"Four More to the Eng-er-land"

The Spider House - A Review!

2012-01-17T16:44:00.012Z

If you are the type of person who likes being woken in the middle of the night by an upper-middle class 30-something woman in the room next door chastising her partner then the Spider House resort in Boracay is the place for you.

"Oh for fucks sake Simon! Don't climb in that SIDE!!!!!"

If you are the kind of holidaymaker who enjoys listening to Russian couples complaining about their wet luggage after leaving it out in the rain then look no further than the Spider House resort in Boracay.

"This room. Not good. Tomorrow we leave."

If on the other hand you are the sort who cannot abide falling asleep at night to the sound of waves crashing over rocks beneath your room, detests views such as this first thing in the morning & who hates sleeping in a treehouse then I would steer well clear.

For our wedding anniversary Fe and I spent four days on an island in the Phillipines called Boracay. Considering I hadn't actually known of its existence three days previously meant at times I found it slightly surreal to peer out over such wondrous landscape. I'd been expecting to spend two weeks in a typical built up Asian city. Now I was lolling around sipping freshly made mango juice by the Philippine Sea watching clouds roll across the sky. It was at times too much to take in.

The first I had known about our trip came on my first morning in Macau. Following my 12 hour flight I had been woken in the morning by a distraught Fe who was pointing at strange weather symbols on her laptop.

Confused, I wiped the sleep from my eyes to be told a holiday had been secretly booked. However Fe had just seen the weather forecast where thunder, lightening and rain featured heavily. It was quite a lot to take in. Joy & surprise entwined with disappointment; all delivered seconds after waking up at what was in effect 2am UK time.

I spent the next day studying the weather maps, Fe asking advice from Filipino work mates. They assured her that the weather was so changeable we should risk it. Also, that even when it rains it's still warm. This advice backed up my own findings. The day we were due to land forecast rain, cloud, wind, lightning and sun. Now that I had to see.

The other bit of research I undertook was into the airline we were flying with. I had to get my head around four new flights that I hadn't contended with. A quick scan of Cebu Pacific Air's Wikipedia page allayed my fears that we were flying with a tinpot outfit. A new fleet, decent safety record and the planes were a nice, bright yellow colour. I was starting to relax right up until the last section which told me that no Filipino airline was allowed anywhere near EU airspace due to serious safety deficiencies. Ulp.

I decided there was little point telling Fe about my findings. Nor the fact that four aeroplanes had either under or overshot the runway we were flying into over the past five years. Hell, nobody had died. And what were we going to do. Cancel our holiday? Nah, I figured. It was far better to keep this bit of stress to myself.

And in the end the journey, as it usually is, was without incident. The only annoyance a four hour wait at Manilla airport before a 5.30am flight to Caticlan. Thankfully we neither under or overshot the runway and despite drops of rain greeting us we boarded our next two modes of transport in good spirits.

It was 7am when we arrived at the Spider House and our hosts seemed surprised to see us. Not because we were early rather that we were late. They had expected us the day before. But after a worrying three-way exchange of glances the situation was quickly resolved. And with diazepam still coursing through my veins I chilled out in the communal area as our room was readied. We both sat down and tried to get our heads around the fact we were going to be living in a bamboo treehouse for the next few days.

Before we had left Macau we agreed to accept whatever weather was thrown at us. And we proved to be good to our word. We had learned the lesson from our wedding. Indeed it seemed almost poetic that a year after two cyclones descended on our wedding day they should re-emerge for our anniversary. But as it was the worst of the rain was to hit that afternoon while we caught up on our sleep. Then through our last night when two Russians failed to heed the warnings of the Spider House owner about their luggage.

However I couldn't help but be excited when I awoke the next morning to beautiful sunshine and a breathtaking view across the bay to Diniwid Beach. Normally if given the chance I'll happily spend an entire morning in bed. But in these surroundings I woke early. I think in part it was the happiness of being on holiday and wanting to enjoy the day. But mainly it was due to the fact our room didn't have any bloody windows. The sound of Filipino boats zipping around is pleasant but noisy.

Somewhat embarrassingly we then proceeded to both get sunburnt. So relieved to get some sun and fooled by the sporadic cloud cover we failed to put on any suntan cream and were thankful for a cooler afternoon. Which was spent walking up and down the neighbouring White Beach. A beach far busier than the one we were staying near. It even has a Starbucks. The horror of which needs no comment from me. I'm more of a Costa man.

Considering we had both been working six days a week for the past two months we set ourselves the target of doing as little as possible and this was achieved fairly easily. Our only exertions were daily massages (£6 an hour), dips in the sea (free) and happy hour drinks (£3 for two). We were both more than happy to chill out on our balcony, catch up with some reading & pop downstairs every now and again for a drink.

And this is where the Spider House really came into its own. For there was no real reason to have to leave. If we wanted a swim then we used the ladder from the communal area straight down to the sea. It was actually easier to jump in the water than use the shower.

The food was cheap, tasty and prepared by friendly local staff. The owner was on hand to help with any tourist information. Families, couples and experienced travellers mixed happily. The sound system played a mixture of reggae, dance & 60's music to create a pleasant ambience. Then every now and again a flushed in the face tourist would just turn up unannounced, sit down and have a drink before disappearing off again.

Amusing exchanges would also crop up every now and again to keep me amused. Like the middle-aged couple who turned up one morning with their awkward teenage daughter. The two women sat down, red in the face after an early morning walk. The overweight man approached the bar.

Man: You are serving?
Owner: Yes. What are you having?
Man: Two cokes and a beer.
Owner: A beer? It's nine thirty in the morning! (PAUSE) You must be Russian, right?
Man: (PROUDLY) Yes!

Concerns the Spider House was so called because it was overrun by huge & hairy arachnids also turned out to be inaccurate. While mosquitos were a problem at sunset the only creatures we encountered were bats snapping away at the insects at dusk. And the sound of the geckos scampering around the walls. It turned out that the only real drawback was the close proximity to guests with loud voices.

The only dangerous thing about our stay was the lift to the restaurant next door. It was ridiculous. Apart from the extreme juddering it wasn't so bad on the way up. But on the way down we soon found out why the lift operator warned us before we began our descent. We had feared the ride was going to be bad when during our meal we heard a woman let out a blood curdling scream. Thankfully by the time our turn came round we'd shared a bottle of wine to fortify our courage.. Okay, my courage.

Ultimately our Spider House experience was one worth writing about. After a hiatus of nearly a year it gave me the inspiration to get this 'blog up and running again. I'm not sure if this is anything to celebrate. But it does feel good to be writing. And with a few ideas in the pipeline for 2012 it could be a good time to start up again. Relaxed and rejuvenated thanks to a few days in a treehouse. Who'd have thought that two weeks ago?

Rock and rules

2011-04-26T16:22:00.002+01:00

I hate it when I hear people going on about how things were better in their day. "Oh, kids today have no respect", "you don't get comedy on TV like that anymore", "music isn't what it was when I was growing up". What a load of boring and inaccurate tosh, it really is. Generalisation was certainly more insightful when I were a lad.

People believe such tripe because a) they have short memories, b) unlike when they were growing up their identity is now no longer defined by music, comedy & TV, and c) they are now adults being shown little respect from kids rather than the other way around.

It's rare that you get the chance to do something you used to do as a kid that you haven't done for years. But this happened the Friday before last when I was at a rock club in Derby celebrating my oldest mate Andy Larkum's stag do. By oldest mate I don't mean he's approaching eighty I just mean I've known him longer than I've known anyone else. Thirty years and counting to be precise. Here, look, it's a picture of the back of Andy's head in the moshpit.

There once was a day when I would have been in there with him singing along, throwing my elbows about & avoiding the large, aged, skinhead nutter in the middle. Like many who grew up in London during the early 90's I crowd surfed my teenage years away at Brixton Academy, raided Army Surplus stores the length and breadth of Croydon and broke my arm stage diving off my parents sofa to 'Love Your Money' by Daisy Chainsaw after they went away for the weekend. I told them I fell down the stairs.

But due to suffering the after effects of being elbowed in the ribs during footy the week earlier (and the fact I unwittingly chose the start of 'Teen Spirit' to go to the gents) I settled for an armchair view where I soon realised Andy had turned into that token, aged skinhead nutter.

Whilst spending an enjoyable evening listening to old tunes and new & watching the different characters interact & the action unfold I realised that a few things had changed from my day. Not got worse, not got better, just changed. These are as follows.

1. It's now acceptable to strum the air guitar whilst moshing. I would suggest that this is a bad thing.

2. Where Anthrax v Public Enemy was once a celebrated one off collaboration, rap entwined with rock is now standard fare. I would also suggest that this is a bad thing.

3. Iron Maiden are cool again. Definitely a bad thing although 'Aces High' was a good tune.

4. Very little army surplus on show. This does not concern me.

5. Blokes standing in a circle singing every word to every song. When I was at school it was only the girls who knew the words to every song. That is a fact.

These things are the same

1. Long hair
2. Large men
3. Black t-shirts
4. Infected piercings
5. Crap tattoos
6. Acne
7. Shouting
8. Sweaty group hugs between blokes that make the women present feel awkward and unsure about what to do with themselves

I also noticed that the newer music seemed overly produced and synthetic when put up against the old classics 'Welcome to the Jungle', 'Smells like Teen Spirit' and 'Killing in the Name of'. I'd like to think that maybe this was reflected in the reaction when these songs came on. Songs written by truly angry, dysfunctional scoundrels with pain to express.

For when these three songs came on people immediately stopped hugging each other, ceased singing along and the air guitars were put firmly to the side. Instead I watched with a smile on my face as the frenzy took hold and those present began throwing themselves around like madmen during a full moon, beer glasses starting crashing against the wall and only the most sturdy of female remained. Now all of that certainly would have happened in my day.

Last day at work

2011-01-09T07:30:00.010Z

Everyone has daydreamed at least once in their lives about signing off in style. Flipping the 'V' to the boss, telling the chump who somehow wangled his way into middle-management where to go and sparking out the office dickhead. All the while 'RATM' are providing the soundtrack. In years gone by Cameron Diaz would have just happened to witness this incredible scene. Unfortunately real life can never come close to what the mind can conjure up.

Take last Friday for instance. In effect it was my last day at work. After two months of getting up early, long days (thankless days with little or no credit for my undertaking) and constant networking in the evening it was finally time to pack up and go home.

If Boyz to Men had been in the country they'd no doubt have been at the foot of my bed when I awoke. As it was they weren't. And so, alone, and for the final time, my first action was to pull back the curtains and look skywards for an indication of what weather the day would bring.

Curse those trees, those beautiful, elegant trees, for blocking my view of what I hoped was blue sky and golden sun. At least they couldn't cover up the tranquil sound of the estuary water lapping against the shore, the chattering birds and wind rustling through the foliage.

After a leisurely shower I set off and soon realised I was running late. I therefore should probably not have bothered taking a photo of the driveway and its steep incline. Especially after I got half way up and remembered I'd left my bus ticket in my other shorts.

Ten minutes later I arrived at the bus stop sweating heavily and anxious that I hadn't missed my hourly bus. It would not be wise to arrive late on my last day at work. Thankfully the bus hadn't yet arrived and the queue yet to reach London rush-hour levels of ramajam.

And there were few people at the ferry terminal for my second mode of transport. Maybe scared off by the threat of showers, I reasoned.

As is my custom I sat down on one of the seats on deck to read the local paper. The frong page made interesting reading.

As did the back.

The weather had worsened by the time I reached Circular Quay and sadly forced me to put away my newspaper. Honestly, how have I put up with such conditons for so many months? How I long for a short walk along crowded London streets and being tightly (yet cosily) squeezed into a comfy tubed train to the office in the morning!

Thankfully by the time I got off the ferry the conditions had eased and I quickly noted that unlike the previous four days it appeared very few of those awaiting the bus were of Australian descent. As I stopped off for my customary coffee I could not fathom why.

The bus always drops my off a five minute walk from my workplace so I fought my way through the crowds and made my way up to level seven where my officeplace awaits. As is the norm my co-workers were indifferent to my presence.

As it was my last day I wasted no time with pleasantries and disappeared out of the office. Nobody would miss me today of all days. And it is the mark of the man that my father had made the 12,000 mile journey across land and sea to wish me well on my final day.

Despite rain bring a halt to proceedings for a short while it wasn't enough to stop the good times. Here, for some reason is a picture of Steve Smith getting hit by a short ball from Jimmy Anderson.

I'd be lying if I were to say that I hadn't expected my work mates to make some effort to mark my last day in the office. But it's fair to say that the guys really outdid themselves this time. As fireworks displays go it's not quite Sydney Harbour but I appreciated the effort.

And for those of you still interested in what up to now has been nothing more than a humdrum day here are a selection of what else happened on my last day before a well earned break.

And before I knew it a day I'd spent many years dreaming about had come to an end. Only time will tell whether I ever step foot in the SCG doors again. But that's to decide upon sometime in the future. For now it's time to kick back and relax. A well deserved four week holiday awaits.

View from the stand

2011-01-04T00:05:00.005Z

Cricket fans are split over their opinion of the Barmy Army. For some the BA offer a much needed escape from one-sided or humdrum cricket. There is an appreciation of the originality of the songs, the amusing characters that play their part in the general BA pantomime & a feeling that the sight and sound add to the days play.

But other supporters get annoyed by the media attention heaped on Jimmy Saville & Co. They don't appreciate the monotony of 'Everywhere we go' for sessions on end nor the spectacle of hundreds of drunken people going pink in the sunshine. And they might turn their noses up at the fans seeking to take attention away from the game itself. But for me there is a far worse genre of cricket watcher than the stereotypical BA member and they are just as frequent a sight at cricket grounds the world over.

Though it's a bigger problem during an English summer where tickets are expensive, seats strictly assigned & the opportunity to move an impossibility. But I have found exactly the same issue while watching cricket in Australia, New Zealand and throughout the Caribbean. For not even the sight of Mitchell Johnson finding swing with his first ball of the day can inject the same sinking feeling when two or three overs into play up pipes the unmistakable sound of either 'the bore' or 'the boorish' cricket fan.

These creatures are similar in many ways. Both possess little in the way of social skill, neither has any awareness & both believe it holds the answer to just about any social, economic or cricket conundrum. Their voices are deeply monotone & designed to travel the length of a regulation sport stadium stand. It means there is no escaping the sound but also highlights one key difference between the two. For while the cricket bore is a solitary species which rarely travels in a pair its voice is designed to warn off others of the same ilk. The boorish cricket fan however usually travels in groups of up to twelve. And its distinctive call is used to attract males from miles around.

Proof of their existence can be seen every time the camera pans onto the crowd. You know that one of these types are in the vicinity because everyone else in the stand has chosen to pay $25 for a small radio earpiece to avoid having to hear them. Channel 9 will have you think it's because of the adverts they play on a loop every two overs. It's not. It's just that nobody wants to hear the right-wing views of the bloke sitting two rows back.

It's been a recurring theme throughout the tour. In Perth I watched four idiots try and tell the police that German's find the 'German Bombers' song they were chanting hilarious. Thankfully it didn't wash and they were ejected. In Melbourne I sat with three drunk Leeds fans who waved football flags around, put on strong Yorkshire accents and repeated a few key northern phrases over and over again. This went on for hours. They sang Leeds Utd songs and laughed heartily at their own comments. In the end I had enough and I left them to it. Nathan stuck around and overheard one of them saying that he'd only ever been to Elland Road three times in his life. This is the type of moron you have to put up with at the cricket.

It's obviously not a cultural thing. It took three Tests and fully fifteen days of cricket before I heard something from the Australian crowd that made me laugh. Sitting just behind the Barmy Army inside the MCG's Bay 12 the recognisable sound of Billy Cooper's trumpet started up. After a couple of notes in respectful silence from the fans an Aussie yelled out "play some Metallica!". It was spontaneous, the delivery & timing spot on, and it conjured up a ridiculous image. It. Was. Funny.

While experiencing the bore in full flow can be equally painful as they loudly proclaim their views on whether Graeme Swann could develop a zooter, obscure 1970's first-class cricketers and scoreboard architecture. It's a bit like listening to someone on the mobile phone throughout an eight-hour train journey. Or reading this 'blog.

Unsurprisingly, Sydney couldn't escape either. Yesterday afternoon I went and sat with my family in the Victor Trumper Stand. It's only two years old and unlike it's predecessor has a roof and everything. But despite the modern sheen it also features a bronze statue in the front row of its most famous cricket fan, 'The Yabba'. It appears that its not just the Australian players who used to be better.

As the covers came off and play resumed we all took our seats and a hush descended on the ground. All attention was on the first few deliveries. Arms folded, flasks on the ground, a minimum of chatter and the players had a capacity crowd's full attention. It was exactly how the purists would like it. And then from behind it started.....

Boor 1: The thing with you Aussies is that you never make up any good songs

Boor 2: It's all Aussie, Aussie, Aussie. So boring. I mean, come on. You can do better. We've got loads.

Boor 1: That Mitchell Johnson song.

Boor 2: (Tunelessly) He bowls to the left, he bowls to the right, that Mitchell Johnson, his bowling is shiite.

Aussie 1: (Cackle)

Boor 1: (Warming to the theme) It's not just in the cricket. There's a place here spelt W-A-G-G-A-W-A-G-G-A. But it's pronounced WOGGAWOGGA. What's that all about?

Boor 2: You wouldn't get that in England.

Boor 1: (Despairingly) Well you wouldn't be allowed to call it that in England

Boor 2: (Sadly) No you wouldn't.

I had spent the entire day hoping the rain would stay away and now suddenly I was almost praying it would return. As the two Boors continued on their PC-Brigade-bashing way time started to slow to a crawl. Watching Michael Clarke leave another Tim Bresnan delivery from outside off the end of the days play seemed very distant indeed. And then it happened.

The unmistakable sound of Billy Coooper's trumpet warbled up from the stand below and to the right. A cheer followed, the Barmy Army got to their feet, and a song I'd heard a hundred times before but one that had never sounded so sweet started to drown out the two middle aged bastards behind me. Another followed and then the 'Av It Man' made an appearance. My dad hadn't seen him before. He laughed, I laughed. No nonsense. And then before I knew it Clarke had cut one to point and the roars from the crowd made everything okay again.

Unlike the bore and boorish, The Barmy Army are only an ever present overseas. Back home they find their wings continually clipped by the ECB and they cannot congregate in the numbers like they do here. They may not be everyone's cup of tea but they can always be relied on.

The BA support England in a fashion that football fans could learn from. They provide humour, music and atmosphere. And if they ever cared about changing opinions within the more staid cricket community then there could be no better way than hiring themselves out at the start of a days play. As soon as the first deep throated utterance is detected simply dial 0800 BARMY ARMY and a small group will come over and start singing until the bore or the boorish shut up. It wouldn't be long before the cricket world will be united in their admiration for what the Barmy Army does for Test cricket. Which is how it should be anyway.

A day at the cricket

2011-01-03T23:43:00.005Z

Despite the finest forecasters indicating otherwise the skies once again grumbled ominously as I made my way to work this morning. But this time I wasn't unduly concerned. After all the fretting yesterday the family enjoyed a truncated & interrupted days play yet one which included a fine battle between bat and ball.

While it won't go down as the defining day of the campaign it managed to encapsulate much of what this series has been about. Changeable conditions where 134 runs in fifty-nine tight overs were scored, four wickets taken, a stylish cameo on debut, disciplined bowling & determined batting. It's what Test cricket should always be about.

Lifting the gloom

2011-01-03T02:35:00.006Z

There was plenty on my mind on the way to the SCG today. And while there can only ever be two winners in cricket throughout my two-hour trek to the ground not even the Ashes could break into my top three mental battles. So instead of concerns over Mitchell Johnson, Michael Hussey and whether English hangovers will clear in time to complete a 3-1 win. Today I was more concerned with the weather, my round-the-houses journey and my hangover. In that order.

Whether in prayer, disbelief or to scan the horizon for rain, cricket fans spend much of their time staring skywards and today has been no different. After three days of idyllic weather in Sydney the rains started to descend about four hours into Fe and I's pre-wedding BBQ on Tamarama Beach yesterday. Not that we'd let that get in the way of a good time. Or a Hawaiian theme, for that matter.

Rain throughout the night was followed by a 7am start and nowhere near enough sleep in the bag. And despite the hangover my first thought and action was to turn to my window and peer up to the heavens. For day one of the Sydney test meant one thing. A 12,000 mile journey and a single day out at the cricket for my dad, brother and cousin.

By the time I had waited for a bus that never arrived, walked 3k to the ferry terminal in spitting rain, I became more and more worried. Low grey cloud covered Sydney as far as the eye could see. And it was more with hope than expectation that I thought the skies appeared slightly clearer above the centre of Sydney where I was heading.

It's not often you can say you've seen your country play on the other side of the world. The last time my family had attempted to join me overseas for some cricket the game in Antigua had been cancelled half an hour before their plane landed. Thankfully that was a situation that could be rectified by common sense. The weather doesn't run along similar lines.

People say it's too hot to drink coffee in Australia. It certainly wasn't this morning as an hour before play I arrived at Circular Quay and stood in an ever growing queue for a bus whilst warming my hands on my drink. Was it my imagination of had conditions eased? It certainly seem lighter and the city still dry.

Over two hours after I had left the house I got myself into position to watch the first ball of the day and it occurred to me how quickly priorities can change. For months I'd been dreaming of watching England beat Australia in the Ashes. For weeks I had travelled around the country my every mood directly affected by England's fortunes on the pitch. But now the game was under way and I hadn't given it any thought. All I was concerned about was how much cricket my family would watch before the heavens opened. Just let them have two sessions, I thought.

Fast forward to right here, right now and a quick check at the clock tells me we've gone past the halfway point of the afternoon session and only ten minutes of play has been lost so far. Phil Hughes went late in the first session, Shane Watson moments ago. Now my priority has changed.

The ABC radio commentary team tell me we'll be lucky to get another hour in. Two sessions is the minimum I want for my family now. The race is now on for more wickets. One more before the weather stumps us? One more memory for my family to take away with them? To talk about in the months and years ahead when my journey to work on this grey Monday morning is long forgotten. One more wicket to reminisce about forever more when they tell people they were there, they were in Australia in 2010 when England retained the Ashes.

The Streakers Tale

2010-12-27T04:58:00.002Z

I studied Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales for three years at school and by the time I sat down to write about it in my end of year exam found I hadn’t understood a single word. I think the point of the book was to tell the tale of such characters as a minstrel’s mum, a lepers toe and fat priest. But I might be wrong. But although most of it passed me by I’m fairly confident ‘The Streakers Tale’ didn’t feature.

So let me take it upon myself to fill this startling omission. My middle English isn’t so good though so I’ll use pictures instead and rather than setting my magnum opus in 14^th century London my story begins and ends in Perth.

It costs $7,000 to invade the field of play in Australia and even taking into account the 14^th century exchange rate this has always been quite a bit of money. So what do you get for your buck? Well after being pursued across the turf flinging clothing and cigarettes around with carefree abandon you get bundled by a group of large bearded Australian security guards while everyone in the crowd cheers and starts a collection bucket.

In rugby play continues when there is an injury on the field. Sadly this doesn’t happen when a streaker appears in cricket. So the players stop what they’re doing (which isn’t much) and try not to laugh just in case the TV cameras pick it up and they get in trouble for seeming to encourage such behaviour.

It’s important that Australians are ever spared the sight of the crown jewels for fear they might revolt against their English rulers. Once this has been averted you are escorted from the field.

The security guards understand that $7,000 is a lot of money (even in Perth) and are sympathetic folk so they make sure you get full value for your outgoings. So they parade you around all four corners of the ground so that your proud mum can take a couple of photos.

However the goodwill only lasts while in view of the crowd. They then take you behind a wall and give you a good old fashioned pummeling. Pugil sticks will feature and jousting will rarely be of the verbal kind.

But they do let you put your trousers on beforehand. This isn’t for your benefit it just makes procuring the $7,000 from your wallet that much easier.

For the streaker in Perth it is then a case of making ones way to the nearest mine where you can earn the money back by working in the kitchens for an afternoon.

Christmas Day presence

2010-12-26T10:55:00.000Z

As someone very profound once remarked “life is a strange beast” (I think it was my brother. Or possibly it was me) and I have to agree (with either Dave or myself) it is a strange beast, it really is. I found myself thinking this yesterday and again today. Maybe I will think it tomorrow as well. By then I will have remembered who it was who actually said it in the first place. Maybe I should google it?

I’ve just googled it and am none the wiser. I think I should get on with the point I am trying to make which is that yesterday I spent my first Christmas in New Zealand. If you’ve never travelled to this side of the world you’d be forgiven for thinking that this is a straight forward thing to do. But Auckland is five hours ahead of Perth, two flights and seven hours away. My route was similar to flying from the UK to Cyprus then onto Morocco. So it was never going to be as straightforward as it might seem. But the chance to see Fe for the first time in six weeks and spend Christmas with her family for the first time made it a no-brainer.

