them all.  So this blog entry may be a little sparse on the photo front.

With 10,000 English expected to be in town for the first Test it's been pretty difficult to meet anyone without a recognizable accent.  But I did spent part of Sunday night, or rather Monday morning, attempting to explain the intricacies of the googly and reverse swing to a couple of frencies..  But I don't think I had much joy.

I also met up with the two Hull lads that I'd spent some time with in Surfers.  They were with another big group of Hull boys.  Thank god I went to University there or I wouldn't have had anything to say to them.  In fact I probably wouldn't understand what they were going on about anyway.

Last night I took them to a televised event on Brisbane's South Bank.  It was a 2-hour Ashes spectacular.  It included appearances from some of the cricket greats like Ian Botham, Geoffrey Boycott, Ricky Ponting, Michael Vaughan and Richie Benaud.  It was great fun.  I've never been in the audience for a live TV show like this before.  And because we were part of the Barmy army they put us in the second row.  I must have been on TV every time they came back from a break.

About an hour in they went to a music act.  And in trouped four sheepish looking Irish guys.  I'm not sure who was more unimpressed.  The 200 pasty faced Englishmen staring up at the stage from the first row or Westlife.  They got through their song in double quick time, accepted the half-hearted applause with disdain before they buggered off.  It was all pretty surreal.

Okay.  That's it for now.  The next time I write I'll have a pretty good idea how this tour is going to pan out.  Fingers crossed.