I’d been warned by Fe that her Christmas traditions are very different from the ones I enjoy at home. For while the family Norman usually bunker down around the 24^th December and emerge three or four days later blinking into the daylight with sore heads and swollen bellies the family Fe have to cram in their vast extended family network. And following my first experience of spending the 25th in the company of thousands I now know why it is that when New Zealanders meet on the other side of the world they find a common link almost immediately. They are all related.

My morning was spent at one of Fe’s many relations houses in Auckland. There were about 30 adults, kids and babies present. Mince pie competitions, secret Santa, three different types of meat for dinner and plenty of red wine, champagne, cheese and nice things to eat. The only thing missing was the sun which despite positive forecasts refused to attend. It was hectic, fun and informal. Exactly how I like things. And I noticed that I was especially welcomed by the husbands & wives of Casey members who no doubt remembered what it was like to undergo this initiation ceremony for the first time.

After a couple of hours power nap back at Fe’s house we then spent the evening at close family friends, the Joyce’s. There weren’t quite so many people this time but still plenty of new faces to meet and names to learn as well as another Christmas dinner, red wine & champagne to consume. And it was whilst sitting in the living room with a glass in my hand and conversation floating around it dawned on me just how weird & amazing life can be.

I was spending Christmas Day slightly drunk, jet-lagged & surrounded by my New Zealand family and friends. And normally Boxing Day would be a case of more of the same please. But this time I was contemplating an early start followed by a 4-hour flight and a seat 3,000 miles away in amongst 90,000 sports fans in a different country watching the resumption of the Ashes. That’s a weird thought to have when you’re sitting someone’s living room with a daft hat on your head that you’ve just pulled from a Christmas cracker.

The mob

2010-12-26T07:46:00.001Z

There were 84,000 in the MCG today. About 7,000 down on what could have been a world record for a cricket match in this country. With Australia seemingly down and out the ground had emptied by 4pm. The moron to captain sensible ratio by this point was around evens.

Australian, English, northern, southern, drunkards, teenagers & oldens all united in their capacity to act the fool. The fun police, security guards and what looked like riot officers all earned their holiday pay today. Relentlessly they trooped into the crowd to turf out a goon or two. Those escorted from the premises seemed almost relieved that they could leave. To a man they’d salute their fellow morons and head off home with a crap story to tell.

It all washed over me though. I was once again too transfixed by the cricket to care about the beer snakes. During breaks in play while drunken Aussies tried to get a Mexican Wave started I spent my time trying to remember a more one-sided day’s play (in England’s favour). And when the sun disappeared behind the ground and the lunatics began to take over the asylum I sought refuge in the press box so I could watch the remainder in peace. I might have been up since 1am but I think I might treat myself to a relaxing pint or two. And to hell with the price.

Bouncing back

2010-12-19T03:04:00.006Z

Four years and one day ago I stood with the Barmy Army defiantly singing cricket chants throughout the final session of play as England lost the Ashes in Perth. We sang whilst the Aussies celebrated, through the post-match speeches and then for another hour following the close of play. The other stands were deserted, the players back in the dressing rooms, all that remained were a few seagulls scouring the ground for discarded chips and a couple of security guards wondering when we would shut up & leave so they could go home.

The Barmy Army are a more subdued force this time around. Chastened after two harrowing days of cricket. Fear has replaced confidence. Questions where there were answers. Doubt has crept into the psyche. Fans are seeking guidance and solace from all quarters. But unlike four years ago there is still hope and once this result is put to bed expectation.

Four years and one day ago I walked away from the Waca with the series over & nothing to play for. This time I'm leaving with the entire series in the balance. The feeling back then was of resignation. We'd known what was coming after day five at Adelaide. This time I feel sick with the thought I might have to watch Ricky Ponting's smug face hold the Ashes aloft. Again.

But at the same time the thoughts of a capacity crowd at the MCG, of a decider at the SCG with my family in the stands, of the inevitable twists and turns that lead cricket fans to look to the skies in exasperation or exultation is why I've made this journey. The last two days have been unpalatable and the next couple won't be much better. But as long as we win in the end I wouldn't want it any other way.

The Perth Lunchbox

2010-12-18T05:14:00.005Z

One of the delights following cricket around Australia is experiencing life in the different states, cities and stadiums that you spend your time in. Because of the huge distances & the flights involved it sometimes feels like you're travelling from country to country. And while there are differences between a day out at Lord's and a days cricket at The Oval it's not like it is over here where all the big five have something unique about them.

Brisbane has the Gabbatoir. A brutal, imposing and graceless stadium that has shades of the colosseum about it. There is no skyline, no point of difference and no escaping the barracking spectators who surround you from on high and from all corners.

Adelaide has history & the most picturesque ground in the world. Situated on the banks of the Adelaide river, with tree lined paths, lush green parks, a cathedral at one end and a bronze statue of Don Bradman outside. It's an idyllic ground and with the square boundaries so short you feel you can almost touch the batsmen.

Perth has a wild west feel. A frontier town miles from anywhere with a spit & sawdust approach to its ground. It's not pretty, the stands and pavilion look disjointed & outdated but the ugliness is part of its appeal. While it's track offers more pace and bounce than anywhere else in Australia.

Melbourne is one of only two 'proper' cities. It has a relaxed & confident ambience, a culture of small bars and outdoor cafes and its imposing 98,000 seater stadium which casts its shadow over the city. It has the traditional Boxing Day Test which will be quite some sight when this series rolls into town.

While Sydney has the swagger, the Opera House, the Bridge and the wow-factor. Its ground retains some of the old charm with its traditional and ladies pavilion but can still fit in over 45,000 spectators. It's also the pitch that offers spin and carry. A result wicket to round the series off.

But there are also the more subtle differences, the ones that don't always spring to mind or become immediately apparent the moment your plane touches down. The people you encounter on an evening out, the mannerisms or accents, the weather and the entertainment. And of course the food.

For the paying punter food at cricket grounds in this country differs little whether you're watching state cricket in Brisbane or Ashes cricket in Perth. Pies, chips and mid-strength beer are the order of the day and all your waterproof buck is going to get you. But for the press boys it's a different story. The lunches on offer can become thing of legend. And during particularly tiresome passages of play the focal point of the day. And just like the Aussie team on this tour when they're good they're really good. But when they're bad............

With the Aussie lead now approaching 400 and this game out of sight for the English let's take the opportunity to turn away from the action and have a look at what really matters. How the three grounds have compared so far in the luncheon stakes.

Brisbane

Boasted a hot buffet option & indoor setting that wasn't out of place in a corporate function. Proper cutlery, sit down facilities, ice cold drinks and a selection of dishes that kept you interested right up until day five. Then after lunch ice creams were in plentiful supply. Basil 'Jamie' D'Oliveira rating. Five stars.

Adelaide

Also offered a buffet option & on days when I'd gone without breakfast I'd arrive half-starved and in the crush grab everything which took my fancy. It meant that I'd often sit down with strange combination lunches featuring lamb stew, rice a couple of chicken breasts coated in plum sauce & a lamb chop. It was great.

The only minus was that the marquee setting had a temporary feel & the lack of air-con meant that I was forced to wolf down my food as quickly as possible. And while the food itself was also a drop downwards in terms of selection and quality it was still hearty tucker as I believe it is described in these parts. Basil 'Jamie' D'Oliveira rating. Four stars.

Perth

My initial concern came at the stroke of lunch when the press boys were informed that instead of going to the food the food would be coming to us. "But how will I select from the hot buffet if I can't leave our seats" I wondered.

My second concern came twenty minutes later when there was still no sight of the food.

My third concern came ten minutes after this when this strange black box was put on my desk.

My fourth concern came when I began to eat it. This concern didn't last very long because I stopped eating fairly quickly.

So let's take a little look inside The Perth Lunchbox. It seems that on a typical day it is split up into five sections. Section one is a piece of meat. I'm writing this on day three and I'm still not sure what was served up on day one. It looked a little like pate, had the consistency of corned beef and the taste of an in-grown toenail.

Section two is a salad. Today's salad is four large hunks of beetroot doused in what looks like beetroot juice.

Section three is a roll. I can't find too much to write about with this section.

Section four is perhaps the best of the lot. Three cheeses and some water biscuits with a sprinkling of hazelnuts and walnuts. Unfortunately I don't like cheese. Or walnuts. So that's out.

Then section five is the pudding. Which today was a stodgy slice of raisin & pastry pie.

I'm glad there isn't a section six.

Basil 'Jamie' D'Oliveira rating. One star.

And so for a myriad of reasons roll on Sydney & Melbourne!

Reasons to be cheerful

2010-12-18T03:55:00.003Z

No.703 - Watching Shane Watson get out in the 90's. He's now done it five times. I only wish I'd been present for the other four.

Sleepless nights

2010-12-18T03:23:00.003Z

And so the halfway point has been reached. Day three of the 3rd Test and with the series seemingly set for one-all with two to play there are still far more questions than answers. Which is exactly how it should be. And finally everyone realises just how much is at stake and what an achievement it will be for either team to win what's turned into a classic Ashes contest.

As much as an England win would have been rejoiced here and at home it would still have been greeted almost with an air of diffidence. It's a very English thing to rubbish the national team when they lose. But then following victory concentrate on the weakness of the opposition. And that's what would have happened if we'd wrapped this up in Perth.

But now the Aussies have bared their teeth and shown their fighting & cricketing qualities an English victory (if it happens) will surely be treated as the remarkable achievement it really would be. Australia have lost a home series once in eighteen years. Then when they did lose (2-1 to South Africa) they promptly went to Graeme Smith's backyard and returned the favour. This is a tough team in a tough country. It's just that they, like we, forgot it for a couple of Tests.

Knowing this series is now set to run throughout Xmas & NYE through to Sydney is fantastic for the Ashes 2010/11 spectacle and will make winning or losing it much more of an emotionally heightened experience. But it also makes sleeping difficult at night.

Show us your Johnson

2010-12-17T11:05:00.005Z

After eight days of English domination Australia finally fought back today to drive stakes of fear and doubt through my heart. With assistance from the Fremantle Doctor a potent mix of a four strong pace attack, some Steve Waugh sledging and crucially, the appearance of swing put to an end any hopes England and I had of wrapping this series up before Christmas.

But when have England ever done things the easy way? As co-founder of the Barmy Army, Paul Burnham was quick to point out. We won the 1966 World Cup in extra time, the 2003 Rugby World Cup in extra time and won the 2005 Ashes by two runs at Edgbaston. To watch England win anything you have to be put through the emotional ringer first. And maybe that's how it should be.

I've lost count of the amount of people who've told me that winning in Adelaide didn't feel as special as they thought it would be. The chants of 'easy, easy, easy' just don't sit right when you consider the opponents and the way we've struggled here in the past. But today, in the stands and on the field the Aussies of old turned up and reminded me just how desperately I want to beat them.

"Oh fuck! Mitch is back

Came the text from Nathan midway through the opening session. It reminded me of summer holidays in times gone by. Untroubled days when me and my mates had hung out on the streets without any mishaps. But then without warning we'd turn a corner and walk straight into the local family of hardnuts who'd either just returned from a two week holiday or had been recently let out of Borstal. The emotions then were the same as the one I had today. A sinking feeling that what I'd been enjoying wasn't actually a true reflection on life and that perhaps I hadn't made the most of it whilst it had lasted.

But that was then and this is now. And while it's not right to let one bad day at the office ruin your week it's hard to see how England can possibly salvage something from this game. Five wickets fell in this morning's session and four in yesterdays. It will need something similar tomorrow for England to have any chance of winning this match. A minimum target of 350+ looks likely and that won't be easy. But then 'easy' isn't what winning the Ashes is about and nor should it be.

And England may not be the only side who've left themselves too much to do. For nothing less than a series win will do for Australia. There's only one team who would have taken one a piece with two to go before Brisbane. And just like at the start of this game England still only need to win one more match to keep the Ashes.

So while it's easy for Australia to get carried away by the return of form of Mitchell Johnson we all know that his performances are symptomatic of both these teams. They are both capable of brilliance but not capable of doing it day in day out. For there is a reason why they are ranked 3rd & 4th in the world. The consistency of their inconsistency. Win big one minute lose big the next. It was the story of the 2009 Ashes. Will it be the story of this one?

Before the start of the tournament I said to Nathan that I thought one of these teams may well break the world record fourth wicket run chase at some point in this series. I still think this may happen. But as I get ready to make my way back to my hotel and a nervy evening I'm not sure it's going to happen in Perth.

The unwatchable Test

2010-12-16T03:55:00.003Z

The 8-hour time difference between England and Perth makes it even more difficult to watch back home. Only cricket tragics, off-peak radio presenters or those working at all-night petrol stations are in a position to be positioned by a TV screen at half two in the morning when the first ball is delivered.

Even I'm struggling to watch the action. This being my 33rd consecutive day of Ashes cricket in Australia but also the first day that clashes with producer duties on the Alan Brazil Breakfast Show. So I'm going to have to head back to the hotel after lunch where I'll have to settle for air con and a big plasma TV.

Despite being in Australia for the cricket Nathan is also settling for watching on the box. He has decided to opt out of Perth for financial reasons and drove to his cousins in Sydney. However the TV set he's trying to watch isn't providing much in the way of entertainment. As the bad weather that has been battering NSW shows no sign of abating and I got this text shortly after Phillip Hughes was dismissed in the second over.

Shit its thunderstom and hailing golf balls here! Power cut straight after tremlet wicket! Hughes gone!

It has been left to me to relay the news of the three other dismissals by mobile phone to an equally excited, frustrated and incredulous cricket fan. Meanwhile back in Germany and Mark is up very early indeed

perth = only get the 1st session then off 2 work. in -10 degrees and snow. not happy.

While in Vancouver Dave D probably has his feet up on the sofa watching on TV while he waits for his work visa to come through. (It probably turned up a month ago)

But back in England only a few hardy souls remain awake the country sleeps dreaming of famous England wins and Australian defeats.

It aint over til it's over

2010-12-16T02:23:00.003Z

Skin tingling, nerves slightly on edge and anticipation for breakfast. It must be a morning of Ashes cricket. It's good to feel the buzz again. After ten days of cricket in under a fortnight it was with something approaching relief that Nathan and I went our separate ways after Adelaide. Back-to-back Tests are demanding for players and spectators alike. And it was pleasing to be able to get away from the cricket ground and take in a bit of the countryside.

For Nathan this meant a drive towards the coast and the start of a trip to Sydney. For me a three hour flight to Perth for what could be the deciding game of the series. But what may also (and is there a part of me that almost wishes it to to the case?) see an Aussie victory set up a thrilling winner takes all scenario in Melbourne and Sydney.

Either way the cricket is back and as I write with ball in hand Jimmy Anderson stands at the top of his run up for the first ball of the Test match. Bring it on daddio.

The search for the seven buck beer

2010-12-12T15:47:00.010Z

I'm not sure what it is about Perth that makes me want to ride my mean machine.

The classy portrait photo above was taken four years ago on the attractively named Rottnest Island.

The moody and atmospheric snap below was captured next to the Swan River with Perth's CBD magnificently captured in the back ground. Almost as though an after thought. That this photo was posed for must come as some surprise to the uninitiated.

No doubt, dear readers you will be pondering why it is that Perth brings out the body beautiful side of me. Well I'll tell you what it is and it's got nothing to do with getting in some seriously needed shape ahead of my wedding next month. It's because the bikes are free and it is fucking expensive here.

Ever since I left home I've refrained from complaining too much about the cost of living in Australia. But since arriving in this mineral rich outpost where it's rumoured even the kitchen hands and toilet cleaners in the nearby mining areas get upwards of $90,000 per year I've been gobsmacked by the prices.

I first noticed it at the airport when I arrived in Auckland. I toyed with the idea of buying a bottle of Cloudy Bay wine. But when I checked the price I realised it was actually cheaper to buy it in England than in the country it was produced.

Three days later I arrived in Sydney and looked at the prices of a bottle of Wolfblass and it was exactly the same. I still can't work out exactly how this is but it wasn't long before I noticed just how much money I was spending on basic stuff like tickets on public transport, pub lunches and an evening beer.

Now for me, the start of a holiday is when money is plentiful and budgeting a good few weeks of extravagance away. But things have changed on this side of the world and therefore so have my spending habits.

Australia has so many natural resources that not only has their economy escaped the recession that has affected the rest of the Western world but it has actually grown. And nowhere is this more noticeable than in the exchange rate. Four years ago the mighty pound would command $2.20 but now it just scrapes $1.50 and if you take into account inflation parts of Australia are now more expensive than London. And nowhere is this more noticeable than in the motorway service station of Australia, Perth.

The reasons for describing it as an M1 petrol stop are varied. It's stuck out in the middle of nowhere, you need to travel hundreds of miles through desolate & nondescript terrain to reach it, it's deserted on an evening, nobody lives in it and therefore it's a little bit soulless and you've got no choice but to pay an overblown going rate. Of all the places I visited in Australia in 2006, Perth was my least favourite. Nothing I've seen on my return has changed that view. Here's a couple of examples why.

I went to the local Barmy Army pub on my first night in town and ordered two pints of beer. I handed over a twenty and got one dollar back. That's over £6 a pint. Eek. A can of coke costs about £2.50, a bottle of water at the hotel, £7 and when I put my clothing into the laundry I noticed it cost me £3 per pair of boxers. Or the equivalent to a half a pint. Beer or clean pants? That's not a choice any man should have to make.

While it really is a wonder that Australians can read. In South Africa I made the mistake of bringing too many books along. Which made packing my bags on the way home a challenging task. This trip I made the mistake of not packing enough. I only brought two skinny cricket books which were soon hoovered up.

Last Saturday was to be my only chance of visiting the beach and on the way I popped into a bookstore to buy something new to read. I looked at the new releases and came close to fainting to see they were going for $39. Or £25 in proper money. Twentyfive quid for a book?

So early nights and beer abstention have been the order of the day here. Which is a shame as I'm here for two weeks! Although the arrival of the big boss, Goughie, Irani and Brazil has meant a few free meals out.

It also meant that Matt Smith and I took advantage of the free bike service at our hotel. We did a 12k circuit that took in a healthy portion of the Swan River, a couple of bridges and the WACA cricket ground. And looking back at the photos of that trip and my visit to the beach makes me realise that this remote city does still have plenty going for it. Jellyfish, for instance.

Or the daily seagull fly by that every visitor to Cottesloe Beach receives.

Or the knowledge that in these parts seagulls can scratch themselves while flying.

While it appears that beautiful weather and city views aren't only the preserve of the other big four Australian cities.

And if I get bored by that I can always retire to my hotel swimming pool.

I suppose in reflection Perth isn't that bad. It's no Tooting Broadway but hey, not every town can boast a lido, a pub called 'Gordon Bennett's' and a local mad woman called Nicky Nora. And I suppose one of the reasons I don't have many positive memories of the place is because England lost the Ashes here last time around. Tomorrow morning we get the chance to win them. If so it will be the first time in history that we'll win it before Christmas. I'd buy that for a dollar. Even at these rates.

The Empire Strikes Back

2010-12-07T06:13:00.005Z

07:15 (and at regular intervals up to 09:20)

There are six people in my dorm and in the week since I arrived in Adelaide there's been very little in the way of conversation. We all seem to wake at different times, keep respectfully quiet when others are sleeping and thankfully unlike in Brisbane (I couldn't get a peep out of the quiet Indian guy in the bunk below during the day nor get him to shut the fuck up at night) there are no snorers. Indeed the only sound after lights out is a creaky old air con unit chuntering away like Glenn McGrath after seeing a catch go down.

However in the past two days I've been repeatedly awoken in the morning by the sound of rustling next to the window by my bed then momentarily dazzled by sporadic shafts of light as one by one my room mates pull aside the curtains to peer out and up to the skies. Gloomy forecasts of a months rain in one day have been repeated and built on so often that they are now an indisputable FACT. Hail stones, it appears will stop play and prevent a morale boosting, historic and well deserved Ashes victory.

10:00

However 90 overs were possible on day four and when I got to the ground for the earlier start time of 10am it was heart-warming to find out that weather forecasts in Australia are just as unreliable as in England.

10:14am

Though the bright skies had obviously not done much for my optimism.

Prior dropping Hussey, a wasted review and Broad out for the series. Not a good start to the morning." was the text I sent to Nathan fourteen minutes into the start of play.

11:20

England win the 2nd Test by an innings and 71 runs.......Oh yee of little faith.

It was great. Although the ease of victory was slightly surreal.

14.05

A few posts ago I wrote that you would be hard pressed to find pictures in my blog of Australia when the weather is bad. Let me take it upon myself to correct that right here and right now. For fortyfive minutes after what would have been lunch on the final day and as myself and Nathan left the ground this happened.

It appears that all Australia would have had to do to survive was to bat for another hour and a half. Oh well.

15:30

I've never enjoyed bad weather quite as much. This was the scene outside my hostel.

Nathan and I laughed a lot at this. However we've now been stuck in our hostel for about two hours and it's starting to get a little bit boring not being able to go outside. Going to have to make a run for the pub soon to celebrate our first Ashes victory and Nathan's birthday! Bring it on!

The clouds disperse

2010-12-06T06:11:00.001Z

Trying to keep one eye on the floor and one eye on the skies is tricky business. It's just about possible if you lay your head sideways on the ground but that gets fairly uncomfortable after a while. It also makes you look like a red Indian listening to the tracks of a railway line. Which is fine if you're kitted out as a red Indian at a 1920's silent movie fancy dress party. But I wasn't. Not today, anyhow. I was at day four of the 2^nd Ashes Test between a country known as England and another called Australia. I may have mentioned it before but it this was being held in a city called Adelaide which is the capital of the driest state in the driest continent on earth. And despite it being late spring it has been shedding it down.

If the Australian's are fans of Steve Martin and/or Eddie Murphy they may have been inclined to shout 'Gotcha Suckas!' at the first sign of the chubby rain drops that began plopping down on the wicket shortly after the tea break. For the second day running it appears that rain really will save Australia now. With even worse set for tomorrow and a session already lost to the elements all England's good work may also be about to go down the drain.

"A month's rain in one day forecast for tomorrow", you say? Oh the hilarity. Typical England. Typical Adelaide. Typical Australians. Just bloody typical.

In short it's been a strange day. The Barmy Army subdued as news of the impending hail storm began to filter through. With the England attack straining to make use of any assistance in this pitch a bit of cloud cover probably wasn't the worst thing to have for the first two sessions of the day. But with time & the weather forecast against us and with the two Michael's looking comfortable at the crease the odds on a famous (and my first) victory on Australian soil appears to once again be slip sliding away.

Run to the hills

2010-12-05T05:43:00.000Z

In scenes reminiscent of an English music festival the party spirit continued on the Adelaide Hill despite the weather taking a turn for the worse. As ‘Singing the rain’ rang out and one sage in the press box wondered aloud whether Cliff Richard was soon to make an appearance the Aussie supporters finally had reason to share the good spirits with the English fans.

And when the rain came it brought with it one of those strange mathematical symmetries without which this blog would be sorely short on posts. For four years ago it was with the score reading 551/6 that we declared and turned our attention to taking twenty Australian wickets. This time round we already have ten of them in the bag. But whether the rain will relent in time or the pitch provide enough assistance will be the big topic for discussion in the Adelaide pubs tonight. Whatever happens I’ll leave the posing in front of the scoreboard until the very end.

Ten reasons why the Aussies are the new England

2010-12-05T03:09:00.005Z

Whether it’s listening to the Aussies at close of play, reading the views in the press or just watching with my own eyes I’ve been continually reminded of England’s darkest days. But this time it isn’t the English side that are making me think back to a time when we went a decade without a series win against a top side, when the likes of Mark Ealham, Martin McCague and Chris Cowdrey were answers to what must have been some seriously odd questions. The last one may have been something along the lines of ‘why don’t we pick someone whose dad had a good record against the Aussies?” And while Shaun Marsh may one day get a game against England it’s been a constant source of enjoyment at how much the Aussies resemble us at our worst. So while England continue to make merry I thought I’d highlight the ten reasons why Australia are the new England. Hell, they may end up saving this Test and winning the next three. So if I don’t do it now I may not get another chance.

1. Dropped catches and general poor fielding – At times it’s been like watching an Aussie side made up of eleven Phil Tufnell’s (4’36 in). There have been too many dropped catches & missed run outs to list them all but here are five of the ‘best’ moments courtesy of cricinfo.

Brisbane, ENG 1^st innings

23.1	Watson to Cook, no run, 134.8 kph, dropped! And it's the debutant! Similar to the Strauss dismissal, short and Cook cracked it straight to Doherty at point, who jumped to take it above his head, had a couple of grabs at it but it ends on the turf. Big moment that, how will he respond

Brisbane, ENG 2^nd innings

38.5	Doherty to Strauss, 1 run, 88.5 kph, dropped. Oh Mitchell. Find yourself a hole to fall into. Strauss skipped down the track and smacked a firm chance straight to him, he was dozing, and was late to jump to take the chance and it burst through his hands. You can really feel his pain

116.6

Watson to Trott, no run, 131.1 kph, dropped! Horrible miss from Clarke at first slip! Oh dear, that pretty much sums up the flat mood among the Australians out in the middle, a genuine edge as Trott tries to cut too close to his body and you won't get many easier catches at slip

Adelaide, ENG 1^st innings

7.6	Bollinger to Trott, 2 runs, 138.5 kph, dropped by Hussey at gully! That was sliced off the front foot, it went fast and low but a regulation chance at that position. That's a huge let-off, and Bollinger isn't happy

46.4	Harris to Trott, 2 runs, 136.1 kph, dropped! Oh dear, Haddin has put down a sitter! Another bouncer and Trott gloved an attempted pull behind, got on Haddin a touch quicker than expected and burst through the hands

2. Being dominated in sessions – At lunch on day three at Adelaide England had won thirteen of the previous fourteen sessions. The only one they missed out on was the pointless one at the end of day five in Brisbane. And they’d have shared that one if Paul Collingwood hadn’t dropped Shane Watson at first slip. Australia used to talk about mental disintegration. Watching their amateurish fielding and the lackluster nature of their bowling hints that they are finally experiencing a taste of their own medicine.

3. Headlines such as these -

4. Not being able to get batsmen out – One of the most memorable feats that Aussies love to hark back to was in the 1989 Ashes in England. Captain Steve Waugh scored one century & two fifties to amass 506 runs in eight innings at an average of 127. Alastair Cook has already scored his two centuries and a fifty with 450 runs at over 200 in just THREE innings!

5. Watching the opposition show how it's supposed to be done – Shane Warne is on Channel 9 commentary duty for this series and long may he remain there. Yesterday he was saying that Australia need to learn from the way England’s bowlers worked as a pack in the first innings. Two evenings ago Michael Hussey spoke to the press following Australia’s 245 all out on the opening day. He flagged up the way England fought back after being dismissed in Brisbane for 260 as the model to follow. When the Australians are using England as the barometer of excellence you know they are struggling.

6. Humungous scores! – Allowing the opposition to score 517 for 1 (or 1 for 517) & 454 for 4 (or 4 for 454). Either way you say it. Nuff said!

7. Not possessing a killer instinct – Back in the dark old days it was almost as though Australia would toy with England. They’d let them win a session here or there but when it came to the big moments they’d turn up the pressure and close the door firmly in their faces. But in Brisbane, Australia had England under the cosh on three separate occasions and failed to finish them off. England battled back after suffering Strauss being dismissed in the first over on the first morning, being on the wrong end of a Peter Siddle hat-trick and then a 220 run deficit on first innings. But not only did England fight back on each and every occasion by the end they had turned the tables so that it was Australia who were the ones under pressure by the final day.

8. Having the media on their backs – Steve Waugh used to cackle away reading the British press the days after England had toiled in the field. Getting the cricket hacks on the player’s backs was just one more step towards Aussie Ashes success. Three days before this series started one national newspaper printed a photo of the Ashes wrapped in tinsel writing it may as well give the gift early. The papers have leapt onto the backs of Michael Clarke, Ricky Ponting and seen off Mitchell Johnson. While Xavier Doherty is already being written off for the Perth Test.

9. Picking players on the basis of one good performance – and on the topic of Xavier Doherty, a man who averages 48 in first-class cricket, who’s already got bowling figures higher than Don Bradman’s batting average. Seemingly picked because he had one good showing in an ODI against Sri Lanka, because Nathan Hauritz isn’t Shane Warne and also of KP’s poor record to left-handed spinners (whilst overlooking the fact that England won the 2009 Ashes without a telling contribution from him) Doherty looks like he’s going to head back to obscurity even quicker than he arrived.

10. Picking injured players – Not a press conference goes by without a question being raised about Michael Clarke’s back. While Mitchell Johnson’s mental state, Ryan Harris’s knees or Doug Bollinger’s side strain are all too regular reminders of the days England would head to Australia with three or four guys battling for fitness only for them to unsurprisingly fail to take the field in the opening game.

It may be that come the end of the series I look back at this list and laugh bitterly at my eagerness to let benign batting conditions on days two and three at Adelaide cloud my judgment. But as I’ve said many times before you have got to enjoy the good times and as I said in a text to my brother last night “I. Am. Loving. This”.

Storms a’ brewin

2010-12-05T00:35:00.001Z

It's unusual to look to the skies and feel relieved to see brooding dark clouds; especially ahead of a day when England are batting. But following relentless & inescapable heat over the last two days a soothing south-westerly and cloud cover made for a far more pleasant and cheerful walk to 'work' this morning.

As mentioned yesterday it really is a beautiful trek to the ground and one I'll photograph when the sun comes out again. You'll be hard pressed to find a photograph of Australia in anything other than golden sun. And following a great evening out in Glenelg on the coast and two days of English domination I was understandably in fine fettle. But can the good times continue to roll?

Well KP has just hit the second century I've seen him post at this ground and Cook is still at the crease in a one man vigil that David Blaine would be proud of. KP is batting like a man who has waited eleven hours for his turn and is determined to make sure it's worth the wait. The way he's been advancing down the wicket to the bowler's proof of how quickly he wants to get on with things. The only thing that can get him out is his own eagerness. The only thing that can get Cook out is exhaustion or boredom.

Left in the shade

2010-12-04T01:37:00.001Z

As the crushing disappointment of the 2018 bid continues to cause outrage and pain back home. The decision to award the 2022 World Cup to Qatar over Australia has hardly caused a murmur. It seems the Aussies are suffering enough as it is.

Not that the crowds have been affected. 36,000 crammed into the new Adelaide Oval yesterday and the same number again today. In 35 degree heat those in the cheap seats look longingly at those in the shade whose attention is firmly on the cricket and little else. A hush has descended over the ground as another spell-bounding session of cricket is played out. I simply cannot take my eyes off this game.

It's been a far tighter session with Australia taking the early wicket of Strauss whose injudicious use of the leave has been highlighted for the second Test running. Then a dropped catch and missed runout once again highlighted differences between the sides. Yesterday England took their opportunities while so far today Australia squandered.

With the new ball starting to lose its shine & the England run rate at a premium Ricky Ponting has already decided to stem runs rather than take wickets. But if the England batsmen proved anything in the last Test is that they can afford to play the waiting game. They are in no rush to field in this heat and will gladly wait for the bad ball and when it comes despatch it.

Are you England in disguise?

2010-12-03T07:12:00.003Z

It was raining when I arrived in the capital of the driest state in the driest continent on earth.

Could have been England if the mother country wasn't currently under a foot of snow. And at times it's seemed on this tour it's seemed as though the two countries have swapped roles. For while rain covers the entire east coast from Brisbane down to Sydney and across to Melbourne the Australian cricket team continue their passable impression of England in the 1990's.

"Ha, ha. That's the sort of thing England used to do!" Another text from Nathan that I've plundered as material for my blog.

This particular missive came just after Xavier Doherty had needlessly run himself out to leave the Aussies eight down with just 200 on the board on a blameless Adelaide track. At least I think it's a blameless track. We'll see what Australia do on it tomorrow. The weather may have returned to normal but that's about the only similarity between this Test and four years ago.

England are even being held up as the model to follow. Shortly before bowling Australia out for 245 on a pitch many forecast for a score double that Shane Warne spoke on Channel 9 about the importance of Australia learning from the way England bowled today. How times have changed.

By my reckoning England have now won nine of the last 10 sessions of cricket played in this series. And the only session Australia won was the last one at the Gabba which for all intents and purposes took place after the game had finished. But therein lies the warning signs because surely it can't continue to be this easy? No doubt the confidence will be in full supply tonight just as long as Strauss and Cook can see off the one over they'll have to face tonight.

Enjoy it while you can

2010-12-03T01:31:00.001Z

The Adelaide Oval is by far the prettiest cricket ground in world cricket. Without the dramatic backdrop of Table Mountain at its only serious rival for the title but with a Cathedral on the hill behind the ground, an old fashioned scoreboard that celebrates its 100^th anniversary in 2012, two grassbanks at either end, and a walk to the ground that surpasses even that through Bishops Park on the banks of the Thames to Craven Cottage. It's also the scene of the worst sporting disaster in modern times or the greatest comeback ever depending on your nationality. Where England managed to declare on 551/6 and still lose the game on the last day.

Adelaide is nearly always the setting when myself, Nathan, Danny and Mark get together to look back at 2006/07. It was the only Test where we had the better of play for an extended period (for the first two glorious days), where the Barmy Army could congregate en masse on the grass banks, where I enjoyed one of the greatest wicket celebrations of my life, where the nightlife was second only to Melbourne but the weather far superior. They say never go back but that's what I've done and so far it's lived up to the memories. Well on the pitch anyway.

<b> "We hardly celebrated the third. Doesn't feel real." Text from Nathan 17 minutes into the first session

Under a cloudless sky Ricky Ponting won the toss and as expected decided to bat. With 35 degree temperatures set for tomorrow it looked a huge call and a couple of day's hard yakka in the sun for our four bowlers. With six players with experience of scoring centuries on this pitch and everyone predicting a run fest on a wicket that traditionally offers plenty for the batsmen it looked like we were set for a grim opening couple of days. Three wickets in three overs later & with the press box in a commotion I stared in disbelief at what was happening. So far this series is defying everyone's expectations and long may that continue.

But it's not all good news as it appears the grass banks can be added to an ever expanding endangered species list. Where once they were a regular feature of all the big five stadiums now it's just Perth that will have them by the time that England return in 2014/15. The changes have been underway since we were last here and they have already installed an imposing new stand square of the wicket although in fairness it is in keeping with the style of the ground. Disappointingly the authorities also have there eye on the banks and play to build over them so the stadium can cater for AFL. It's a shame but at least I've got all the memories that I listed before and if this Test continues apace a whole host of new ones to go with it by the time the Ashes circus moves on to Perth in just over a week.

The foursome

2010-11-29T06:11:00.010Z

My sixth match in Australia has just finished and for the first time I'm not looking back at a loss. The match may have petered out in the end but there were enough twists and turns to keep us on the edge of our seats. With bowlers taking five-fors and batsmen making centuries the result swung in the balance for four days with the victor in doubt until the first hour had passed without incident on day five.

And as good as these last couple of days have been there have been a couple of reminders that things could be even better. When last here in 2006/07 it was as part of a fantastic four. Four singleton strangers who'd toured alone yet ended up meeting in Brisbane and by the end of the 5-0 whitewash had become firm friends who would turn up four years later at my stag do or engagement parties.

And though they aren't all here in physical form both Nathan and I have been reminded of their presence. Whether it be supportive texts from Danny

"Fucking hell Strauss! I'm going to bed"

or just watching someone fall over a'la Mark the boys are here in spirit. Although I've yet to see anyone practising how to get out of bed yet.

And there have been other incidents that have made me think of them sitting alongside us as we've chewed our fingernails and watched a beachball sail past our heads. Crap tattoos it seems aren't only the preserve of Manchester born German residing postmen.

While it doesn't take too much of a leap of imagination to think that Nathan could have transported to the Ashes in the year 2032 and is actually sitting next to beanie-less Danny who seemed today to be sleeping nearly as much as he did four years ago. Although for slightly different reasons.

Looking at the game from all angles

2010-11-29T02:55:00.005Z

Another day, another view from the stands and another reason to celebrate as Alastair Cook scores his double hundred.

And there were more similarities with yesterday as this photo shows. It's another of Michael Clarke wondering how he fluffed such a simple catch. If he needed reminding he need only have turned around to look at the big screen showing a replay.

And I suppose it's also another reminder of Adelaide as it was there that I saw the last Englishman to hit a double ton against the Aussies. And it's Adelaide coming up next. But before the stresses and strains of that. It's time to kick back, relax and enjoy England grinding the Aussies into the dirt.

The record stand (reprising the reprise)

2010-11-29T00:12:00.001Z

Anyone ask for England's largest ever 2nd wicket stand at The Gabba?

Enjoy the good times (another reprise)

2010-11-28T23:38:00.004Z

For the first evening in four I didn't daydream on the walk back from the Gabba. It was dusk when I left the ground & overhead in single-file big brown bats followed me on their nightly journey across the city. Early evening diners were lined up along the riverfront bars and restaurants next to the Yarra which runs through Brisbane. I'm sure it was a similar scene to that which I'd walked past every evening but on this occasion I took it all in.

There was no point dreaming about the what if's last night because I'd just seen it happen. The evening before for perhaps the thousandth time in my life I had imagined a brave England rearguard action. But for the first time ever what actually occurred surpassed what I had dared to dream. I'd hoped for six wickets at the end of play and we ended up with nine. I'd hoped to win two sessions we'd won three. I'd hoped we land a couple of blows to the Aussies and at the end it looked as though we'd knocked them out.

As the clock ticked past seven pm in Australia and across the world in chilly England people started to wake up deliriously happy texts started arriving in my phone. They were from excited family members who'd approached Ceefax or the internet with trepidation. As I slowly made my way back to my hostel I basked in my surroundings & in the glow of contention. I might have been feeling crabby last week, I might have been questioning my desire this week but now I was feeling damn fine.

Captain Cook

2010-11-28T11:22:00.003Z

You gotta love Alastair Cook. He took charge against Bangladesh earlier in the year so that Andrew Strauss would be fresh for the Ashes. A gamble that looks to have paid off so far. He then struggled through the summer and even had some doubting whether he should start against the Aussies. But he hit a half century in the first innings and look. here he is celebrating his second Ashes century earlier today.

And here's the crowd on their feet applauding his accomplishments. Can't see too many complaining that he shouldn't have played.

And it says a lot about the man that he took time out to come up and pose for photos with the fans shortly afterwards. What a great guy.

Oh and in case you missed it here's a photo of Michael Clarke looking at his arm accusingly after he dropped Jonathan Trott late in the day.

The record stand

2010-11-28T02:40:00.003Z

To appreciate the highs you need first to have experienced the lows. And today has more than made up for the stresses and strains I've put myself under over the last three days. At times I wonder if the importance I place on sport is too high that I simply care too much. Actually, I know I care too much, but sometimes I wonder whether it's actually worth it.

When England were 125 for 4 in the first innings and throughout yesterdays two opening sessions I underwent a fair amount of soul-searching. Sitting in the stands looking down on the action for hours on end allows plenty of time for reflection. At times I even wondered if this is really what I want to be doing with my life. Apart from family and friends for months on end with the highs and lows of emotion linked to events on a cricket field. Sure it's nice to be in the sun, yes, I'm lucky to be paid to do what I do but do I really want to travel thousands upon thousands of miles to watch England lose another Ashes series 5-0? Well, after watching a miraculous days play unfold I can confidently say that I won't have to.

To wax lyrical about a day where England fought their way back into a position of parity rather than domination may appear to lose the point slightly. But it is the manner in which they have battled back on four separate occasions that has inspired me. Firstly to come back from Strauss's third ball duck in the first innings and two quick wickets to get themselves to 194 for 4. Then to haul Australia back twice in their innings from 78 for 0 to 143 for 5 & again from 450 for 5 to 481 all out. Coming through the final hour last night unscathed and then today's performance. It sends out the message to the Aussies that no matter how many times you knock us down we're going to come right back at you. It speaks volumes for us and says just as much about them. To pick yourself up off the canvass once against the Aussies of four years ago would have been impressive to do it four times would never have happened.

But back to the present and after spending the first two sessions in exactly the same spot I finally ventured up to the stands to watch the final passage of play with Nathan. He'd tipped us to score 550 and win the game last night and England are closer to his prediction than mine. It was stirring stuff to sit in the gods, one eye on the action, one eye on the scoreboard as Trott and Cook made merry. Despite the gloom that covered the Gabba all day today and forced the players off for bad light the future looks bright. This series is well and truly alive and I'm happy to be following it!

But one word of warning as I wait for Ricky Ponting to stop shouting at his players and allow one of them to attend the end of play press conference. Today has been my third greatest day of Ashes cricket in Australia. At one and two were the first two days at Adelaide where we racked up 550 and had the wicket of Justin Langer at close. The Aussies battled back though and going into day five I went to the Adelaide Oval with a book under my arm awaiting the certain draw. Like today England were leading by less than one hundred with 9 wickets in hand and the only batsmen dismissed then as now was Strauss. I don't need to go over what happened on that final days play because I still can't really talk about it. But rest assured the paperback will be left behind in the hostel when I make my way to the ground tomorrow.

I'm still standing

2010-11-28T02:14:00.005Z

Due to the location of my computer I have to stand if I want to watch the action on the pitch. It means I've been on my feet for the last four hours. I'm glad that's the only thing I have to complain about today!

Before play I figured England would need to win two sessions and draw one at the very least if they were to come out of the day with any chance of saving the game. I've just been listening to Shane Warne and Tony Greig discuss the highest 4^th innings totals a team has reached to win at the Gabba. As turnarounds go it's been one of the most astounding and if you're an Aussie unexpected. Even if we do draw this last session we'll have a 100 lead and will only need to bat for another session and a half.

Not that I'm going to start leaving through the record books just yet. With the new ball available after tea it's make or break time for both sides. It's the last one England will have to face unless they bat through for another 80 overs. And if they do that they'll be safe. I can't believe the Aussies are going to bow out without any fight. Although as I speak the sun appears to be coming out for the first time today. And that's not a sight that Ricky Ponting will want. They'll be some big questions at the end of play today and some even bigger answers in this last session of play. Now Strauss is out I'm going to venture out to sit with Nathan. I'm still standing.

Stand up if you still believe!

2010-11-28T01:18:00.001Z

Anyone call for England's largest opening stand at the Gabba?

Superstition plays a huge part in cricket. My mate Graham who is working here for Aussie radio has brought about the downfall of three batsmen by complementing them moments before they departed. And seconds before Xavier Doherty grassed Alastair Cook in the first innings praised him for the size of his hands. With England going along nicely in the opening session I've refused to speak to him.

The other unwritten rule is that when things are going well you don't move from the spot you are watching from. I had intended to join Nathan in the stands for the opening session but felt obliged to stick it out in the press room once Strauss and Cook got going. I'm not sure of the rules and whether I am allowed to move seats during a lunch or tea interval. But I'm not taking any chances.

Looking for lady luck

2010-11-27T23:53:00.001Z

By the time I had made my way back to my hostel last night I had once again convinced myself of England's valiant rearguard action to save this Test. After a soul destroying first two sessions which once again left me considering my life options five quick Aussies wickets and a six-for Finn gave us a glimmer. Then surviving a nail-biting final hour when Strauss came within an inch of registering a pair at least gave me the opportunity to enjoy my evening entertainment.

Though the comeback (of sorts) was a case of 'after the horse has bolted' by restricting the lead to around 200 we've got a chance to make them bat again and maybe even use up enough time to salvage an unlikely draw. But for that to happen we're going to have to have more than our fair share of the luck that the Aussies enjoyed yesterday.

And last night's good spirits were also fuelled by a few VB's last night as I met up with my Shanks team mate Damo and alongside him and Nathan we dissected the days play. Nathan has become Mr Optimistic and was even talking about going for the win. But we're all realistic to know that unless we can get to the end of play with a minimum of five wickets still in the bag this is going to be Australia's Test.

Today's play is going to be one of two things nerve-wracking or depressing. What a choice. Throughout yesterday's first two sessions it did occur to me that I don't actually have to put myself through all this.

Only rain can save Australia now (a reprise)

2010-11-27T05:18:00.001Z

You know things are bad when you make the decision to catch up on all the errands you have been putting off for ages rather than watch the cricket. By the way, I would now happily take 550 and unremitting rain for the next two and a half days.

I’ve just spent the last two hours sitting in the gods with Nathan pondering life and working out whether I really want to travel around Australia watching us getting stuffed again. I think the answer to that is no. I have now been waiting for a wicket for over a day.

The Aussies talk about making their opponents suffer mental disintegration. As I write Haddin & Hussey are striding out to bat for the third time today and I am close to reaching it.

The worm has turned

2010-11-27T02:17:00.002Z

I would just like to clarify that I would still happily take 350.

After we were blitzed by Siddle on day one I tried to look at the picture rationally. Figuring we still had to bowl and until we did that it was tough to know just how good a batting surface this Gabba pitch is a score of 260 was perhaps not too far short of par. I also knew that it was two or three inspired bowling spells in the last Ashes that swung it our way. And our response the following day justified my way of thinking.

It’s now lunch on day three following a session where Hussey & Haddin somehow got through unscathed and it’s tough to see a way back into this Test for England. Quick afternoon wickets and getting to stumps only one or two wickets down is the best I can think of. Surely we can make the Aussies bat again?

The other aspect in every sporting encounter is the way luck is evened out throughout a series. And biased though I am it was incredible how much of it the Aussies had in that session. Hussey was given out when he shouldn’t then reprieved when he shouldn’t. Haddin was dropped, nearly chopped on and drove airily past or in front of cover fielders on three separate occasions. While the spell of bowling by Jimmy Anderson was one of the best I’ve ever seen from him on an unremarkable bowling surface. Time after time he went past the outside of the bat or jagged it through the gate. It’s tough to take but I feel our time will come, maybe not in this game but at some point. Let’s hope it’s not too late before luck swings back our way.

And fair play to the two Aussies who strode out at the start of play and who batted their team into what should be a winning position. Hussey’s reaction to his century reminded me of David Beckham’s against Argentina in the 2006 World Cup. It was almost as though he was celebrating winning the damn thing. But considering the amount of stick he’s received out here it’s not surprising. The outpouring of emotion was touching. I hope his is the only Aussie whose smiling image adorns the papers tomorrow.

Frustration Street

2010-11-27T00:59:00.001Z

It’s the hope that kills you. I walked back from the Gabba last night daydreaming of Ian Bell & Kevin Pietersen stretching England’s lead past the 250-mark. How Australia had been knocked over in the morning session with a small first innings lead that had been quickly overturned by lunch. I think I should get out more.

There can be nothing more frustrating than watching a game being taken away from you. Run by run & minute by minute it moves further away step-by-step. You can see it disappearing over the horizon. And while the hope & interest remains I know it will soon be replaced by resignation and acceptance of fate.

It’s been compounded this morning by a first half an hour where England deserved to take two or wickets with Jimmy Anderson bowling a spell reminiscent of the one Dale Steyn hurled down at Paul Collingwood and Ian Bell last winter. Somehow they survived that onslaught and went on to save the game. Australia will be hoping to go one better.

As the Aussies go past our score of 260 and with Brad Haddin starting to free his arms it’s a case of how long and how many. Before their innings an Aussie total of 350 seemed as good as we could hope for. And I think I’d still take that now.

Udders

2010-11-26T23:48:00.003Z

Before last years Ashes I confidently stated the case that England could only beat Australia if Kevin Pietersen had a good series. He limped out after two games without a telling contribution. But by late August I was celebrating watching England win the Ashes at the Oval.

Before this series I pointed to the implementation of UDRS as a key factor in our chances of winning on Aussie soil. For now there would be no homer decisions by Rudi Koertzen to add impotent rage to the misery of defeat.

However if it wasn't for UDRS Anderson would be one short of a five-for now and Australia six down. And if England hadn't lost a referral when Michael Clarke edged behind (picked up on snicko but as it's not part of the decision making process it couldn't be used) they'd have no doubt referred the plumb LBW decision turned down by Aleem Dar against Michael Hussey.

We'll know by lunch how crucial these two decisions were.

History doesn't always repeat itself

2010-11-26T07:01:00.002Z

People who don’t like cricket often make the mistake in assuming that the worst thing that can happen in the game is for it to last five days and still up in a draw. They are wrong. For while watching a five day batting-fest can test the sanity of anyone the worst thing about cricket is when two completely uneven teams face each other in a three of five-match series.

For the weaker nation survival is the only result possible while for stronger a heavy victory is expected and the accomplishments that help achieve it are devalued. Matches often end up featuring long passages of play where the dominant team bats itself into dominance (usually in their second innings on day three) and the drudgery of the spectacle and the inevitability of the result is played out for hours on end in front of listless crowds.

Watching England lose 5-0 against Australia last time around was a well documented affair. But only the pain of watching their remarkable win on day five in Adelaide unfold compares with the sheer bloody boredom and frustration I felt watching them plunder easy runs on days one, two and four at the Gabba, of the ease that they knocked us over in Melbourne and the way they batted us out the game in Perth. That was pain of an entirely different kind. It was morale sapping, draining and bloody boring.

Two days into this series and you could argue that Australia are only one and a half sessions up. It’s been the type of cricket where you don’t want to stop watching for a second with so much going on and with the pressure unrelenting. I’ve lost count of the amount of people who’ve mentioned the twists and turns that are sure to arrive between now and Sydney.

England have proven today, and at times even yesterday, that they are up for the fight. After blowing us away last night England’s bowlers have fought back extremely well. Of all the statistics that leap out from the scorecard the one that reads Jimmy Anderson as having bowled nine maidens out of his 21 overs says much about the way England have gone about their task today.

Even in the morning session when Australia lost just the one wicket England refused to let them get away. The openers scored slowly and at times uncertainly. Then from the 2nd ball of the middle session it was payback for the England bowlers. Sitting up in the stands with Nathan (who finally cracked into a smile) it was the most enjoyable display of Ashes bowling I’ve seen by England away from home. Although admittedly this isn’t saying much.

An even a strong rearguard action from Michael Hussey in the final hours play and a sudden downpour couldn’t dampen spirits. Although Strauss would have loved a crack with the new ball in fading light it might be a good thing that the English can rest up ahead of taking the new ball tomorrow. They put in a real shift today. The Ashes looked a long way away this time yesterday but even if England do go on to lose this Test. They’ve shown enough to prove they have enough about them to make Australia’s aim of regaining the Urn a tough prospect indeed.

Sweet Pete (but not from Tooting Beec)

2010-11-26T03:08:00.002Z

It’s lunch on day two and I’m back in the hutch. Spent the morning with Nathan who is still refusing to let positivity enter his life and that’s despite his view changing from this yesterday.

To this today.

“All I asked for was for this Test not to be decided at the end of the first day and that doesn’t look like it’s happened” he groaned. I tried to rally him promising a wicket after the first drinks spell and was immediately rewarded as Billy Doctrove gave Simon Katich out LBW. He looked like he was going to walk then decided to refer it and he’s still in now. A four off the next ball and my mood had darkened to that of Nathan’s. A sloppy misfield in the next over which granted the Aussies two free runs and got the crowd on the English backs and I feared the wheels were about to come off.

But they didn’t and a tight spell from Jimmy was eventually rewarded when Watson edged to Strauss at slip who can be applauded for the catch and the decision to keep with Anderson despite him appearing to tire.

The first session was the third tight one of the game and it’s only due to sweet Pete that the game is so heavily in Australia’s favour. But we’ll need another if we’re to keep in it and I’m more than aware that the last time I was here I saw Ricky Ponting fall four short of a double hundred. I pray he doesn’t come close to emulating that today else it’ll be 1-0 down heading to Adelaide.

Welcome to the Gabbatoir

2010-11-25T23:55:00.004Z

I walked away from my 23rd consecutive day of Ashes cricket in Australia with the thought that very little changes. Another day in the sun another day under the cosh. Considering how the day had panned out though I was in surprisingly chipper mood as I walked the 45-minute journey back to my hostel with laptop, camera, recording equipment and broken sunglasses weighing me down. No wonder I end up losing weight on these trips. By the time I’m posing for my wedding snaps I’ll have shed at least a stone.

No matter how you look at it - it had been an exceptional day of cricket. England won the toss to spark wild scenes of abandon in the press box by the Aussie journalists. After Nasser Hussain’s Brisbane moment in 2002 & Ricky Ponting’s Edgbaston nightmare in 2005 they knew full well that whichever captain called correctly would have no choice but to bat first. And with the overcast conditions this could backfire.

The hoots of derision re-appeared minutes later when once again England’s unremarkable start to Ashes campaigns began with Strauss departing third ball to stun us all. It was a moment that saw us playing catch up for the first two sessions. Although I think we did so admirably. There’s a lot of mental toughness within this set up. And we’re going to need it if we’re going to win a Test let alone the series. But a stunning piece of bowling in the final session a’la Broad at The Oval last year swung the contest decidedly Australia’s way.

Up until Siddle’s divine intervention the game was still in the balance and England in as good a position as I fear they will be in again in this match. After lunch I’d joined my mate Nathan in the stands and with the sun burning down on the Gabbatoir it looked as though we’d survived what is usually a testing first session and could almost dream about a decent total around the 350-mark. I then made the mistake of saying that KP looked in ominous form shortly before he airily drove at a full ball from Peter Siddle.

The following over and Collingwood also departed and my mood flattened. For the first time I seriously contemplated having to trawl round Australia watching another England whitewash. It was deflating stuff.

Chewing my knuckles back to the bone I fidgeted in my seat under both sun & rain as beach balls bounced about us from all angles. I’d forgotten how the Aussies amused themselves when the action was slow pitch side. And as tea approached England seemed to gain some control as Cook and Bell appeared comfortable. However it was the birthday boy who’d have the final say.

I have to say that as Siddle walked back to his mark and Matt Prior back to his dressing room part of me wanted to see him take a hat-trick. The crowd had generated an atmosphere that had even managed to perforate the enclosed, air-conditioned press room. 35,000 fans were on their feet, clapping, shouting and demanding a third wicket. There wasn’t a beachball in sight as Siddle turned on his marker and began running in.

Afterwards he admitted he was aiming for the top of off he ended up hitting Stuart Broad flush on the toe and the subsequent referral only gave the Ausssies a second chance to celebrate a breathtaking piece of bowling.

And a bumper day of action meant I had much to muse on as I strode home amongst some serious pissed people. It seems hat-tricks have a positive effect on you it seems even when they’re against you. And as I finally made it back to my hostel with aching back I expected to find Nathan in similar spirits.

When I’d left him he was waxing lyrical about Ian Bell and how only a lack of partners would prevent him getting a century. He was nearly right on that one. But the Nathan I now found was crestfallen and dare I say it, ready to chuck the towel in? On his long walk home he’d already decided not to bother with the £300 fare to Perth. He’s only been in the country two days and is already thinking of going home. That’s the effect watching England play cricket in Australia can have on you.

Feeling crabby

2010-11-25T12:19:00.000Z

Have you ever wanted something so badly that it possessed your body and your soul through the night and through the day. Until you finally get it and then you realise it wasn't what you wanted after all. And those selfsame, sickly little thoughts now go and attach themselves to something or somebody new and the whole goddam thing starts all over again. 'True happiness this way lies' by The The

I had been away for ten days when it happened. I was on my own, caught up in my own world, busily trying to take a photograph of a small crab as it scuttled over a rock in Gordon’s Bay when it finally happened. I relaxed. It was a nice moment on a nice day and it had been an unusually long time coming.

Last year Fe & I spent a week in Cyprus to celebrate/recover from her MA completion and to reward ourselves after an incredibly tough year. After arriving at our hotel in the evening we woke early the following morning and spent our first day on a sun-lounger by a pool with a book and a beer.

For one hour it was great, for two hours it was great, but by hour three I started getting edgy. I just found it impossible to stop my brain whizzing along at ten-to-the-dozen. Despite the surroundings & the fact I'd been longing for a lounging for months I found myself getting stressed, really stressed. As you can imagine Fe was delighted by this turn of events.

It ended up taking me two days of wall climbing before I finally unwound. And of course, before I knew it I was sitting on the plane homeward bound wondering what all the fuss was.

This time around it’s taken even longer and I’m still not where I want to be. I thought I’d be right back in the swing of things by now. Up until a day ago the Aussies were seemingly on their knees awaiting the cry “Orf with their heads!” I’ve a week in Sydney fresh in the memory banks and apart from the showers that greeted my arrival in Auckland, Sydney and Brisbane the weather has been everything it isn’t back home. But just like back in Cyprus I’m still struggling.

Casting an eye over the itinerary I have compiled for my three month trip the only free time before I get married has just gone. When I’m up watching the Aussies win the Ashes, against a deadline or dragging my kit around Perth in the blazing heat I know full well I will look back at that week and wonder what the hell I was up to.

Things did start well, for after spending a couple of days in Auckland with my mother-in-law to be I arrived in Sydney a week last Sunday to be greeted by my old schoolmate and former partner in grime Tomson. Since we’d last seen each other back in February, 2008 he’d undergone some changes in his life. He’s moved from the beaches of Manly to the suburbs of Summer Hill where he now lived with his new girlfriend, Michelle. A woman famed for her liberal use of the 'c' word and a born & bred Aussie.

It quickly became apparent that through a mixture of beauty, charm and an iron will (and possibly blackmail) she’d somehow managed to transform Tom into a metrosexual – albeit one with the start of what will one day be a hugely impressive pot belly. For Tom had quit smoking, gambling and didn’t even moan that much anymore. While in the seven days I stayed with them I’ve never seen a South Londoner do so much cleaning & washing up.

And then there was the devotion to his recently acquired cat. Jeez, that took some getting used to. Public shows of emotion & kindness were never something I’d associated with Tom before. And why should I? He is an Englishman after all. But now, he was forever kissing, hugging & petting either the cat or Michelle. He used to be known as ‘Rude Rees’ for goodness sake. I don’t know what mystical magic Michelle had weaved on him but I decided I would lock my door at night.

Not that everything had changed for while a cat may have nine lives we only have the one and Tom could still knock the drinks back. And there can’t be too many better cities on the planet to conjure up reasons to do just that than in Sydney. For when it wasn’t raining time was spent taking the ferry over to Manly, revisiting Circular Quay, strolling round the Botanical Gardens & Darling Harbour and even popping along to the SCG to take in a bit of State cricket.

But for some reason I was struggling to let myself go. In the past two trips to Sydney the mere sight of one of its iconic structures would have been enough for me to exhale deeply, slow my pace to a crawl and live in the present rather than furiously plot for tomorrow. Please god, don't tell me I'm turning into one of those people who need to be doing something at every hour of the day to be content.

Actually no, I'm just as laxy as the next person. Unless that next person is Tomson!No, rather it's that I needed more than a week to clear my mind following a year that has involved two new jobs, a South African World Cup, wedding organisations, two trips to Germany, one to Ireland & two stag dos to participate and arrange.

And being apart from Fe in the city that we met has also been difficult. It’s hard not to have constant reminders that she isn’t with me. ‘Oh look, the restaurant where we went on our first date, or the house that she lived in the month we started seeing each other, or her old office where I used to wait for her to finish work, even the bloody SCG made me think of the time we went to the nearby cinema together rather than watch England win a One Day International against Australia in the final of the Commonwealth Bank Series. I think it was at that point back then that I realised we had something serious.

So the chance to get out of Sydney was actually one I welcomed. Come the Friday and the return of the bad weather and me, Tom & Michelle went off on a road trip to Scotland Island. It was a chance to go somewhere new and a place that would definitely not remind me of Fe! Hurrah! And more importantly it was my first visit to my old University friend Newkster Jon’s family home which he shared with his wife Maria and two kids Jasmine & Joey.

The weather on the way up to Scotland Island was pretty bleak (for Sydney) and wouldn’t have been out of place in the Outer Hebrides and it ended up taking us the best part of four hours to get there. It was also a place as far removed from the one I’d met Jonny 16 long years ago.

Cut off from the mainland by a short boat ride, Scotland Ireland as it registered in my brain, is inhabited by less than 300 families. All houses look outwards over the bay and are perched on the side of the hill. There are no shops, little in way of roads, the tap water is collected from the roof, and funnel web spiders lurk outside. But when the view from your bedroom is as good as this then that seems pretty unimportant.

When the sun shines it's a beautiful island setting and Jonny seems pretty damn content with his lot. He may have to get his feet wet everytime he takes the kids to school or goes to work but he doesn't seem to mind.

Awaking early the next day after an evening spent playing with the kids, eating $100 worth of BBQ meat and drinking ale I found I’d been savagely attacked in the night. Mosquito’s had descended and my legs, arms and even forehead been targeted. I immediately started treating my wounds but even as I did so a lone chancer caught me unawares and started feasting on the inside of my knee. My leg immediately started to swell up and I felt it go numb all down the front. All of which was fairly disturbing.

I hadn’t mentioned any of this to the others as I stoically got on with applying ointment to my various lumps, bumps and bites. But unfortunately for my excitable mind, Maria chose this moment to mention how her youngest daughter had suffered an anaphylactic shock after a tick bite. Apparently the only symptom she failed to experience was her heart stopping. I immediately added two and two to make the Greek number for PANIC.

Maria continued on saying that since then she now stocked syringes in case it
happened again and how the thigh was the best place to aim for. Part of me thought, hmmm stabbing myself in the thigh wouldn’t be that bad, and the other part of me thought of that scene in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta has to plunge a needle into Uma Thurman’s heart, white frothy puke and all.

Thankfully for everyone concerned there was no need for any life saving measures and after needlessly fretting for a bit I realised that nothing untoward was going to happen and that their was no need for any undue 1990’s messiness which would have left everyone present (and my thigh) scarred for life.

Before long it was time to leave the island and head back to Manly. The sun was out, the kids had a party to go to and we had a date with my favourite beach in all the world.

And so my final few days in town ended pleasantly, sun-bathing and swimming on Shelly Beach in Manly, snorkelling off Clovelly beach, learning how to use my new camera by pursuing crabs around rock pools and finally another top BBQ with Tom & Michelle & their neighbours.

And while it’s true that my Sydney experience this time around didn’t quite match the relaxation stakes of years gone by. Considering the next time I’ll be in town is when the 5th and final Ashes Test takes place and all that entails. It could be that I find myself longing for the simpler days when all I had to worry about was my knee ballooning to twice its size and whether my heart was about to explode.

Here we go again.......

2010-11-25T07:24:00.003Z

Four years ago I was in Brisbane on the evening before the start of the Ashes. With my drinking buddies on the main strip in the centre of town I bade them an early farewell so excited was I about what was to come the following day. I didn't want to wake up hungover so left proceedings early after just a couple of beers and I pretty much danced my way back to the hostel.

Fast forward to 2010 and the scene has been a familiar one. But that kid on the night before Christmas feeling just wasn't present. Every text I got from the UK asking about my levels of excitement only served to highlight the fact that I wasn't as beside myself with nervous glee as I had been four years previous.

I mentally ticked off the miriad of reasons why this should be, the lack of novelty aspect, the absence of Fe, the mental scars of that 5-0 drubbing and the fact that this is now my fourth tour. All of which made sense but didn't really sit right. Maybe I'll get that flush of joy when I awake I reasoned. But I didn't. In fact my intial thought upon waking was that I could do with a bit more sleep.

I got to the ground early noting the queues that had snaked up the road in 06/07 were noticeably shorter. I set my equipment up in the press box, got a cup of tea and watched the opening ceremony. I felt removed from the action.

And then in the third delivery of the day, the Test and the series, Andrew Strauss cut Ben Hilfenhaus straight to Michael Hussey in the gulley. I was standing in line with both players and couldn't have had a more perfect view. Watching it made me feel physically sick. Now that's more like it.

The age old question

2010-11-24T07:58:00.003Z

Unwanted experiences in youth hostelling no.464 – Last night I walked into my room and the first thing I saw was a naked, pale elderly bottom which peered up at me from the underneath of a far too short sleeping gown. “Ooh” remarked its 60 year old owner. Apparently surprised that I had walked in at precisely the moment he was leaning forward to study himself in the bathroom mirror.

Unwanted experiences in youth hostelling no.465 – “Have you ever seen the film A Clockwork Orange?” He asked me as I was leaving the room this morning. I replied that I had wondering why he was bringing it up and trying to work out if he had intended the menacing tone in which he had posed the question. His chin was covered in shaving foam and he brandished a razor. “Kinda disturbing in a profoundly violent & wicked way, don’t ya think?” He said, eye-balling me as I passed him on the way out.

I love youth hostels. Without them I wouldn’t have remembered how fucking weird old people can be.

A spot of bother

2010-08-30T23:30:00.004+01:00

For a few weeks over the winter I spent many a night and an early morning listening to live cricket coverage from New Zealand. The opponents were Pakistan and I was well rewarded as two of Test crickets lesser sides played out a thrilling three match series.

Night after night I risked infecting my computer with thousands of unheard of viruses as I scoured illegal websites promising live uninterrupted TV coverage. When they proved unobtainable I listened to live ball-by-ball coverage on NZ local radio. God knows what Fe thought I was up to.

In a memorable three week period I delighted in 19 year old Umar Akmal's century on debut, marvelled as 17 year old Mohammed Amir's inswinging yorker ended Tim McIntosh's innings with the first ball of the first match, punched the air at Iain O'Brien's magical farewell in Wellington and wondered what could have been throughout Shane Bond's match winning final flourish in Dunedin.

Fast forward to last Saturday when I once again chose to spend my time off doing what I love, watching cricket. Apart from the obvious there aren't many things in my life that I guarantee will lead to a zen-like experience from the moment my eyes open in a morning. The dreamy promise of a drawn out day in the sun stretches out ahead promising relaxation, stimulation and conversation.

And so, through the generosity of a double-booked workmate I spent a traditional English summer's day alongside my friend, Sinan who enjoyed his Lord's experience for the first time. After a frenetic day's play I walked back to St.John's Wood station slightly drunk on life and slightly more so on alcohol and texted the man whose cluttered calendar had allowed for such an enjoyable and relaxing time.

....."My lord's experience has consisted of 17 wickets, a world record 8th wicket stand, a 88th minute Fulham equaliser, a brass band, a lovely rainbow & even a £250 group bet win on the horses thanks to a mick quinn tip. Many thanks for the tickets. I'm sorry you don't have much cricket to look forward to tomorrow'.....

And then I got home and found out it had all been a lie. And the re-evaluation of my day, my summer, my affections towards several members of a young Pakistani side, of my past & present and ultimately my love of the game began. Two days on and it's still being questioned.

Rightly or wrongly Pakistani cricket has been synonymous with cheating ever since the days of Waqar & Wasim reverse swinging their way to success back in the 90's. As someone whose fondest county cricket memories are of Younis & his 100mph yorkers shattering wickets & toes for Surrey it's been a continual source of personal frustration to hear those who need no invitation to slam cricket dole out the usual mix of hackneyed and tired cliches to dismiss any result involving Pakistan over the years. For when they win "they cheated; lose and they threw it away." It’s a mantra that is set to stay.

In some ways it’s surprising that allegations of spot-fixing and possible match arranging cause such a thing. Two years ago I shared a taxi with an England legend who told of a Pakistani team mate forced to underperform in a ODI against India. He was threatened by his captain that he would never play for Pakistan again if he didn't comply. So, against his better instincts, he did just that. At the end of the tour he was presented with a bundle of notes. What he did with them is unclear. But my cab companion told me that the hatred his former colleague carried with him of his national captain remained to this day.

And it's not just those close to the action or the Pakistani supporters who have more reason than most to feel thoroughly disenchanted sick to the stomach. It affects so many people in so many ways.

In one foul swoop one of the things I enjoy the most in life had been taken from me. The morning after the story broke I travelled to work in much the same way that I always do stopping to pick up a coffee and a paper before boarding the train at Clapham Junction for the 12 minute journey to Chiswick.

But here things changed for while normally I would have spread open the sports pages at the cricket section and read through the various opinion pieces and accounts of the previous days play. This time I looked at it and thought 'what's the point?' What is the point of reading an account of a day’s play that had been decided upon?

For pitch inspection now read introspection. Where Vic Marks heralded the partnership between Stuart Broad & Jonathan Trott now I question whether it could possibly be a coincidence that England put on the largest 8th wicket stand in the history of the game in a match involving a team that might not actually want to win?

Instead of reading Mike Brearley's comments on the moment Mohammed Amir went off the field due to injury as being the natural turning point in the game it's understandable the question should now be whether in fact he was injured at all?

And why when he was to return moments later did he sit out 15 overs play despite having taken six of the seven wickets to have fallen? Is the fact that he then went wicketless for the remainder of the innings also adown to the honest vagaries of the game? And there’s more. Should England be praised for one of the biggest & quickest turnarounds in world cricket or Pakistan damned?

And as the mind really starts to wander down dark corridors of uncertainty that really shouldn't be explored, will we ever know everything that happened in that West Indian hotel room the night Bob Woolmer was found dead just 24 hours after Pakistan had 'remarkably' lost in the World Cup to Ireland?

These are the kinds of questions that I have found myself asking since I heard of the revelations. And the feeling is mutual for it's not just me asking these questions. In Australia those players & spectators who basked in their sides 'remarkable' comeback in Sydney at the start of the year will be asking themselves whether the Pakistani's really did make $1.4 million from chucking the match. That truly is remarkable.

So where now for me and the millions of others who now doubt the sport they have grown up watching? How you rebuild the faith and restore it to those who devote their time and energy to following cricket is unclear. For now when I glance up and see cricket on the TV screens it fills me with sadness and anger. It makes me think of betrayal and greed. Nobody wants to wake up and feel that ahead of a day at the cricket. There's nothing zen-like about that.

"The bond between the fan and the sports hero is among the purest in the world. It is also among the most sacrosanct…..Sportspersons can sometimes be forgiven for taking adulation for granted, but they must never test, much less abuse, faith. Once shaken, faith is the hardest to restore. - Cricinfo Editor Sambit Bal

Last week a new cricket tour set for February was announced. Pakistan will return to New Zealand and take part in a two Test series. At the time I was disappointed it wasn’t longer. Now I wonder whether anyone will be watching. For after the events of the last weekend it remains to be seen whether people like me the world over will ever bother to wait up and watch cricket involving Pakistan ever again.

The clanger

2010-08-11T18:40:00.010+01:00

Is it just me or is David Cameron turning into George 'Dubya' Bush? He's only been in power for three months and he's made more clangers than Tony Blair did in ten years. Okay, he's not yet taken us to war illegally yet, but surely that's not far off?

Since scraping to victory in May's general election Cameron has been forced to apologise or backtrack more regularly than your local railway station public address system. Last week he came under fire for saying to an American audience that England played a junior role in World War 2. That is insulting on many, many levels.

Then minutes after being held to task by a Brighton pensioner over the junior partner comment, and holding his hands up to his mistake, he went on to say Iran had a nuclear bomb, which it doesn't. At least not yet. You know you're in trouble when it’s the Aussie media calling you stupid.

Moving on and you start to notice a common theme in this loose talk for he has also told an anti-Israeli Turkish audience that Gaza was nothing more than a prison camp and then to an Indian one that Pakistan have been funding terrorism.

No doubt he was still taking in the wild applause following this last speech when one of his aides informed him that the Pakistani president was actually visiting town the following week. So lo' behold he immediately went and changed his mind and declared they are doing a sterling job of keeping a lid on those pesky Taliban.

Though it was after he went on record to describe himself as middle class that I finally had had enough. What next, black friends?

Middle class! Ha! Who is he kidding? Firstly, he went to Eton, secondly he's related to King William IV and thirdly doesn't he know that nobody, but nobody pretends to be middle class? You're either “working class and proud” or rich and don't give a fuck. Seriously, anyone who actually lies about being middle class shouldn’t be entrusted to run a bath let alone a country.

Now, you might believe some of what he is saying to be true. You might agree that Pakistan is funding the terrorists who learn their trade inside the countries border, that the treatment of Palestinians in Gaza is inhumane, that England's role in winning World War II owes much to America’s intervention in 1941 and that David Cameron does indeed come from a middle class background, okay maybe that is one step too far.

But apart from pretending he wasn't brought up in a castle with a pet dragon living under the drawbridge, what I find most insulting about him is that when he visits foreign countries he goes out of his way to tell them exactly what they want to hear. And then when he's in his own country he tells us exactly what we don’t. That we're going to have to suffer the largest cuts in public services of all time; while the bankers are allowed to carry on as before. How is that fair?

I suppose that now we've voted him in (sort of) he feels confident enough to do what he likes over here. And like a foreign Premier League footballer thinks that whatever he says in another country will be kept a nice secret between himself and his smiling audience. Oh dear.

I've seen David ‘Dubya’ Cameron (his middle name is William) in action. His aides understood the importance of increasing his media profile in the lead to the general election. As his only policy seemed to be that he wasn’t Gordon Brown it was important he was kept on the move around the country and he ended up spending more time in our studios than half of our presenters.

To watch him stand around the programming floor pretending to have an interest in football was nearly as painful as his attempts to fit in with us. He was like the teacher at school who thinks he can hang with the kids out of school just by wearing a ‘trendy’ jumper. It was so bad.

And it wasn't just the way his aim of integrating himself within the talkSPORT office was as doomed to failure as a middle class person trying to decrease the chances of being ripped off by a mechanic by dropping a 'T' here and there. No, it wasn't that, it was because he bothered in the first place.

Call me old fashioned but while I want my leaders to have the common touch I also want them to have something about them that inspires, that makes me stop what I'm doing (reading cricinfo.com usually) when they walk in the room, that sets them out as different, as having something about them so bloody impressive that I can see why they see themselves fit to lead a whole nation of people. Basically I want David Beckham to be PM.

But David Cameron doesn’t have any of this. He can’t dazzle anyone with his intellect, charisma or oratory skills. He's just another bland, posh bloke who only got into power because Labour had been so unbelievably awful and because there wasn't enough about him to divide his own party.

But with at least five years remaining of David Cameron's tenure we're already starting to see a glimpse of the future. A future where David Cameron & the UK are set to become the Prince Phillip of world politics.

All of which is pretty apt as David and Phillip are distantly related. Through marriage that is. Prince Phillip's marriage to the Queen......Middle class, my arse.

Jimmy Carter

2010-07-26T17:52:00.010+01:00

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, my final weekend in South Africa loomed and I was hopeful (yet not certain) of a place at the high table. The second biggest game in world football was taking place on the Sunday and while clearly it's no Championship play-off final I still yearned to be in attendance to watch El Classico Utd take on Sexy Football XI.

However my chances appeared to be 50/50 at best for despite furious behind-the-scene wranglings by Matt Smith we had only procured seven tickets between our ten-man party. Someone was destined to be disappointed.

Before that though we had an eagerly awaited group night out to attend. Our last Friday evening had long been set aside to celebrate a successful tour for talkSPORT, for South Africa and because life in general had been pretty good. It was also a chance for us all to say thank you and goodbye to Karin, Neil, Samantha and Candice, our South African family who'd made our stay in Johannesburg such a special one.

The evening started eventfully, but thankfully, the negative actions of one couldn't curtail the positive intentions of the few and once our group had been reduced we all settled down to enjoy each others company in the surrounds of a local Asian restaurant. Not that Pad Thai was on my menu. For, while the others tucked into various noodle dishes and chilli cocktails (weird) I opted for a giant 500g rib-eye steak. With Fe's unbeatable home cooked Chinese food just days away I thought I'd take advantage of ridiculously expensive cuts of meat at equally ridiculously cheap prices while I could.

A pleasant evening unfolded and before long we were making plans to go on. With the wine and cocktails flowing freely our group split (amicably, this time) between those who wanted to go on drinking and those who fancied a flutter at the nearby Montecasino. And after a wait for our taxi to arrive myself, Romford Pele, Jim Proudfoot, Antony & Samantha squeezed into our vehicle, offered Samantha the only available seatbelt, and directed the cabby to an establishment that had fast become our first port of call on an evening, the News Cafe in Sandton.

We didn't arrive until 1am and got stuck in. For the next four hours every round consisted of a double and a shot known as a Springbok. And an evening that started so ignominiously ended in a manner more befitting the celebratory mood we'd hoped for as we danced about, mucked around and chatted to anyone who’d listen.

From the little I remember from the evening there were several highlights. But perhaps the best was when Ray spotted Dutch legend Ronald Koeman, strode up to him with hand outstretched and cheerily said “Hello Roland” in a manner only those who watched Grange Hill in the 80’s can truly appreciate.

The other notable moment of the evening also involved a former World Cup footballer. (Well, did you really expect anything else?) Veteran of the 1998 World Cup, and certified madman, Edmundo repeatedly tried to gatecrash our group and we repeatedly tried to prevent him. He’d obviously decided that Samantha was the girl for him and spent a good two hours putting all his efforts into catching her attention.

However once he realised that conventional means weren’t going to work with a girl 19 years his junior (and in a relationship) he employed more unconventional means. His ‘alternative’ pick-up tactics included hair pulling and biting. It reminded me of my brothers pulling technique back in the day. In the end we took it in turns to pretend to be Samantha’s boyfriend and he got tired of talking to the back of our heads and buggered off.

It was still dark when we finally followed suit, but only just. With the clock approaching six in the morning we staggered out of our cab and said our goodnights. It had been a fitting end of tour night out.

The next day was a painful affair and one of the most testing of my career. I didn’t emerge until after midday and spent a couple of hours disconsolately pacing around the grounds and the pool in the afternoon sun. Ray said I reminded him of a polar bear at the zoo.

Jim appeared an hour or so later to announce that he couldn't remember ever drinking more in his life. And our VISA bills in the coming days would be testament to that fact.

A mid-afternoon kip was followed by a gentle production shift as beaten semi-finalists Germany v Uruguay turned the most derided match of the World Cup into one of its most exciting. But once I turned in for the night sleep was hard to come by and I’d watched complete re-runs of two matches before I finally managed to drift off.

After four hours sleep I woke up on my penultimate day in Johannesburg with a text telling me I was going to the final. Shortly after I found out I was to produce live from the match. Considering I had been a late call up and the last producer on the plane it was a proud moment to think that I would be the one to bring the final to the millions listening to talkSPORT.

And there was more good news as Matt had managed to obtain the three additional tickets which meant the whole talkSPORT crew would go to the (foot)ball. And despite all that was going on in life and in my head I set out from the Lodge determined that nothing would get in the way of making the most out of the occasion.

I arrived at Soccer City with plenty of time to go before kick off and after buying a couple of programmes I set our equipment up in the press box. I was producing a two hour build up show which was to incorporate the closing ceremony. I've never been to a closing ceremony before (nor an opening one for that matter) and I will remember to not be so quick to dismiss them in future.

It was bloody awesome. An overhead fly-by sent tremors through the stadium to signal the start. For a split second, as the lights dimmed, and unnannounced vibrations and noise rocked Soccer City I thought I was having a bit of a senior moment. But as the lasers started up and the dancers appeared in front of me I began to enjoy myself. And who wouldn't enjoy the sight of Shakira, fake elephants, crazy graphics, singers, fireworks and loud music?

But the best was still to come. Earlier on in the tour I'd started reading Nelson Mandela's biography. Coupled with the trips I'd had to the Hector Pieterson & Apartheid Museums it had provided me with an insight into life in South Africa that I'd never had the opportunity to glimpse before. Indeed when people ask what was the best thing about my trip my immediate response is to point at the opportunity to really learn about the country, its people and its history. And at the centre of all that is one man, and with very little warning, and accompanied by a roar that easily dwarfed any other in the World Cup, he suddenly appeared in front of everyone in the stadium.

It was a moment to rival any other as he was driven around the pitch all the while waving and smiling at the crowd. For once the press corp abandoned all professionalism and joined in the celebrations. Cameras flashed, people punched the air & hugged each other, the noise was incredible. Even though I was wearing three layers I'm sure you could still see my goosebumps. It was without doubt the standout moment of my tour.

All of this and the main event was still to come. Lucky old me! A match that promised so much. The mercurial midfield talents of Iniesta & Sneijder. Two undeniably talented teams but who are often European underdogs and without a World Cup trophy between them. Plenty of Premier League talent in van Persis & Fabregas. And two teams who are famous for playing attractive, attacking football in the right way.

Well so much for any of that. It was a horrible game. The first half as bad as any I can remember. The attitude of both sets of players was appalling and I felt sorry for Howard Webb who found himself slap bang in the middle of a 'damned if you do and damned if you don't' situation. But saying all this, if Ramos (twice) and Robben (twice) had taken guilt edged chances we'd have been talking about a classic World Cup final!

But they didn't and the only saving grace about the match (apart from the fact that I was there, rather than watching listlessly on the TV) was that Iniesta scored a good goal in open play and prevented Holland from winning the match on penalties. For that, and the ensuing scenes of celebration, I will forever be grateful.

And that was about that for the following evening was hometime. After the stresses and strains of my last weekend in Jo'Burg a ten hour flight home wasn't exactly top of my list of things to do. But despite an emotional farewell at the Lodge, there was no mistaking the feeling of my body and mind telling me it was time to go home. But as I sat in my cab on the way to the airport and stared out the window I knew I would one day return. I await news of England's next cricket tour to South Africa with interest.......

The long goodbye

2010-07-09T18:50:00.004+01:00

It’s been nearly two weeks since England got knocked out of the World Cup and still the tournament rumbles on. The final takes place on Sunday and I’m desperately waiting to find out if I’ve got a Willy Wonka golden ticket; although I’m not sure anyone back home will be watching.

Many people have described it as the worst World Cup in living memory. I realise that my enjoyment in being here might colour my view but I’d say that’s more a reflection on the frustration brought on by England’s disastrous showing. It was without doubt our worst World Cup in living memory, even worse than USA’94 and we didn’t even qualify for that.

Knowing full well how the English newspapers would react to our exit I was happy enough to remain in South Africa. But there’s no doubt that we all had to raise our spirits. We were certainly all a bit Joechim Loew for a few days but in one way England exiting stage left meant we could all sit back and enjoy the football on show without worrying about what it meant for our chances of winning.

After three weeks we could all fully appreciate the ebb and flow of football played like it ought to be and watching the likes of Argentina, Brazil, Spain, Chile and Holland play in front of full houses in different football stadiums reaffirmed my appreciation for the game.

Another bonus was the appearance of Ray Parlour in the talkSPORT lodge. He turned up the morning of the 4-1 thrashing that signalled the end of the tour for several members of our party. It would have been easy for him to think he’d gate crashed a stranger’s funeral and kept himself to himself. But thankfully he’s one of the funniest characters I've ever met and has given everyone a lift at exactly the time we needed it.

A World Cup without England meant a slight reduction in the amount of hours we were broadcasting from the lodge. But for the next week or so I continued producing shows in and out of stadiums throughout the quarterfinals and taking in the sights and sounds of the first African World Cup.

After the delights of Tevez, Hernandez and Messi on the Sunday in the meticulous & mammoth Soccer City I spent the following evening marvelling at darting swallows feasting on moths and insects attracted to the inner-city floodlights on Ellis Park. A ramshackle ground situated near one of the no go areas of Johannesburg.

Upon arrival I looked around at the uneven stands, the ancient facilities, the darkened alleyways and raucous atmosphere with a view from the upper tier over the threatening nearby neighbourhood and proudly exclaimed “now this is a proper football stadium!” Before being reminded that it was in fact a rugby ground and the scene of South Africa’s famous World Cup triumph, which united the nation for the first time. Oops.

During the week I took a taxi 45 minutes across town to the best museum I’ve ever been to, The Apartheid Museum. As sobering as it was in parts it was still an uplifting experience and despite spending two hours inside I could have spent another hour at least so packed is it with information, videos, artefacts and displays.

Sadly, it made me realise that this country has been inextricably linked with violence since the Dutch ‘founded’ it in the 17th century. It also made me realise just how important having the World Cup on its soil is for the people. They need a uniting force more than any other nation.

At the end of the museum as I walked out of the austere building into the daylight and wandered through the gardens the emotions of what the people here have been through hit me and once again I had reason to thank my parents, friends and country for such a blessed life so far.

And I was thanking god for entirely different reasons minutes later as we were picked up by our resident nutcase taxi driver Sidney. For once he wasn't on the phone arguing with his wife or business partner but that didn't stop him swerving across the lane during the midday traffic and try and share a lane with a truck. Even Sidney looked apologetic after that manouevre ended in fist waving and horn blowing rather than the death of three people.

The following Sunday I enjoyed my first day off in four weeks. And as I wasn’t needed for the semi-finals this was quickly followed by my second, third & fourth days off. A chance to chill out, get a bit of a suntan and finish my holiday shopping, "fifteen vuvuselas please!"

It was also a chance to finally do something I’ve never done before and ride a bloody horse.

Four of us travelled to a game reserve for a two-hour horse ride. It was a cloudy day and things didn’t start too well when we arrived at our destination. Firstly the place was called Croc River and my imagination started to run away with me before the guide informed us that the crocs had long since left the scene. However our discomfort was quickly replaced by the domestic that seemed to be going on with the Afrikaan owner and his African helpers as he chastised them for not preparing the horses in time for our arrival.

But once we got underway our moods improved and I really started to enjoy riding the most laidback horse on the ranch. Our trip was punctuated by sightings of bored looking wildebeest, zebras and deer. While the snakes that could have ruined everything by scaring the horses and sparking a stampede remained out of sight in and firmly in hibernation. T’was a lovely way to spend a morning.

ALl of which brought me to my final weekend in South Africa. An evening out with my fellow talkSPORT workmates on the Friday night and the prospect of attending the final on the Sunday awaited. It ended up being one of the best and worst weekend's of my life.

Return of the cack

2010-06-30T17:23:00.004+01:00

Well that didn't quite turn out like I had hoped. Watching England getting battered by the Germans on a muted monitor in the soulless setting of a media centre with Adrian Durham and Romford Pele. Cheers from German hacks and anti-English broadcasters ringing around the hall and in my ears as our defence was breached easier than a Frenchman’s border. Then the friendly laughter from African commentators as I jumped about in impotent fury as the Germans finally got us back for the goal that never was in 1966. It was as bad as it was surreal. And I’ve never sworn quite so much and quite so rudely in front of so many strangers.

By the time of the third and fourth goals I’d moved to the vast and empty Soccer City Stadium. It was a sorry way for England’s World Cup adventure to come to an end. And as the three of us set up our kit and got ourselves ready for Argentina v Mexico (and what I had optimistically hoped would be a chance to see a match up between England’s quarter-final opponents) I tried to work out what was the more disappointing display, England in the 2010 FIFA World Cup or England’s defence of the 06/07 Ashes? I didn’t bother asking Liam, as he was too busy booting a seat around the press box.

In the build up to the game I’d been envious of my colleagues who’d been selected to attend and work on the game. England v Germany World Cup encounters don’t come along that often. Some might say, thankfully. But later that night as I watched them all troop back into the Lodge, knackered and scared after a hair raising six hour car journey back from Bloemfontain, I felt a burst of gratitude that I didn’t have their days experience in the memory banks.

It was a flat feeling all round for the next 24 hours. England’s exit meant the same for several members of our party. After three weeks of working, living and going out together and with two weeks left of the tournament it has been tough saying goodbye to those who’ve now left the Lodge and returned to England. Uncertain times all round.

It needed something special to raise spirits and it duly came the following night. I was sent out to produce live commentary of Brazil v Chile and it was more than enough to put a smile on my face and remind me that if I don’t make the most of the last ten days in South Africa I may as well head home and jack it all in.

For unlike England’s torturous approach to playing football this reminded me of watching kids play. Not that they played in parkas with packed lunches in their hands like I used to. Just in the way that actually looked like they were enjoying themselves. Robinho’s goal was a delight to watch and was enough to re-energise me. Maybe now England have gone out we can all sit back and enjoy the rest of the tournament.

Soweto

2010-06-25T22:48:00.001+01:00

Politically, socially and historically June 16th is the most symbolic day in the South African calendar. It is a public holiday is now known as National Youth Day and it is also the day in 1976 when a 12-year old boy by the name of Hector Pieterson was murdered in the street in front of his sister by South African police. An event now seen as the catalyst which led to international pressure finally finding its voice to demand an end to apartheid.

The Tuesday morning after I arrived I set off from our lodge shamefully ignorant about all of this and completely unprepared for what was to follow. I sat in a smart 7-seater with some very wealthy radio broadcasters and a former Premier League footballer and dreamily stared out the window as we travelled into the most famous township in the world. A place synonymous for its part in forcing an end to apartheid, for being the home place of Nelson Mandela and being the location of the deaths of thousands like Hector Pieterson. I was travelling into Soweto and I'm going to tell its story for the rest of my life.

As part of a regular tour we were led by 24-year, Jo and our driver Andrew who grew up in a township near Pretoria. She, I found slightly annoying in the way she kept relating stories of apartheid back to her own almost non-existent personal experiences, but Andrew was fascinating.

As we slowly made our way through the city rush hour traffic he described getting tear gassed on the way back from picking up tomatoes for his mother. Of running away from armoured police vans that locals call hippos. And how he and his friends grew up having to learn nine languages such is the varied ethnic mix in and around Johannesburg. I would be reminded of this tale later in the day.

As we continued on our way the significance of our destination started to become clearer. We were told about how Soweto originated from inauspicious beginnings as the Afrikaan government sought to force black and coloured people away from Johannesburg’s city centre, about how part of the township was built on swampland and sewage, and how after years of sporadic violence and protests on June 16th, 1976 the people finally started to gather a voice.

Our first stop however was Orlando Stadium, home to the Kaiser Chiefs and Orlando Pirates. We were all by now keen to see and learn more. But our driver was a keen football fan and knowing we were in town for the World Cup wanted to show us the stadium. The shacks that had started to build up on wasteland near this proud football ground were typical of the area.

We were then driven through a typical Soweto market, which reminded me of Bridgetown in Barbados or St John's in Antigua. I wanted to take a photo of the shopkeepers, the stallholders, those selling fruit on cardboard boxes by the road or the brightly clothes hanging on rusty rails. But it just didn't feel right.

Then we were finally allowed out of the minibus as we stopped off at the Regina Mundi church, another icon of the township. Here we were told why thousands of students decided to take to the streets in protest on June 16th. It came after the government had imposed a law that every kid be forced to learn Afrikaan in school.

Considering the restrictions on black people at the time this may not seem so bad. But for many it was the final straw. It was bad enough that they had to learn one language (English) that they never had any use for at home, while with friends or at work, now they had to learn another. Thousands took to the streets and the South African police clamped down on them quickly, decisively and brutally.

Later that day, in the aftermath, Regina Mundi Church, where we now stood, was where hundreds of frightened children, women and students would later flee after the police opened fire. They must have thought that by hiding in a church they would be safe. They were wrong. We were shown the bullet holes inside the building where South African police gunned several of them down.

I'm embarrassed to say that even after hearing and seeing this the enormity of what took place that day still hadn't properly registered. And as we drove off my attention was taken by children playing football on a field and of families eating picnics on the grass near to the church. Although we hadn't been taken into the shantytowns or squatter camps where the poorest of the poor reside the areas we'd been through almost carried an air of tranquillity and familiarity.

But this was to change as first we stopped outside an unremarkable house where Winnie Mandela still lives. Despite the negative press she has received outside of South Africa she is still held in high esteem in Soweto as she has remained loyal to her roots and still lives in the township. And then we were then taken to the Hector Pieterson Museum. A museum dedicated to the events of July 16th.

As we entered there were scores of young schoolchildren being taken around. They huddled together, arms slung over each other’s shoulders with one eye on where their teachers were. They peered up at giant photographs taken on the day of the protests featuring kids not much older than they were. In the photos the students held handmade signs saying 'No more Afrikaans' and one of the actual banners remained, locked in a glass case. Suddenly reality jarred.

Maybe it was the fact that for the first time that day I was on my own but as I continued looking at the photos, watched short videos of the ensuing violence and read some of the personal stories something clicked.

The children in the photos looked familiar to me. They reminded me of the friends I grew up with. But unlike us lucky lot these guys were living under a state of fear, as an underclass, with no hope of a future. But for one fateful day they'd gathered enough support to feel safe enough to make a public show of their feelings. They were defiant, they had right on their side and when I looked at their faces and in their eyes it wasn’t anger that I saw but joy.

I turned the corner and started walking down a short narrow corridor with a blank wall on one side and glass on the other. My attention was immediately drawn to an image at the end of the corridor. It was another black and white photograph hanging on the wall. Underneath a group of 10-15 children gathered staring up at the canvass. As I walked closer I was stung by the image on show. It depicted three children. Two were running towards the camera crying their hearts out and the other was dead.

I've never seen a photo like it. And I couldn't understand why it had taken 35 years for me to see it. It affected me like no other picture I've ever seen. The overwhelming grief and irrefutable agony on the girls face was too much. The thought of finding out my brother was dead and that I had to go home and tell my own parents what had happened. That in the blink of an eye we'd gone from laughing and joking around whilst skipping school, to the shock & fear of being shot at, and then the horrific realisation of what had happened. I felt an overwhelming sadness. What a fucking waste. It was too much. I had to walk away. And as I walked past the schoolkids who turned and looked up at me as I passed them I felt guilt.

There is no doubt that if I hadn't been with work colleagues and had instead been standing alongside Fe, my bro or someone equally close I'd have cried my eyes out. It was that upsetting. I had to snap myself back into action and force myself to stare out the window that looked out over Soweto to sort my head out. And speaking to the others afterwards I know I wasn't the only one.

The walk back to the car was subdued. We were all visibly shocked by what we had seen and I hearing what the others had to say proved I wasn't alone in the sadness I felt. Trying to stop myself from dwelling on what I'd just seen as our car pulled away I finally understood what I was on this tour.

It was a quiet trip to our last destination of the day. One that would provide us a chance to end the day with a more positive mindset. But nothing could dim the shocking effects of my trip to the Hector Pieterson Museum. And nor should it have. But a chance to visit the house where Nelson Mandela lived before and after his imprisonment on Robben Island offered us some kind of closure.

Nelson Mandela's house is, on the face of it, an unremarkable house on an unremarkable street in a quiet neighbourhood in Soweto. The only reason it sticks out is the presence of a few street traders outside and the high iron railing wall that surrounds it.

Apart from finding out about the work Nelson Mandela did for the ANC whilst in living in the building and a bit more about his family I learned three surprising things whilst here.

Firstly that this is the only street in the world where two nobel peace prize winners have lived. As not only did Mandela reside on this street but Desmond Tutu still lives down the road! Not bad for a small road in a Jo'Burg township.

Secondly that the Mandela's had to build a brick wall inside the pantry to hide behind as the police used to fire bullets and throw bottles through the windows at night. This was during the rise in popularity & strength of the ANC shortly before Mandela was imprisoned.

Thirdly, when considering that the house itself is a small one (with only three rooms) it was also surprising to find out that Mandela actually moved back to this house after being released from prison. He stayed for eleven days until he was forced to move out because of the disruption well wishers were causing his neighbours. Incredible.

As the house was only small, and thankfully devoid of a tacky gift shop, it wasn't long before our trip to Soweto came to an end. We boarded our car for the last time, drove past Desmond Tutu's house and made the hour journey back to our lodge. It was an emotional day for all concerned. And one none of us will ever forget in a hurry.

England's coming home?

2010-06-23T13:28:00.006+01:00

Bloody England. It looks like South Africa is going to join Australia, New Zealand, Germany, Italy and Scotland as countries I've visited only to see my team lose. Although I never thought it would be Slovenia between us and our all too regular soul searching & scapegoat seeking. Now there's a sport we would be good at.

Don't get me wrong, I never once expected us to return home with the Jules Rimet Trophy squeezed in next to the duty free but I was hoping we'd make it past the fucking group stages.

Before I left I had a quick scan at the calendar and worked out that today was notable for just the one thing in that it's the halfway point of my trip. With just over an hour to go until kick off it could also be the day England get booted out of the competition. The tournament has still got nearly three weeks to run! Ridiculous.

Usually when supporting a team you can rely on a gut feeling to tell you how things are likely to go. The magic of sport is that your gut feeling isn't always right. There in lies part of the appeal. But looking ahead to this afternoon's make or break match with Slovenia I honestly haven't a clue how it's going to go. I can see us scoring early and running out comfortable winners. I can see a tight first half and a late goal for either team in the final stages. I can see a bad refereeing decision proving costly.

I think the last England World Cup game I missed was when Gary Linekar put three past Poland in 1986. And while I'll once again be watching avidly this afternoon it will be a slight anticlimax. For after the dreamlike experience of watching the USA game in the stadium with the fans this time it'll be like everyone back in England lucky enough to be off work. Just me, my fingernails and a TV screen.

A small group of us have been left back in Johannesburg and I'll be producing talkSPORT's Drivetime Show straight after the final whistle. If England lose it'll be a painful couple of hours of live radio for all concerned. And that USA game may be the first and last time I ever get to see England in World Cup action. So for all our bloody sakes COME ON ENGLAND!!!!!!!

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, OUT, OUT, OUT!

2010-06-20T12:19:00.006+01:00

Okay, so a 3-0 win against Serbia coupled with a defeat for Germany could still see the Aussies through. But that seems about as likely as a united England side brushing aside Slovenia without causing a single supporter a heart murmur. The chances of both of us getting through to face each other in the next round doesn't look very likely following two days of contrasting emotions.

Yesterday gave me the chance to forget all about the inept display put on by England on Friday night. And hopefully laugh at a team that in losing 4-0 to the Germans provided the only World Cup performance that ranked even lower than ours against Algeria.

My day featured the obligatory early start as we were doing full commentary of the game, what is it about sports tours and getting up at the crack of dawn? So by the time we arrived, a full six hours before kick off, the security guards hadn't even set up the metal detectors at the gates and with bulging baggage we were all given a cursory wave through the gates.

With so much time to kill before the match I mused about whether I should pop in and see my Bafokeng friends for a moonwalk and a slice of biltong. But after a quick 'blog update and a lazy walk around the stadium (with security guards still out of sight) it was time to head out with Goughie to do some interviews with the Aussie fans.

It was pretty surreal being in the same beer tent I'd frequented a week previous but this time under baking hot sun surrounded by thousands of gold and green shirts, blow up kangaroos and Aussies, Aussies everywhere. Although I can imagine plenty of them had to pinch themselves when they saw Darren Gough sauntering around in their midst. "What the fuck are you doing here mate?" delivered with heavy Australian accent being the usual opening refrain. “You fucking lost?” There isn’t a nation on this planet that likes a good swear up as much as the Aussies as our radio outtakes will testify.

Pretty soon though it was time to take our seats and our beers inside the stadium and the sight inside was incredible. Unlike the USA game where the full effect of a full stadium of red, blue and white flags, shirts and banners was lessened because the match was played under darkness. This time the match was taking place at 4pm and the yellows, greens & reds rolled in and around each other contrasting and complementing basking in beautiful late afternoon sunshine to create a stunning image that made me realise once again what a lucky chap I am.

The game soon got underway and it was the under pressure Aussies who started the better. Buoyed by the return of Harry Kewell they immediately looked the more dangerous and Ghana looked woefully out of sorts. Before long they got a freekick and the keeper made a complete hash of it to hand the Aussies the advantage.

And then the game’s turning point as Australia had Harry Kewell sent off for handball in the area. Forget the bleating from the Socceroos though for this was the right decision. Going by the letter of the law (which is what the referee has to do) Kewell had to go and go he did.

Although following the harsh sending off of Tim Cahill in the first game I can see why their supporters feel so hard done by. They should have learnt after 2006 and that Italian penalty. Welcome back to the world of football pain Aussies. We’ve been expecting you.

With the Aussies down to ten men and with the scores level I was surprised that Ghana played the remainder of the game so defensively. With a tricky game against Germany to come this was the perfect opportunity to guarantee a place in the last sixteen.

Indeed it was the Socceroos who came out after half time with the more positive formation. And it was they who had the games best chance when Wilkshire wasted a chance as golden as the shirt he was wearing with less than ten minutes remaining. At the final whistle both teams seemed downbeat. While my good mood was slightly tempered after a late injury to John Paintsil prevented me enjoying one of his lap of honours.

With one game remaining Australia need to dole out an almighty thrashing to the Serbs and England have to see off Slovenia if these two teams have a chance of facing each other in the next round. But what a match that would be. England versus Australia in the football World Cup. Losing the Ashes to the convicts is one thing. Getting kicked out of the World Cup by them is entirely another.

Return to Rustenburg

2010-06-19T10:19:00.002+01:00

And to think I was going to wear my England shirt today.........

Without anywhere near the same amount of fanfare I've made the short journey back to the Bafokeng region of South Africa. Rustenburg is set to host the Group D match between Australia & Ghana this afternoon and I'm going to be in the stands with a beer and a Goughie.

Before last night's diabolical showing by England I'd envisaged a jolly boys days out here. A bit of payback for 06/07 and a chance to ask the Aussie fans to 'look at the scoreboard'. For after their trouncing at the hands of Germany it's make or break for them today. A loss will see them exit and Ghana progress. However a win will see them with more points than England. Suddenly I've less reason to be so cocky.

What price a John Paintsil lap of honour at the final whistle? It's the only thing that could put a smile back on my face today.

Wrong way street

2010-06-16T20:30:00.004+01:00

In the build up to the World Cup hundreds of scaremongering articles were written and countless dire warnings made about the perils facing any traveller in South Africa. As fans back in Britain no doubt remark on the scores of empty seats at some of the games featuring the smaller nations the blame could and should be rested at the feet of such irresponsible and lazy journalism.

Forgetting, or choosing to ignore the fact that in the past 12 months the country has seen an IPL season, an England cricket tour and a British Lions rugby tour all pass without incident prospective football supporters were warned not to make the journey to a country which admittedly does boast one of the highest murder rates than any other on the planet and where car jacking is commonplace.

I haven't been here long, obviously wouldn't profess to having any experience of living within a township and certainly don't want to tempt online fate, but I would suggest that the biggest danger anyone faces in a car is at the hands of a taxi driver rather than a car jacker. For although they nearly always welcome you with a smile and blare out commentary of all the World Cup games in African they are the most reckless of breed.

The standard of driving here is terrifying. The roads are often gridlocked during rush hour and it leads to some impressively innovative ways of escaping traffic. Since being in South Africa I've been driven down the wrong side of the street on two separate occasions and seen the car I have been sitting in squeeze into and go through areas a rush hour tube traveller would turn his nose up at.

While the look of terror on the normally cocksure Darren Gough as he stared wild eyed through the windscreen as our driver spoke on the phone, the car weaving back and forth across four lanes of traffic on the way to the airport will long live in the memory. I wonder if that's what I look like when I fly?

As looks go it was right up there with the one that greeted me early in the morning at Heathrow when with my work colleagues all ordering a fry up I went for a double vodka and lemonade. Or the one that reverberated around the lodge living room when my erstwhile colleague Matt Smith announced he was only going to have fruit for breakfast.

It's also not uncommon for taxi drivers to reek of alcohol when you get in the car, and one car we picked up in Cape Town after the France game was in such bad state it could only go at 20k an hour up hills, stunk of burnt metal and by the time we reached our destination started to rattle ominously.

They say the biggest killer in Africa is malaria. That might be true but I'd say the humble cab driver is also right up there.

And on the seventh day God invented football

2010-06-07T21:33:00.016+01:00

It took more than three hours to make the weary 80 kilometre drive back from Rustenburg to my home for the next month, The Lourie Lodge in north Johannesburg. Forty thousand English, American and South african fans all on the same single stretch of highway that connects the town where England played their first World Cup game and the largest city in the country. And it was well past two thirty in the morning before I was finally able to pull my duvet over my head, and with the sound of thirty thousand vuvuselas still ringing in my ears said goodnight to the most memorable week of my life.

It's difficult to know where to begin describing the past seven days. A passage of time that has seen me fly into one of the most violent cities in the world and seen nothing but multi-racial harmony and joy. Tried and failed to sit comfortably with a lifestyle that allows me at night to submerge myself in five star luxury following days spent surveying the destitution of the township. The only constant that unifies such disparate ways of life has been the unreserved welcome handed out to us all since we arrived.

It's been a week of firsts. First time in South Africa, first World Cup, even first class flights thanks to a certain Mr Gough. My trip has seen me basking on the dazzling waterfront of Cape Town, immersed within 200,000 Bafana Bafana fans parading through Sandton (Jo'Burg's brashest, flashest urban centre). I've eaten my first Afrikaan brai, sat in Nelson Mandela's chair, danced with locals in Rustenburg and held back tears in Soweto. And on Saturday night the seven days that have shook my world ended on the ultimate high as I watched England play the USA live in the biggest sporting tournament on the planet.

Cape Town, Soweto and the sumptious Lourie Lodge, a place so grandiose I've been warned not to put photos online for fear of raising Fe's expectation levels for our honeymoon (not that she ever reads my 'blog) will have to wait for another day. For today's post and Saturday's action was all about one thing, England.

The journey to the Rustenburg's Royal Bafokeng Stadium started on Thursday morning as due to last minute sponsorship commitments Goughie had to be in Cape Town for two days. I was drafted in to accompany him as we flew business class from Jo'Burg and stayed in the £330 a night Bay Hotel in the millionaire playground of Camps Bay.

Not that I got to exploit either experience as it doesn't really matter what class of flight you're on when you're still convinced it's about to plummet into the earth. The stewardesses would have to be pretty bloody attentive & the peanuts infused with a seriously strong sedative to ever make that an enjoyable state of mind to be in.

And even after my 68th flight ended in much the same way as the previous 67 by safely making it to land without any hint of mechanical failure or hijack by a screaming bomb-wielding banshee our tight schedule meant very little time to take in some more beautiful South African surroundings.

But let's fast forward two days and another early start on the Saturday morning. Well before the sun could rise and allow one last peek of the water I awoke with an unusually reasonable five hours sleep under my belt and both Goughy and I were in fine spirits as we left for the airport. For after working our bloody arses off since arriving in South Africa it was the day that had been shining like a beacon throughout the week.

Flight number 69 also passed without incident and was made memorable only because we met three famous BBC competitors who had to walk past our Business Class seats on the way to economy. "Send the red cross parcel" one of them muttered to Goughie. It's good to know our tv licence money isn't being wasted away.

We'd booked into an early flight so that we could get back in time to make the two hour trip to Rustenburg where England were playing. And it was a good decision as a tight turnaround time and lack of cabs meant we only had time to drop our bags back at the lodge where our hosts were waiting for us. They'd kindly agreed to drive us to the game and the good times were to start early as we were invited to join them at some friends who lived in Rustenburg.

A short car ride and a little snooze later and we were greeted by another amazing location with equally impressive views - not sure what Candice, the 17 year old daughter must have thought about having to sit next to me as I slouched comatose, head tilted to the skies and mouth wide open - at least I didn't dribble.

The outside views were stunning and the inside wasn't too shabby either boasting a fully stocked bar, ping pong table, huge TV & sound system and even a full sized snooker table. Ridiculous. I was also amused to hear that one of the brothers had bounced off the trampoline (picture above) aiming for the swimming pool only to overshoot and nearly fly over the fence. Oh man, I would love to have seen that.

Within minutes of arriving we had beers in our hands, footy had replaced rugby on the box and we were introduced to the meat we were about to eat. It was time for another first. The Afrikaan brai.

I've learned a lot about South African people since getting here. One is that they don't really understand football. They're keen to talk about it, they're totally enthused about having the World Cup here and they are eager to be educated. But it doesn't take long before you realise there's more for them to learn than just the off-side rule.

The other is that if they are proud of anything, and they have a lot to be proud about at the moment, it's of the quality and quantity of their meat. M*E*A*T. Yum. And for the next half an hour we were frequently reminded of the cost such slabs of cow, lamb and beef would be back in England.

Man, they love their meat here so much they even added it to the salad & pasta dishes that accompanied the giant sausages and paving stone sized steaks. Even the quiche was no more than lumps of chicken & bacon served up in a bit of pastry with an egg cracked over it. As Goughie declared in his strong Barnsley accent "I'm not usually into quiche, but this is the best one ever!" He wasn't wrong.

As starters go to the main event it was up there and the fun wasn't to end there. As before long we were back in the car and on the way to the game with full bellys and light heads.

Our Afrikaan host was also friendly with a local police chief. And they'd worked out safe passage through the local township so that we could park the car near to the ground. The stadium is actually owned by the local Bafokeng people who are the richest townsfolk in South africa due to their location on and around land rich with mining opportunities.

It provided us with another delightful twist to the day as we shared drinks, biltong and blows on the vuvusela with a couple of the families who live in the shadow of the stadium where England were about to play.

We were shown the quickest route to the game by a couple of local teenagers who left us once the stadium was clearly in sight. Sadly, though they were relatively lucky in that their township had money and a decent infrastructure it's unlikely any of those who lived here could dream of affording a ticket to the game.

As we strode to the ground with pulses racing and the sounds of songs and chants making themselves heard over the incessant droning of the vuvusela Goughie worryingly remarked he'd received a tweet that said a bomb had been discovered. We shrugged it off but we shared a few quizzical stares when two military helicopters suddenly swooped down on us.

But as soon as they arrived they were gone with nobody any wiser and we made our way into the ground. At this point we had to separate from our hosts and me and Goughie made our way to one of the beer tents to really get ourselves in the mood for our first England game.

The game wasn't for a couple of hours so we stood and chatted to the endless stream of England fans who wanted to come up and have a photo taken with Darren. He's completely unfazed by this and actually enjoys the banter. So it was pretty entertaining to be in this mix. We were also the beneficiaries of several free pints as punters fell over themselves to say they'd bought a beer for Goughie.

The American fans were also making themselves known. It's been widely reported that the Yanks have bought more tickets for this World Cup than any other nation outside of Africa. And they were here en masse. They were loud, excited and mostly in fancy dress. They also had a different mentality from the majority of working class English fans and this is something that would become a problem later in the game.

But still this was party time and we duly sunk a few beers each before making our way into the ground where we met up with the big boss at talkSPORT and some of the sales guys with their clients. The big boss is an Aussie and was loudly declaring he couldn't work out which team he wanted to lose more. I knew how he felt when I watched his side take on Germany last night.

Unlike in Europe it is perfectly acceptable to drink alcohol on the stands and as Goughie made his way to the bar I soaked up the atmosphere of my first ever World Cup England game. Thousands of fans mixing happily alongside each other waving red, white and blue flags as the two teams took to the field.

I sat down happily with my beers in seats about half a kilometre nearer the action than the ones I'd had for the France v Uruguay game and started to take in the action. But within moments I was back on my feet as Stevie G turned in a short range effort to get our World Cup campaign off with a bang.

And for a while it looked like it was going to be all too easy. But England's lifelong problem of not knowing what to do after going an early goal up struck. And I'm sure there were hundreds of Fulham fans with mixed feelings (and a winning betting slip in their back pocket) when Robert Green threw in a Clint Dempsey shot that was no more than a back pass.

It sparked the only unsavoury scenes of the game as pockets of USA fans chided the English fans sitting alongside them or behind them. All over the ground minor squirmishes either threatened to start or were carried through. The security guards having to haul off the offenders.

I could see that some of the Yanks just didn't understand the reaction. For them this was a game. What they now know if that for many English fans football is far more serious than that.

Half time came and went and old man Carragher made an appearance on the field. We had the possession but did we have the belief? Emile Heskey certainly didn't when he went one on one with Howard. While the USA fans held their heads in their hands when Altidore's chance cannoned off Green onto the post.

At the final whistle the differing reactions from the two sets of fans told its own story. For the USA this was possibly their greatest ever World Cup result. While the English supporters trooped off with a familar air of downbeat resignation.

As we made our way out the ground the American fans chanted, sang and posed in front of TV cameras. We reminded them that they hadn't even won. But a long campaign for both teams certainly awaits.

But I was determined not to let the dropped points spoil a memorable evening. One I may never ever repeat as I'll not be able to watch England in action again unless they get to the quarter-finals in Jo'Burg. And after that disjointed display I wouldn't bet on them making it that far. But the evening was still to end on a high.

For after meeting up with the owners of the Lodge we made our way to our cars back in the township. And upon our return we found some of the families were having a party all of their own. One of the buildings had a TV and they were blasting out tunes from a TV music channel. While outside a group of children and adults were dancing and mucking around. I didn't have to be asked twice whether I wanted to join them. Which was good because as far as I can remember I wasn't even asked once.

What a loser! Ha ha ha!!!!!

Fair play to the family & Goughie who patiently stood there waiting for me to cease my drunken dancing. In hindsight they were probably tired and with a long journey ahead the last thing they wanted was to wait around while I made a fool of myself. But any feelings of embarassment on my part immediately disappeared the morning after when I heard that one of the older African ladies had turned away from watching my high jinks to remark in broken english to everyone 'I love that white man'.

Climbing into the car I waved goodbye to new friends & far more talented dance partners before our vehicle began its crawl all the way back home. Dissecting the game with the others it became clear the trouble after the American goal had been mirrored across the ground. And also that maybe England didn't need to feel quite so disappointed considering the usual way we open World Cup campaigns and standard of the opposition.

And as darkness had fully enveloped the car and with fellow passengers starting to nod off alongside me I let my head rock back one more time, closed my eyes and let my mouth hang open all the way back to Johannesburg as another remarkable day approached its end.

Getting the call up

2010-06-07T00:21:00.003+01:00

The call came at nine thirty on the Friday night. The tone of voice at the other end of the phone made me immediately fearful of an accident. While my experiences of the broadcast world (in that the axe often swingeth after a show has finished for the week) raised the possibility that the chop had fallen brutally but not necessarily unexpectedly.

"Carragher's been called up by Capello"

Momentarily the words failed to register - instead the sentence hovered in the air, perfectly formed yet unable to permeate my mind's buffer as I assimilated the good news that nobody had died nor been shown the door.

Jamie Carragher. The man who was set to present a show on talkSPORT throughout the World Cup from his hometown. The man who had turned his back on England a few years previously. The one club man who had never managed to disprove the doubters for his country as he had for his team. The man who was now on the way to the World Cup.

The significance of his and Fabio's change of heart didn't immediately ring true. And why should it? But it was only a couple of days before a decision by the England manager and a Liverpool defender had a knock on affect that will affect my life forever.

For the show Jamie was supposed to be presenting was now to be hosted in South Africa. And for that to happen a new radio producer was to be found. Someone who could fly out to Johannesburg at the last minute and spend five weeks producing a football show whilst trying to catch a game of football whenever tickets and time became available. And thankfully that's pretty much what I do when I'm not watching, talking or reading about cricket.

So, from here on in it's all about 64 games of football. It's all about talkSPORT, the Drivetime Show with Adrian Durham & Darren Gough, the red earth of Africa, living and working in one of the most violent cities on earth, the hopes, fears and dreams of a billion Africans & a pocket of Englishmen praying they will see something not seen for nearly 50 years. And it all starts here......hopefully you'll be with me to share it.

Ying versus yang

2010-04-29T16:25:00.003+01:00

For the first time in my life Fulham are still in a cup at the same time the cricket season has got underway. It's a situation I doubt I'll ever have reason to get used to. And while thoughts of tonight's Europa semi final are almost all encompassing I recently took advantage of my Surrey membership, ECB pass and an irregular working week to take in a couple of days of county cricket.

Nearly as typical as an early Fulham cup exit is the media's annual treatment of the start of a new county season. If they can be bothered to cover it at all it will usually feature a photo of an elderly gent, possibly asleep, sitting alone in the expanse of an otherwise empty cricket stand. Just to keep the subeditors interested the scene will be mixed up a bit year on year. One season the old man will be holding an umbrella, the next he'll have a dog by his side, sometime he won't even be watching the cricket, choosing instead to complete a crossword.

Sadly as with most things in life the media may exaggerate somewhat but the truth is in their somewhere. And parallels between my experiences in the Ashes summer of 2009 with the opening salvos of the county season 2010 are difficult to conjure. But although my recent visits to Lord’s and The Oval where I last saw England set up, and then thrillingly finish off the Aussies, lacked the same exhilaration they did afford more than enough to keep my attention away from the Guardian crossword.

Taking my seat in the Upper Edrich stand at Lord’s to watch Middlesex play a side other than Surrey for the first time felt did make me feel slightly treacherous. But with the not so mighty Brown Caps resting and a whole afternoon free I was keen to check out Iain O’Brien, a Kiwi bowler who recently retired from international cricket. While his record at the highest level was modest the excellent blog he wrote while playing for New Zealand gave a unique insight into cricket life at the top. It also attracted a legion of fans he’d never have attracted otherwise. Myself included.

Iain was bowling as I got to the ground at just after lunch with Gloucestershire comfortably placed at 141 for 2. Several parts of the stadium were out of bounds as I peered out from under the Mound Stand as he raced in for my first ball of the day. It went for four. The second was a wicket as his fellow countryman Hamish Marshall mistimed a pull to long off. Who needs the IPL with action like this?

Taking my seat in the John Edrich Upper alongside roughly one hundred spectators I was immediately transported back to the grassy banks of Hamilton, Adelaide and Trinidad as the not altogether unpleasant aroma of suntan lotion floated on the breeze.
While the sight of ageing, sunburnt white men with tops off and pints at the ready added to the feeling that I had been in similar environments many times before.

I soon lapsed into a contended haze of cricket watching, sun bathing and eavesdropping the local cricket tragics. “They don’t listen to us,” remarked one Middlesex fan about the ECB before his group proceeded to disagree about every topic they raised. Shaun Udal’s captaincy, the reason for Middlesex’s poor start to the season, why Tim Murtagh wasn’t taking wickets, T20, Pro40 & 4 day cricket. “Corruption in India? I find that hard to believe,” said another sage about the current crisis affecting the IPL.

Meanwhile O’Brien was claiming wickets at regular intervals and ended the day with his second best first class figures of 7/48. It was a lovely way to spend an afternoon for us both. Affording the kind of relaxation and reflection I can only achieve whilst watching cricket. And totally out of sorts with the kind of experience I’m expecting tonight at the Cottage. Fulham versus Hamburg with a place at a European Cup final awaiting the winner is as nerve wracking as it gets.

In some ways the last week has helped me solve a conundrum I’ve never been able to answer. Which sport do I like the most, cricket or football? Up to now I’ve not been able to split or even compare them. They are at opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of playing or watching. The only similarity is the pain and joy they both bring. And while one could exist without the other it isn't a case of which one I love the most. For if cricket is my ying then football is most certainly my yang.

Common people

2010-04-28T16:52:00.002+01:00

Counting crying children isn’t most people’s idea of a fun way to spend a day off, but you shouldn’t knock it until you try it. Actually I will go further and suggest any of you whose interest has been piqued by one of Britain’s fastest growing spectator sports try it sooner rather than later. Because if you don’t take advantage prior to becoming a parent then you run the risk of joining the “you wouldn’t say that if you had kids” brigade (YWSTIYHKB for short) and this guilty pleasure will be taken away forever.

With the sun making a surprising, early and welcome return to our shores, I’ve found myself spending much of my free time on Clapham Common. I spent much of my teenage and twenty-something years playing football and getting drunk in Clapham. So it came as something of a surprise to find hidden away from the Windmill pub and plots perfect for footy a spacious cafeteria and bandstand area.

Ideal for those without a ball or a wish to spend their time sozzled during the daytime it’s a haven for Clapham’s well off mothers, dog walkers and fitness freaks. Admittedly throughout the night it’s used for far less salubrious reasons but in short when homosexual men aren’t cottaging in nearby shrubbery it’s a great place to spend an hour or two.

With a raised bank up one side of the bandstand (perfect for high speed skating), a concrete pathway (perfect for working up some speed on the scooter) all surrounded by gravel (perfect for high speed bicycle skids) it’s dreamtime for the scores of youngsters let off the leash while their parents do coffee and check their blackberries. And it wasn’t long until I started noticing, then counting the number of kid’s afternoons which featured a mandatory five-minute crying break.

On one afternoon in March I counted twenty crying children. At the start of April I managed thirteen, although on that occasion I wasn’t around for so long. Last Sunday I was joined by Sinan & Richard and although it took them a while to get comfortable with my idea of fun it wasn’t long before we were making scarily accurate guesses about which of the children would be in tears next.

It soon became apparent that the faster the child was careering around on their bike the greater the chance they would soon be lying prostrate on the gravel staring at their grazed hands in horror. That the small kids who spent half their time desperately trying to keep up with their older siblings would spend the other half wrapped round their parents in floods of tears in frustration at failing. And woe betide the foolish child who attempts to eat an ice cream and manoeuvre their scooter at the same time.

I’d like to say it’s the strangest sporting activity I’ve ever undertaken on Clapham Common. But memories of taking a dip in the duck pond with Nicky B are still as fresh in the mind. And I have yet to write about the joys & all round weirdness that I’m currently experiencing as part of my new BMF regime. But for those of you who like to keep a record of such thing, in the end we broke the record by three children. But the summer is still young.

Back in the day

2010-04-22T18:02:00.003+01:00

In the four months since last my last post events have conspired to force me to live my life rather than write about it. So much has happened it’s difficult to know where to begin. Although on the rare chance that Fe actually bothers to read my blog I suppose it would be wise of me to start off with the news of my engagement.

Almost as heart warming and nearly as surprising is the news that Fulham are still in Europe. I’ve only just got back from a 3-day trip to Wolfsburg to watch us make it through to the quarterfinals. Living the bloody dream. And it was whilst in Germany that I decided it was long overdue to bring my blog back up to date.

The only attention I’ve given it of late was after it got infected by a virus that re-directed users to a strange Turkish porn site. No wonder my hit count had gone up so much.

The other unusual thing is that I appear to have attracted a small following in China. I’m not sure what the comments they are making mean - but welcome aboard, my friends!

It is scandalous I haven’t updated more often especially when you consider how much has happened since me and my bro travelled to Rome to get robbed by a referee. It reminds me when I kept a secret diary and the only time I ever used to write anything was when something bad had happened.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I once kept a diary. It’s logical that the type of person who keeps a blog that nobody reads should also be the type of person who would scribble away in a diary that nobody should have read. For many a candle lit evening was spent in my room, door locked, grunge crackling away on my dusty record player, pen in hand and life’s woes being brought to bear. It’s a tight call on what I’ve spent more time on. Trying to stop people reading my diary or trying to get them to read my blog. In neither have I been particularly successful.

From the ages of 13 to 30 I kept irregular updates on life and if they were to be delved into now not only would it be cringe worthy it would appear I had lived a pretty depressing life. For when the good times were occurring I was out and about enjoying them to the maximum. However when things were going against me I’d be back behind the locked door, putting the world to rights in old faithful.

For apart from being useful when compiling a hit list or trying to work out the top ten hottest girls in my class, keeping a diary, and a blog, has always been a therapeutic exercise. Getting problems down on a page has always made them seem more manageable. Sometimes making promises to myself on paper was the first step towards achieving them in real life.

No doubt the recurring promises throughout my diary writing years would become repetitive and involve similar aspects of life. Giving up cigarettes, cutting down on the drink, reducing my overdraft, getting a nice girlfriend and in general sorting my life out exclamation mark, exclamation mark.

And it would be a bit weird if I now used my blog in the same way. Though thankfully there’s no need, as finally I seem to have managed to give up cigarettes, cut down on my drink, reduce my overdraft, sort my life out and get a nice girlfriend, although Fe would probably disagree on the drinking part.

So my blog serves a different purpose, namely to keep a record of the things that I find and do that are interesting rather than a list of things that I find depressing.

What does link both a blog and a diary together is that neither is properly reflective of the life and times if left to itself. And ahead of what could be the defining twelve months of my life it’s time to bring my blog back up to date.

Sticking two fingers up at my carbon footprint

2009-11-06T20:50:00.018Z

*****The following took place between 4am on Thursday the 5th and 4am, Friday the 6th November*****

4am - The alarm clock goes off. As I turn my phone to silent and step out of bed I am hit by the familiar pang of dread that accompanies every morning of a day in which I'm required to board a plane.

After a shower and dressing in half darkness I gulp down some tea and leave Fe sleeping. It's cold outside and dark. I contemplate never coming back. The headlines in the newspapers that a plane carrying 300 Fulham fans has crashed. It's pathetic really. I've flown 43 times in the last three years. You'd think it would either get easier or that I would grow some.

5am - I pass two drunken couples on the walk down Lavender Hill to Clapham Junction. After getting my ticket I find myself in familiar territory. i.e. waiting for a train to Gatwick that is showing no signs of arriving. It's delayed and for a few worrying minutes I am transported back to February and my failure to get to Jamaica.

6am - No need for additional stress as the train arrives late but well within time. I meet up with Dave and Fergus (a fellow Fulham fan) by the designated help desk. Me and Dave get our boarding passes and match tickets and the Spanish lady behind the counter calls Fergus, Fergoose. A nickname is born.

With our plane scheduled for a 7.30am take off there's enough time for Dave and Fergoose to grab coffee and breakfast. I opt for a double vodka and lemonade.

7am - The flight is memorable only for the fact that for once I go without valium. I don't want my day to be clouded or my emotions held in check. It's only a 2hour flight after all. Dave tells me I should look out the window when I fly as it provides a constant reminder of the reality of the situation. It's a good point.

8am - Still flying. Still not looking out the window much.

10am (Italian time) - I arrive with a bang. Several of them. I'm starting to suspect that those who fly charter planes aren't quite at the top of the piloting calibre tree. What do they do during the week when they're not flying football fans across Europe? Is there such thing as a part-time pilot? A freelancer?

Does this particular pilot dream of the day he can stop stacking shelves at Tesco? Does he imagine the moment he tells the night shift supervisor where to stick that last packet of Nutty Corn Shreds before storming out to work for a reputable airline with a proper uniform that commands respect and where he doesn't have to foot the dry-cleaning bill.

Judging by the crunching landing and the way the plane bounces to halt our pilot could do with more flying time or a reality check.

Disembarking I survey my 23rd country and immediately experience the crazy Italian driver stereotype. The bus driver taking us to customs seems to be having a running battle with a guy carrying another plane's luggage.

Meanwhile a bloke behind with sunglasses and a cigarette on the go drives his vehicle with both hands off the steering wheel. Somehow he conveys an attitude of nonchalent aggression. He looks like he could be the older brother of Paolo Di Canio.

11am - Armed police in all manner of pretty uniforms are lined up waiting for us. Without moving, speaking or breaking off from looking ever so slightly camp, they direct us to our coaches.

Before the journey I had been warned about two things to keep an eye on. Italian fans and Italian police. The first will stab you in the bottom. The second will hit you over the head with a truncheon.

Safety had been entrusted to the baton wielders. The convoy of five coaches was thus led into the heart of Rome by two cop cars that wouldn't have looked out of place in an Inspector Clouseau movie. If Clouseau had been Italian and not French, of course.

12am - Dropped of in the middle of Villa Borghese gardens. I know this because I just looked it up. The jobsworth on the coach warns me and Dave that if we return any later than half past three the coaches will leave and we will have to brave the journey to the ground without anyone preventing the natives from stabbing us in the bottom.

1pm - With camera in hand and stab-proof pants on, me, Dave and Fergoose walk towards the river Tiber. I also know this because I looked it up. We walk past a Piazza and down a couple of random streets before we find ourselves a 'local' restaurant far from the beaten track. Bottom stabbing aside we are all keen to immerse ourselves inthe local culture for a few short hours.

2pm - Three pizzas and six beers heavier we depart seventy five euros lighter. Stung by the exchange rate and a waiter who sussed us the minute we walked into the joint.

3pm - I get within two streets of the Vatican before the thought of missing the 3.30pm deadline forces us all to beat a hasty retreat back to the coach. En route we stop off to buy pancetta, Italian wine and a couple more beers. I deliver a passionate and rousing five minute account of the journey on talkSPORT.

4pm - I am told by the jobsworth that the reason why the coaches didn't actually depart at 3.30pm is because the police are waiting to undertake body searches on everyone. Although from my vantage point they seem far more interested in smoking cigarettes than they do conducting pat downs.

5pm - Dusk is falling by the time we leave. We are driven through town to the Stadio Olympico. Pleasure is derived from the fact that a) all traffic is halted to allow us uninterrupted passage to the ground b) the Roma fans that we pass swear at us c) we are safe and can laugh at them rather than fearing for our lives and our bottoms.

And before you know it we arrive.

6pm - An hour til kick off. A chance to go through the FFC songbook. Clear the lungs. Test the acoustics. Make our presence known. For once we actually manage to outsing our opponents.

6.10pm - Could really do with a beer now. The football hooligan of the 80's has a lot to answer for. No alcohol allowed on the flight, the coach and now the ground. Even some of the bars in town had shut up shop. Didn't they know Fulham fans are the best behaved in the Premier League?

7pm - The first half passes with Fulham well on top. A goal to the good and looking comfortable. As long as the ludicrous decision to give Haangeland a yellow card is the only decision the referee gets wrong we might even get more than the point we were hoping for.

The only other downside is an altercation with an inbred Fulham fan located right in front of us. After being asked to sit down so as to not block the view he refused

"It's Europe, not Craven Cottage" he blustered. As though being in Europe somehow made him invisible thus allowing those unfortunate enough to have to sit behind his stinking, yellow toothed form clear view of the action. "Everyone's standing up!" He cried. Forcing everyone in the vicinity to slowly look around to try and locate another person standing.

Momentarily unsure of himself he then repeated his "It's Europe!" line of argument as though we hadn't heard him the first time, no doubt hoping that after the fifth or sixth airing my brother would turn to me and remark "Oh, I get it, he's saying that it's Europe, and not Craven Cottage. Therefore we should either all be standing or just put up with him blocking our view. Because that's what happens when you watch football in Europe."

But this didn't happen. Instead Dave just told him off in much the same manner a primary school assistant would admonish a slightly backward child who had just coloured in his own face with crayons.

We moved along one seat for an unobstructed view and the buffoon's 'friends' looked a bit shame faced and gave off a 'here we go again' air of resignation.

8pm - The decision not to allow alcohol pays off and the destruction of the Stadio Olympico is averted following one of the most bent displays of refereeing ever witnessed. The pain of dropping two points at home in the last minute of the game against the same opponents is revisited. Two men sent off, a deflected shot that levelled things up and we are faced with a very long journey home with nothing to show for it.

9pm - But first we have a nice hours wait in the cold to get through. At least the moron in front chose to sit down for that second half. Although at times I could have done with something to hide behind. It's a sad end to a day that hasn't finished yet. Another two hour flight beckons. Oh, lucky me. Time to put a brave face on things.

10pm - The hour drive back to the airport flashes by. The warmth of the coach and the extra layers I've put on leave me feeling drowsy. I sleep most of the way. Upon reaching our destination I realise I will have to leave behind the wine bought earlier in the day. Then as we pass through customs the last of the duty free shops shuts for the night.

11pm - An unexpected delay at the airport. I ask the guy selling drinks for wine. His supervisor tells him not to sell it to me.

12pm - Dave and I drop 5MG of valium. As we slouch on our chairs and Dave eats M&M's (which the supervisor was happy to sell to us) big drops of rain start to splatter against the windows. It's dark, it's wet and outside it's cold. It's time to go home.

1am - Finally take off. An hour later than planned. With lights dimmed and the valium taking hold I let my head rest on Dave's shoulder. Hopeful of sleep. But any chance of this is rudely ended as the plane suddenly drops and lurches to the side. Startled, my eyes immediately flick open and I instinctively reach for my brother. His eyes are now also wide open.

Turbulence strikes. Repeatedly. And not just any old turbulence either - the worst I've ever experienced. The plane shudders and rocks and an audible groan rings out from the passengers after one particularly bad jolt makes the plane shudder and dip alarmingly.

The stewardesses are caught out. Everyone has been. The head steward grabs the intercom will all stewardesses get back to their seats now!!!!! But half way through barking this order the plane is broadsided by another burst. It overbalances him and the surprise in his voice is broadcast to us all 'will all stewardesses get back to their seats noooooooow!!!!!'

Panicking Stewardesses do nothing for my state of mind. With one hand grabbing my brothers knee and the other the seat in front all I could think of was Jesus Christ Fulham , haven't you put us through enough today?!

2am - Thankfully (and by thankfully, I mean, thank you god, I am down on my knees praying to you here) after ten minutes the turbulence subsides. I look back on the moment before my flight when I opted to take valium as one of the greatest decisions I've ever made. The part time pilot speaks to us over the tannoy to apologise for not warning us about the impending storm we were about to fly into. It was down to the delay at the airport. Apparently we missed the worst of it.

2am (UK time) - We fail to miss the worst of him, however. Another bumpy landing followed by a skid or two signals the fact that our plane has landed. For a minute I feared the turbulence had returned. *Note to pilot* If your journey is delayed. Recheck the f*cking weather forecast in the area you are about to fly into. That is all.

3am - Without any baggage in the hold Dave, Fergoose and I waltz through customs and head straight for the carpark. Fergoose kindly drops us both off at our houses.

Despite the hour and the fact I have work in the morning I pour myself a small glass of Angostura 1824, switch on the computer and read The Guardian, The Independent and BBC Sport's
version of events. I've always like the Beeb.

4am - Valium + physical/mental exhaustion + shot of the finest Angostura 1824Rum Trinidadian dollars can buy = deep, sweet sleep.

When time becomes a loop

2009-09-30T18:30:00.001+01:00

It takes something a bit special to get me out in Brixton after dark on a school night. The evenings comprising of dodgy deals on Coldharbour Lane & tops off acid-techno action at Club 414 are of a decade long gone. While even the more respectable memories of late nights at The Dog Starr and Mass are starting to dim from memory.

These days the only reason I have to be in the area is my weekly game of 5 a-side football and on the much rarer occasion a band is playing at The Academy that I like. And last week, for the first time in over a year, it happened, as Orbital came back to town.

I’ve never really been at the forefront of the music scene, nor any scene for that matter. The only time in my life when I felt part of whatever was going on was during the grunge years 1992-1994. It was a fleeting love affair. Then as university beckoned, I left most of my mates as they moved onto the dub trip, and moved into electronic music and hands in the air clubbing.

It’s a genre guaranteed to end a conversation in a pub. A few months back I was chatting with some workmates about our top five albums of all time. The obvious bands cropped up for people of our age and sensibilities i.e. The Smiths, Stone Roses & The Beatles. All of which provoked debate and sparked memories that we could all relate to despite growing up in different parts of the country.

But when I mentioned two of my choices, silence reigned. They had nothing to say. Because if you’ve never listened to electronic music how can you help me answer whether Aphex Twin’s ‘Selected Ambient Works 1985-1992’ made more of an impression on my life than Underworld’s ‘Dubnobasswithmyheadman’.

What wasn’t an argument was the choice of the number one electronic album to make my list. Orbital’s Brown Album was on constant loop throughout my first and second years at university. Hearing certain parts of that album still transports me back to 1994, lazily lying down on my bed, daylight streaming through the windows, a book or comic in hand, and a lecture going on somewhere without me.

Since those halcyon days I’ve seen the band seven times in total. Including what was supposed to be their final gig at Brixton Academy in 2004. That evening had been a bit of a disappointment and failed to stand up alongside the epic evenings at Glastonbury in ’99 & 00. While listening to ‘Chime’ on the stroke of midnight to welcome in 1997 is a memory I’ll try hard never to forget. And now a year after my other favourite band, Smashing Pumpkins were resurrected, Orbital were back.

Tickets had been purchased months in advance and I met up with two old friends who had also spurned the majority and opted for dance over dancehall. I met up with Jamo and Dicky at a bar in Coldharbour Lane before we made our way to the gig. Walking briskly past the throngs we snaked our way in and were standing at the bar with minutes to go before the band came on.

It was great to be back at the Academy. I saw my second ever gig there back in 1989 when Transvision Vamp were headlining. Throughout the 90’s I spent the evening before my A-Level English exam watching The The, got trampled in a mosh pit before Rage Against The Machine had even started singing, got hooked on The Verve when they were supporting The Pumpkins and seen Orbital numerous times.

And now we were back. And though it might have just been because we hadn’t been to a gig for a while, but both Jamo and I noticed differences straight away. He had earlier remarked that his walk to the pub was notable for its serenity. For once it would have once been a ‘take your life in your own hands’ journey. But now the rude boys on the street weren’t quite so prevalent.

Similarly, inside the Academy the atmosphere was less edgy than in the past. Where were the hordes of punks fighting in a pile like they did during Faith No More back in 1993? This time, Jamo noted with a degree of regret, when you bumped into someone they immediately apologized rather than try and lamp you one.

It was all summed up rather neatly by an exchange I heard whilst waiting for the bar. Squeezed next to two chaps in their late 20’s I couldn’t help but overhear this depressing conversation.

Man 1: I’ve got a bit of an earache to be honest
Man 2: So what do you want to get then?
Man 1: Just get me a water.
Man 2: Okay
Man 1: Actually, I’ll just share yours if you’re getting one.
Man 2: Do they sell bottled water?
Man 1: Not sure
Man 2: Well if they do I’ll get one as well.
Man 1: Okay. Ooh, maybe I can get a single Martell on ice.
Me: (To myself) *Good grief*.
Man 2: Don’t think I’m going to stand too close to the stage. Feel pretty knackered.
Girl behind bar: What are you after?
Man 2: Two waters please.
Man 1: Oh, if you were getting one, I would have just had some of yours.
Man 2: Oh well.
Man 1: Do they sell earplugs?
Man 2: Do you sell earplugs?
Girl at bar: Yep.
Man 2: I’ll have two pairs please.
Bloke behind bar: (to guy standing to the right of me) What do you want mate?
Man 3: Nine pints of lager.
Me: Now that’s a round
Man 3: Yep.

To be fair I did then go on to buy myself a glass of red wine. But before I had a chance to group myself in the same bracket as those I’d spent five minutes silently slating, Orbital arrived.

It might have been the red wine speaking but it turned out to be the most enjoyable Orbital gig I've ever been to. The first half an hour featured some absolute classics. And Brixton has sorted out its sound system so the place was literally vibrating. My nose included. We had a great spot close to the stage but with enough space to drink and dance around.

Indeed the positioning was so perfect Jamo had no trouble finding us after popping off to the loo and Dicky was able to get another round in without spilling it over half the crowd on the walk back. With the band playing a blinder it was a turning into a top night.

Two hours later and with only one technical breakdown leading to a loss of sound, apology from a Hartnoll brother and the scratching of a roadies head, the night drew to a close. And despite an early start for us all we went to another bar round the back of Coldharbour Lane.

We were all in good spirits. And joy of joys it turned out that this place had a pool table. Has anyone else noticed the lack of pool tables in pubs these days? Dicky and Jamo had a quick game, then I took on Dicky, it would be unfair of me to mention that I 7-balled him. I’m far bigger than that. I then beat a chap who turned up and was giving it the big 'I am', before taking on a friend of his.

By this time quite a group of his friends had turned up and as they could see me winning took it in turns to try and put me off. I was taking it all quite good naturedly although the following day Jamo told me he was getting ready to fight them all.

It all went down to the black and to one of those shots that would normally have a part time pool player sweating. The black ball was positioned near the centre of the D, the white ball too close to the cushion at the other end for comfort. The balls too straight on to each other and I had a baying crowd in my eyeline. With chirping in my ear and Jamo behind me rolling his sleeves up I was thankful for those red wine confidence boosters as I smashed it in, drained my drink, walked off to pats on the shoulder from the vanquished and smiles from the gallery.

Dealing with swine flu; the NHS way

2009-09-11T14:20:00.001+01:00

I found myself walking around the corridors of the legendary St.George’s Hospital in Tooting, South London this week. It’s the scene of some of the greatest births to have ever occurred in this country i.e. my sister and also my friends newly born son, Luca. And before I got myself hopelessly lost I stumbled upon this sign by the main reception.

Nicely done NHS. At least we don’t pay for it I suppose. Is it possible to feel robbed when you haven’t lost any money? The whole thing reminds me of an old Muppet Show sketch. Statler and Waldorf are complaining about the show.

Statler: Well we certainly got what we paid for tonight.
Waldorf: But we paid nothing.
Statler: And that’s what we got!

However, if this method of healthcare proves successful and swine flu cases begin to drop the NHS might actually start implementing the same procedures for all forms of illness. Got a pain in the abdomen? Bugger off home! Got a dislocated shoulder? Put a plaster on it. Cancer? That’ll teach you for smoking.

The return of the long-forgotten goosebump

2009-08-26T17:58:00.013+01:00

I don’t know whether it was the non-stop bitter drinking, the exposure to 48 hours of incessant sun or the glorious giddiness that comes about after watching England win The Ashes, but ever since I awoke last Monday with a big grin on my face and the thought “Thank god I’ve got today off.” I’ve struggled for inspiration.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time since trying to work out just how I explain the events of the weekend before last and what it means to me. But my brain just isn’t working properly. I’m at a loss. I’m a bit brain dead. A bit befuddled. The words aren’t coming out as I’d like and outside of "yeaaarrgghhhhh!!!!!" I’m not sure what I want to say.

So instead of reading my take on Graeme Swann sealing the triumph and the subsequent wild celebrations why not just watch it instead.

Celebration time was 5.48pm on the Sunday afternoon. Within ten minutes of when I'd kind of tipped the series to come to a conclusion. So many reasons to feel smug! Even though Fulham couldn’t add to what turned out to be a miraculous weekend I didn't let it affect my great mood.

Days one and two have already been discussed. But day three more than lived up to what was soon to follow. Opting to leave proceedings early at the Pilgrim Pub in Kennington on the Friday night to ensure I would wake up the next day fresh was one of my better decisions.

But unlike Brisbane when I left my mates in the pub the evening before the first days play of the series. I was about to witness the end of this particular chapter of Ashes history as a punter and I couldn’t be more excited.

Helped, of course, by the fact that England were in the ascendency thanks to Stuart Broad, my lord. I needed no excuse to get up out of bed by 9am and with 06/07 Barmy Army shirt on my back, flip flops on my feet. man-bag over my shoulder and trusty ‘Brooms Head’ cricket hat on my head I was soon set.

I met up with various friends and family members outside the ground and excitedly made my way into the stadium. I could have foregone the queues by flashing my ECB pass but so caught up in the moment I wanted to experience all that a paying punter goes through. And this meant an ever more thorough rub down by the attentive security guard; but more importantly merchandise! I always buy a Barmy Army shirt for the tours I follow and considering I’d watched nearly the whole series I stopped off at the Barmy Army stall to pick up a new shirt.

Ten minutes later I was sitting in my seat in Block 16 of the Bedser Stand with the first beer of the day in hand, my brother and friends alongside me and in a completely relaxed frame of mind. For the tenth time this summer I watched the opera guy sing his rendition of 'Jerusalem' as the Australians ran onto the pitch. I gazed up at the big screen to see the all too familiar replays of Ashes contests of the past. But this time I joined in with the growing roar that greeted the two English batsmen as they appeared our of their dressing room, ran down the steps and onto the ground.

For this was different from the opening passages of play I'd seen this summer. For this time I was at play with my professional hat to the side. A fan at the cricket with a half drunk beer before the clock had struck 11 in the morning. I was a bloke watching cricket in the sun and it felt good. So good that when the final strains of jerusalem rang out I cast my sight across the ground, taking in the fans and all that surrounded me and it gave me goosebumps. It's been a while since that happened.

For the first session of the day I basked in all that you take for granted while watching cricket. The guy next to you who confidently says 'good shot' every time the batsman gets anything on the ball. The bloke who whistles or groans anytime a batsman is forced into a defensive shot on the back foot. Or the women who get bored after the first couple of hours and just start nattering away about what their kids are up to. It was all good stuff.

The remainder of a truly glorious day was then spent doing what people do when they've got nothing else to do but sit in the sun and watch cricket. Drink! And make those unfortunate enough to be sitting anywhere nearby suffer.

The poor lady sitting the row in front of me will be delighted to hear that karma came good. As within a few hours I was waking up on my sofa fully clothed with the TV blaring and a full body sweat on. You know when you wake up after a days drinking and feel so horrendous that getting back to sleep is an impossibility? Well I went through every position a prone body can go through before sleep once again came my way.

The following morning promised more of the same. But as England had once again had the better of things the day loomed large with the distinct possibility that I could actually witness The Ashes come home. No hangover in the world could prevent that from puting a smile back on my face and I dragged myself out of bed once more to meet a new set of fresh faced friends ready for a big day at the cricket. And if I needed any reminding of how big a day in English sport this could be I got it from a succession of beaming and animated faces - joyous that their one days cricket a year could offer such a monumental possibility.

And after two early wickets spirits were high that England could wrap things up in the day. We settled down to some serious sun-tanning and waited for the procession of Aussie wickets. At the stroke of midday drinks were called for with a chaser of 'one more wicket before lunch, please'.

But it was not forthcoming and with Ricky Ponting and Michael Hussey looking comfortable at the crease those oh-so familiar fears started to resurface. Every delivery allowed to go through to the keeper elicited a sigh. Every single or scampered two brought forth a quick scan at the scoreboard & recalculation of the target. Every boundary evoked a groan and a comment along the lines of "I feel sick" or "they're gonna bloody win" / "this would be worse than Adelaide" or "I'll never watch cricket again". It was Lords all over again.

But then, a full three hours after our last wicket, Michael Hussey hit a quick single to Freddie Flintoff at wide mid on and called Ricky Ponting through for the run. I couldn't have been in a better position in the ground to see it being 180 degrees to where Freddie was fielding as he flung down the stumps with Ponting short of the crease. Cue bedlam. And when Michael Clarke went six balls later to another farcical run out the mood in the camp had improved immeasurably. For now The Ashes
were certainly coming home and boy, were we going to celebrate.

Another partnership between Hussey and Brad Haddin did have us all chewing what fingernails were left. But that had more to do with wanting to see all the action that day. It would have been an anti-climax to have to come back the next day for half an hour or so. How things had changed.

With the clock going past five in the afternoon I was aware but uncaring of events at Craven Cottage. And with five wickets remaining it looked like play would continue to the fifth day. But thankfully Steve Harmison and Graeme Swann had other plans. And Harmison's two in two sparked scenes in the stands that reminded me of more positive moments of my Adelaide experience and led to a stage in the game never before experienced.

And so we settled down to wait. With pictures and videos being taken at regular intervals we chattered animatedly amongst ourselves and with new friends in and around our seats. We high fived, we sang songs, we saluted Stuart Broad (again) and then, with 12 minutes to six on the clock, Graeme Swann approached the wicket, bowled the ball, Michael Hussey prodded forward and nickec an inside edge onto his pad and to the fielder stationed at short leg. And we all went a bit mental.

And after the England players hugged on the field and we hugged in the stands both sets of Englishmen applauded each other. Fireworks popped, arms were raised, cheers were made and we all waved goodbye to Freddie.

And he waved right back.

And after a couple of hours spent at a nearby pub that was about it. More amazing drunken cricket memories to add to the bank. Another day to be talked about long into the future and long into the night. Another cross in the book of things to do before you die - or kids get in the way.

And yet, as I made my way back from the ground, as I sat at my desk during the following week, as I rode the bus to and from work I couldn't escape a nagging feeling. A feeling that maybe this story wasn't completed on that Sunday afternoon at The Oval. A feeling that while one chapter has come to an end this particular book hasn't been closed. And it won't ever be closed and put away until one more thing happens that I'm there to see for myself. And hopefully that thing will happen at in someone else's backyard at the end of next year. Anyone say, "The Ashes 2010/11"?

Because, after all,

"We won the Ashes at The Oval
We won the Ashes at The Oval
We won the Ashes at The Oval
And we'll win it at The SCG"

Mixed emoticons

2009-08-21T21:35:00.011+01:00

Forgive me if you've heard this one before..........A friend of mine called Alex had a trip to Australia planned. He was to set off from England, take in the sights of India and parts of Asia before arriving in Sydney around Christmas time where he'd stay with his best mate Damien.

As with most trips of this magnitiude it took a lot of planning a long time in advance. And Alex was delighted when he realised that England would be playing the final Ashes Test of the 02/03 series in Sydney a day after he got into town. The minute he found this out he was immediately on the phone to Damien to ensure he arranged tickets for the both of them. Day two at the SCG. What a way to finish off the holiday of a lifetime and welcome in the new year at the same time.

As the months ticked down to departure he received regular reassurance that the tickets were to be forthcoming. Damien worked in the city and was confident he could source two seats at the corporate end of the scale. Alex boarded his flight to India with a spring in his step.

A three month tour followed taking in the greatest sights India, Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand can offer. But at no point did Alex ever lose sight of what he really wanted. A ticket at the SCG watching Australia versus England.......You can pretty much guess the rest.

With weeks to go until he got to Australia Alex received the news he was most dreading. Damien hadn't come good with the tickets. Despite having a year to arrange he'd relied on friends even less trustworthy than he'd ended up being. Alex would not be one of the 45,000 going to the ball.
By the time Alex and England rocked up in Sydney the series was lost. But despite the 4-0 scoreline there was something riding on the contest for the feeling within Australia was that this was to be the legendary Aussie captain, Steve Waugh's last ever Test match. And on day one of the match, the time Alex arrived in Sydney, England were making a game of it at last.

And so it came to pass that the day that Alex was supposed to be at the SCG he was in fact watching it on TV on a sofa in a house in Sydney, a stones throw from the cricket ground, close enough to hear every cheer, gasp and roar from the capacity crowd as Steve Waugh struggled to hold together the Australian first innings.

For England were by now on top. Andy Caddick and Steve Harmison had reduced Australia to 200-odd for five after England had posted 362 in their first innings. But Waugh was playing in his final Test at his home ground in front of his own people and he was not to be denied. With the clock ticking down he moved into the 90's and with just one over left in the day was four short of a historic hundred.

As the crowd starting stamping their feet and banging their fists on the advertising hoardings that final over was about to be bowled by the off-spinner Richard Dawson. He didn't know it at the time but though it was to be his final Test match he was moments from writing himself into the history books.

As Alex got comfortable on the sofa the first three deliveries were defended. But amid deafening noise the fourth ball was hit for three runs to leave Waugh on 98 but stranded at the non-strikers end. Adam Gilchrist found himself on strike and he became an immediate hero by sneaking a single off the penultimate ball of the day.

By now Alex had only to open the window above his head a notch to hear the crowd baying for their local boy to hit the runs to register the most famous of all his 32 centuries. Dawson approached the wicket and turned his arm over. Momentarily the noise was silenced as the ball travelled through the air, it dipped, bounced and Waugh cut it away majestically to the boundary for four and his hundred.

Both English and Australian fans went crazy and back in his former friend's living room Alex watched on TV. Then after a suitable pause to take in all that had just happened the legendary cricket commentator, Richie Benaud said the four words that drove home just what Alex had missed that day. "Best days cricket......ever."

I've dined out on that particular story for a few years now. And today I lived it for myself. For after watching an intense but relatively uneventful morning session I was left The Oval today under dark clouds. With covers on the pitch I walked the short distance to the Pilgrim Pub on Kennington Lane where I was to produce a live show for talkSPORT between 4-7pm.

I left my dad, sister, brother-in-law, friends and work colleagues at the ground and made my way to a pub the other side of the gas holders, synonymous with Surrey Cricket Club. So close that I could hear the crowd roar every time a wicket fell; at least it meant I never missed a wicket on the television. Eight times I looked up at the screen on cue; in one magical session of Test match cricket. It was the definitive session of the summer. And I was in the pub.

Oh woe is me, WOE IS ME!!!!!!!!!! How could it come to all this? After winding my way across the planet and back watching England get pounded by the Aussies I had to go and leave the ground then. Ah, who am I kidding? I've got tickets for tomorrow and Sunday. And for once I'm not working which means I can drink a beer, cheer at the top of my voice, punch the air, shout and dance and get act thoroughly unprofessional as England, hopefully, win the Ashes in front of my eyes. Bring it on muthaf*ckers!!!!!!

The ageing process

2009-08-20T21:07:00.007+01:00

Sitting on the steps between the press box and the punters in the Vauxhall Road End you'd have been forgiven for thinking I was watching a public hanging. With hands wringing and nails a'biting I spent most of the day peering up at the heavens or with my eyes fixed superstitiously on the bowlers run up convinced that if I concentrated enough then so would the batsmen.

The morning session was as tense as I can remember seeing in the flesh. Sure, there have been many instances in the past that has seen me nervously pace around the living room watching a valiant rear guard action. Hell, my life seems to have been spent pretty much doing nothing but. But I couldn't recall ever actually being at a single days play with so much riding on it. And I couldn't remember ever feeling quite so ill during a days play either.

And it wasn't just a final game, winner takes all Ashes win that occupied my mind on the short journey to the ground. With friends and family attending the first four days I attempted to envisage a perfect scenario whereby everyone English would be catered for but that wouldn't involve such perfect weather to make batting too easy for the Aussies. It was more difficult than you'd think. Especially when bringing the toss into the equation.

The big fear was that under blameless skies, Ricky Ponting would win the toss and the Aussies would be out of sight by the end of the first days play. Thankfully he called incorrectly but this just added to the tension. For the last time England won the toss and batted they made 102 and were out of the game by lunch. That was last week. Even my memory isn't so bad that I could forget that.

So I spent the first session with head in hands (between deliveries) and a refusal to get carried away as England went to lunch on top. In this respect I was well served. As is England's want, a promising situation was thrown away as they lost wickets at regular intervals. But such is the weakness of the English mentality some solace was garnered from the fact that at least we were making a fight of things.

By the end of the days play both sets of former player turned pundits were making a good case for England's 306 for 8 not being too far off a par score. Much notice was taken of the way the pitch appeared to be breaking up and offering big turn so early in the match. With runs on the board England, some were saying, were in the box seat.

But until we see the Aussies bat all judgement will be rested. Even if 350 is a par score I can't see them making much less. All of which would set things up rather nicely in a game that now looks destined to end in a result either way. Tonight, I suppose, I will go to sleep reasonably content that England live to fight another day. Which says a lot about my expectations as an English cricket fan.

5.55pm on a Sunday afternoon

2009-08-19T20:04:00.006+01:00

It's a time of the week that immediately brings to mind images of Harry Secombe boring half of England senseless on the old ITV show Highway. It was a rival to BBC's Songs of Praise and featured the former Goodie singing Christian songs on hillsides up and down the country.

Every week its signature music would set off an alarm in my adolescent brain that said "homework can not be put off any longer". I would drag myself off to my bedroom to pore over crumpled pieces of Science or English papers that demanded attention. Before then putting my feet up on my desk and reading a comic.

The stresses that the spectre of unwritten essays held over me meant it took years before I learnt how to enjoy my Sundays. The dread of the upcoming schoolweek and the hungover regrets from preceedings nights out made even Formula One an appealing way to take ones mind off things.

But times change when you work six days a week; for now any day off is enjoyed to the maximum. It's no surprise that everyday things like newspapers, TV, lunch or football are elevated to elysian status simply by putting the word Sunday in front of them. However this particularly Sunday may prove a little different as two opposing worlds are destined to collide and the fallout could be quite devastating.

For this Sunday, my mental health and nervous system will be tested to the limit as Fulham play Chelsea at exactly the same time that England attempt to wrestle The Ashes off of the Aussies. And although my body will be at one of the spiritual sporting venues I call home my mind will not be at the other. I will be watching England versus Australia at The Oval but I will not be listening to Fulham versus Chelsea at Craven Cottage. I simply cannot take it.

The chances of Fulham emerging victorious are even greater than England beating Australia. With Fulham 6/1 and England 10/3 the chances of both winning are.......I don't know, I can't work it out. Anyway, it's not going to happen. So I'll try and cut out the events at Craven Cottage by limiting myself to half-time and full-time updates. And I'll direct all my attention to the action on the field in front of me.

I don't know what's going to happen this weekend but I do know this. I've been dreading the cricket ever since Headingley, that Fulham were lucky to score a late equaliser in the corresponding fixture last season, and that it probably won't be a good idea to call me at 5.55pm on Sunday afternoon.

How low can you go?

2009-08-12T19:53:00.007+01:00

Every time Graham Onions bowls he tricks me into thinking he's about to pull up. After roughly six or seven paces he looks as though he's about to slow down. Never the most fearsome or in-your-face of fast bowlers he appears to run in with everyday thoughts running through his mind before suddenly a thought pops into his head. “Did I leave my daughter on top of the fridge?”

It’s enough to make him slow down but before he comes to a standstill and the batsman gives up his guard another thought flashes into his brain. "No wait, I don't haev a daughter. Or a fridge." With all well in the world again he continues at a regular pace to complete his delivery.

Despite having the best English bowling average in the series it looks as though Onions will be one of the fall guys after the Headingley debacle. It was a performance so inept that in a lifetime of watching English sporting disasters this is one without precedent. I’ve never watched a game of Test match cricket that was over by lunch on the first day. Statistically, it’s unlikely I ever will again; although Bangladesh are due to tour here next year.

All of which is probably my fault. Posting a blog heralding the greatest days in my cricket life was always going to tempt fate. And days one and two at Headingley more than matched the worst I’ve ever encountered. For this was worse than the tedium of Brisbane, was devoid of the animal carnality of Hamilton, and the pain lasted so much longer than it did in Antigua. Although the same can possibly not be said for my dad.

Earlier this year I was lucky enough to be in the press box for the astounding 4-4 game at Stamford Bridge between Chelsea and Liverpool. 3-1 down on aggregate, Liverpool somehow managed to drag themselves back into contention at 2-0 up. But the second half saw a revival from Chelsea who appeared to have put the tie to bed as they went 3-2 ahead on the night with just 15 minutes to go.

A good night’s entertainment then began to tinker with the boundaries of reality as Liverpool hit two goals inside three minutes. With nine minutes remaining they needed one goal to cap off the most incredible night of sporting drama in the history of the game. It was at about this point that I had actually stopped enjoying the game. Things had taken such a turn for the extraordinary I couldn’t take it in. I found it impossible to feel emotion for the match was entering unchartered waters. It was bordering on the surreal.

As it was, Chelsea scored once more to secure the match and soothe my sanity. But memories of this game came flooding back while I watched England steamrollered by the Aussies. After England were dismissed by the slip cordon inside two sessions our bowlers somehow managed to perform even worse. They put on the most ludicrous display of bowling ever seen. It was a bowling display that actually defied belief. For the second time in six months I found myself watching a sporting competition that required a deeper range of emotional ability than I possessed.

It really was that bad. But was it bad enough to top the worst days cricket ever seen? Sadly no, I honestly hope I never see anything that can knock that particular days cricket off the top of the list of worst witnessed.

AUS v ENG, Adelaide, Day Five – England start the day one wicket down and a lead of over 100 runs. They end it on the receiving end of a six-wicket defeat and are 2-0 down in The Ashes.

ENG v AUS, Headingley, Day One – England go into the game 1-0 up in the series and within two hours need to win the remaining match to retain The Ashes.

WI v ENG, Antigua, Day One – Game abandoned within an hour of play while three family members are on a plane on the way to watch the game. You couldn’t make it up.

AUS v ENG, Melbourne, Day One – England win the toss and bowl in the most bowler friendly conditions imaginable. In driving rain & heavy cloud cover England are bowled out for 159. Rudi Koertzen then fails to give Hayden out who was plumb LBW. The following day he goes on to make 153 to change the course of the match.

NZ v ENG, Hamilton, Day Three – England score 199 runs in the day against England ‘A. At the end of day press conference Kevin Pietersen bizarrely described his 131-ball knock of 43 as his best in an England shirt. This was greeted by widespread jaw dropping silence.

It's just not cricket

2009-08-10T18:17:00.004+01:00

You know the world's turning on its head when at a time that football crowds are widely felt not to be as vocal as they used to be cricket fans are being slammed for being too boisterous. England supporters were recently rounded upon for booing Ricky Ponting to the crease; while the general boozy nature of cricket crowds these days also came under attack. The Australian captain is apparently too good a player to warrant such abuse. While the fans were seen to be letting themselves, the sport and England in general down by their overtly partisan, boorish and dare I say it.......working class attitude. “It simply wasn’t cricket, darling. The fans were behaving like football supporters!”..."Gasp!"..."There was swearing and everything!"

What most observers failed to pick up on, or opted to ignore, was the decidedly tongue-in-cheek nature of the abuse dished out. This wasn’t a returning Wayne Rooney to Goodison Park, nor a fat Frank appearing at Upton Park. Rather it was an English crowd giving stick to an opponent who hails from a country we can’t get enough of.

There wasn’t a hint of vitriol in affording Ricky Ponting this 'welcome' as the fans highlighted just what standing he has in the game. It’s not rocket science that any man who has scored over 11,000 Test runs and 8 centuries against England might just be the danger man, a man who could single-handed rest the Ashes away, a man to be targeted.

You can bet your last Aussie dollar that Michael Hussey would swap the lukewarm lethargy that surrounded his welcome with that of his captain. It says a lot about the man that Ponting is still regarded as a character worth bothering with. The crowd wouldn't know a Marcus North or Simon Katich if they were pulling pints at the bar. The lack of a Gilchrist, Warne or McGrath leaves just two comedy villains, and there’s no point telling the 12th man to keep his arm straight when all he’s doing is carrying the drinks.

But I'm not so naive to suggest that everyone in the crowd was gently jibing Ponting. Sure there would have been some whose vision was obscured by the descending red mist. For long memories aren’t needed to remember the claimed 'catches' against India, the apparent encouragement of his sides bullying manner and the perceived ungraciousness of his character. But they would hardly be the only ones who think like that. For let us not forget that Ricky Ponting has more than his fair share of critics back in the homeland.

And while we're focusing on that particular hemisphere let's look at the attitude of the Aussie fans, shall we? Glenn McGrath has been saying that Oz supporters would have never doled out such inhumane treatment to Andrew Strauss. Don't make me laugh. I can still hear the crowing that accompanied Steve Harmison every time he was thrown the ball during the last Ashes series overseas. I can still picture the Gabba crowd laughing at Simon Jones after he wrecked his career on the outfield. Hell, the Perth crowd once threw beer cans and a punch at John Snow while he patrolled the boundary. And any fan that has spent an afternoon at the cricket at the Adelaide Oval will know how it’s possible to keep one eye on the cricket and another on incoming missiles from the Aussie fans.

Nobody knows all this better than the Barmy Army. A group that have come in from a pummelling from all quarters and hit from pillar to post in the past week in a manner that the England bowling attack are becoming all too familiar with. Apart from the fact that their members apparently refused to get involved in the booing they were blamed with pretty much all that is wrong with the game in this country. All this despite the fact that even after travelling across Australia watching that 5-0 reverse in 06/07 they spent the final session in Sydney cheering on both sides. Hell, if they didn't boo then they're hardly going to start now.

And what's wrong with a bit of booing anyway? Racism, violent & homophobic chanting are understandably unacceptable in any walk of life. But booing? Really? What's next for the chop? Tutting? Booing would almost be seen as a term of affection on most inner city street corners.

All of which detracts from the recognition of the special place in our hearts that the Aussies are held in this country. The rivalry starts on the field and ends on it. We're not talking about the nastiness associated with our sporting rivalries with Germany, Argentina or Scotland. Australia is a country that we love to beat, love to poke fun at but also love to visit. The Aussies and English share a history, a sense of fair play and whenever possible a beer.

We also share a sense of humour. For if you had closed your eyes as Ricky Ponting stepped onto the Edgbaston stage you'd have almost be forgiven for thinking Captain Hook was going into bat. For the treatment dished out to him was nothing more than pantomime. On the field he was playing the part of the villain. Of it, one moron aside, he's immediately afforded the respect due to any human being.

At the end of next year it'll be an Englishman's time to don the black cape, cover one eye and put a parrot on the shoulder. You would have thought those moral custodians of the high ground would have realised and appreciated all this. For is their anything more upper or middle class than a visit to the pantomime?

Well that's my first born's name sorted then.

2009-07-23T17:49:00.004+01:00

“When Ponting was dismissed yesterday my mate text me to say that he had just made his 6 month old baby start crying by screaming ‘Get out you Aussie b@stard’ as loud as he could… this is absolutely what the Ashes is all about.” - An email from a fellow cricket fan midway through the Lords Test.

And so after three and a half days of complete and utter England domination over the pitiful Aussies (I’ve waited a long time to be able to say that) I awoke on the morning of the fifth and final days play with an all too familiar sense of dread.

My night’s sleep had been wracked and ruined by images of last wicket stands, furrowed English brows and Aussie fist pumping. My evening had been spent with a small grey cloud hovering inches from the top of my head. A fall into full-scale depression loomed heavy on the horizon.

The reason for this dire mood was brought on by the double dose of daytime drinking and a sixth wicket stand of 185 between Michael Clarke and Brad Haddin. It threatened to ruin my weekend, my summer, my life and my love of cricket.

Seriously. If Australia had fought back to win that game I don’t think my enjoyment for the game would have recovered. I’m not exaggerating here. That would have been it for me. I’d have put away the scorebook. Hung up the box. Turned my back on the Barmy Army. Burnt my Wisden collection. Resigned as producer of talkSPORT’s weekly cricket show. It was that bad.

And I was not alone. I started receiving calls from friends who were only ringing for me to reassure them that England would still win the Test. Reassurance was the last thing they went away with.

My phone and hotmail began getting cluttered with texts and emails almost mourning in tone.

“Mate, put my mind at rest and tell me the Australians cant do it. They can’t can they?”

“holy shit am I wrong or may they win this game?”

“It is quite sickening, i dont think i will ever be able to speak to an Australian again if they win it. Typical of England to put us through this.”

By the time the sunlight streaming through my curtains awoke me on the Monday morning the Australian target of 209 was nothing short of a formality. No matter that if successful the target would be the largest ever reached in 150 years of first class cricket. My spirit was at a seriously low ebb.

It had all been so different. The first three days of the Test were blissful. Waking up to the promise of a full days cricket made me feel like a schoolboy who’s evaded the bullies on the walk home. But now the thought of journeying to Lords made my heart hang heavy. I couldn’t shake the thought that the series could almost be over. For a defeat here at Lords would signal the end of The Ashes. It was Adelaide ’06 all over again.

It really was a case of one extreme to the other. The 45-minute trek to Lords while England had the upper hand was a joyous thing. At peace with the world I would stop off at Clapham Junction for a coffee and a copy of the Guardian whose sports pages would be devoured en route.

With sunlight basking down on me as I exited St Johns Wood I was at ease with the world amongst the throngs of people who were paying about the same amount that I was earning to be there. I swapped smiles with granddads and excited kids, yellow shirted Aussies and even warmed to the suits on a jolly talking loudly, uninformed cricket chat with work mates equally keen to have their thoughts aired and heard but equally unwilling to listen.

The buzz of bypassing the huge queues to enter via gates reserved for those with special passes. Strolling past the member’s gate, the npower girls, the betting boxes and the ‘posh’ hamburger stalls to the cool shade of the Compton Stand and the rickety lift to the best view in the house.

But now things had started to change. Now the Aussies had a sniff and suddenly the journey wasn’t so rose tinted. I forewent the coffee and the paper. I didn’t want to read about how we were about to throw it away all over again.

I sat on the tube from Waterloo to St Johns Street with real hatred for the Aussie chap who boarded the train at Westminster and sat down opposite me. Dressed in thongs, boardies, a yellow training top and with white sunnies his was a style I’d seen many times before without blinking. I wanted to tell him how much his casual outlook on life was in such stark contrast to my own. How defeat would hurt me. To let him know that this could be it! But what was the point?

My walk from the station to the ground was a subdued affair. The beautiful weather conditions seemed to be goading me. Reminding me it was the Aussies who’d be most pleased to see the sunny skies. For the first time in the Test the security at the gates were not afforded a smile and a good morning welcome. I didn’t notice the npower girls, didn’t check out the odds for runs scored in the morning session, didn’t soak up that feeling you get just before play starts and everyone is trying to work out where they’re supposed to be sitting.

Instead I took my moody ass up the media stand lift and into my glorious position just to the left of the bowler’s hand where I proceeded to pace around as nervous as an expectant father.

Speed drinking the tea I had just poured myself I quickly realised sitting down wasn’t an option. I looked around for something or somebody that could inspire me to believe in. Something that would make me feel better, put me at ease and convince me that everything would be alright. Thankfully for me and for England there was something. He was out on the pitch and he went by the name of Freddie.

Not for the first time in my life I thanked god for Freddie. Jimmy, Swanny and the rest got a mention as well. But thank god for Freddie. It was an ‘I was there’ moment. The day he rolled back the years to deliver ten straight over’s that swept aside any Aussie resistance.

Four years after I watched him bowl from the Pavilion End at The Oval unchanged throughout a session to turn an Ashes game in England’s favour he only went and did it again. I was there then and I was there now.

After a stunning first over from Jimmy Anderson set the tone a wicket in Freddie’s first over accounted for Haddin and went a long way to settling the nerves. I can’t say I was enjoying myself – that wasn’t going to happen just yet. And while Johnson and Clarke were still at the crease nothing could be taken for granted. But suddenly it started to occur to me ‘we might actually win this after all!’ And within an hour and a half this was exactly what we did.

It was a sweet moment. One I’ll remember with fondness whatever happens throughout the remainder of the series. It might have been England’s first win at Lords for 75 years but it was also the first time I’d seen them beat the old enemy since a consolation win at The Oval in 1993. Sixteen years is a long time to wait. With three games to go I’m hopeful I won’t have to wait anything like as long. But then I’m thinking from the position of a 1-0 lead. I know my positive outlook is only one session, or 6th wicket partnership, away from suicide watch.

Postscript

2009-07-18T11:40:00.005+01:00

I'm going to get a T-Shirt printed. It will say 'I was there when the Aussies followed on'. Okay, so Strauss decided against enforcing it. But that's just a mere detail. For who'd have thought that day two at Lords would surpass day one?

With Darren Gough heading back to talkSPORT towers just after lunch it meant I had an afternoon at Lords to myself. In my own private booth. A steady supply of tea, cake and Aussie wickets.

After that early burst by Anderson had left the Aussie boys 10 for 2 it looked as though Hussey and Katich would steer them back to safety. But a once in a lifetime (if you're English) evening session swung the game back our way.

I had originally planned to stick around til 4pm and head back to the office. But as the wickets started tumbling I kept delaying my departure. In the end I left just after 6pm with the Aussies 7 down. I wanted to stay longer but I had dinner with Fe and drinks with friends to get back for. It's a hard life.

Any questions that I had witnessed one of the best days cricket on the first day were subsequently answered by day two. So what are the best days crickets I've seen in the past four years travelling round the globe? Here they are.

1. AUS v ENG, Adelaide, Day Two - (KP and Collingwood hit big runs as ENG dominate - Langer departs late in the day to spark wild scenes amongst the English support)

2. AUS v ENG, Adelaide, Day One - (KP and Collingwood hit big runs to spark hopes ENG can hit back after Brisbane defeat)

3. ENG v AUS, Lords, Day Two - (Eight AUS wickets in one day as AUS struggle to avoid the follow on)

4. NZ v ENG, Wellington, Day Five - (First ENG victory, meet Billy Corgan, nuff said)

5. WI v ENG, Antigua, Day Five - (WI hang on for famous draw despite steady loss of wickets. Nail-biting cricket throughout)

Hopefully by the end of this series, or even this Test there will be a new favourite day at the cricket to add to that list.

Lording it up.

2009-07-17T15:47:00.002+01:00

With broadcasting equipment slung over both shoulders and with my face flushed from two and a half days in the sun I made my way from the Swalec Stadium an over after lunch on day three of the first Ashes Test. Australia were in the ascendency (of course) but England had hit back with three morning session wickets and with two new batsmen in there was a chance we could restrict them to a score not a million miles away from what we had managed.

Turning my back on the action signalled two things. Firstly, another false dawn, as the Aussies steam rollered our bowlers for the following 24 hours. Secondly, the end of my proud run of consecutive Ashes days attended. Taking in six different grounds, over 20,000 miles travelled and two different countries (Australia and Wales) visited I walked away from Cardiff feeling a melancholy that my innings had come to an end. In reflective mood I wondered whether my life will ever allow me to watch 25 consecutive days of Ashes cricket again. And whether I would ever want to.

A week later I find myself at Lords. The home of cricket for everyone but me. My home of cricket will always be The Oval, or maybe my parents back garden, where I spent my summers pretending to be the 80's England wicket-keeper Bob Taylor. Wearing my dads oversized brown garden gloves I spent hours playing throw and catch against the wall above my kitchen window. I'd hurl the ball at such an angle that would require me to dive full length to my right to pouch the ball one-handed in front of a delighted imaginary slip cordon of Beefy, Gower and Lamb.

Then, if my dad, or another willing relative or friend of the family was available, I'd hand them the ball and practice my off-drives and flicks off my legs against either fence. The small size of my garden determined my strengths and weaknesses as a cricketer. I learned how to bat straight and catch to my right. Any stray shot square of the wicket would either go over the fence or destroy the plants. Hook shots and expansive lofted drives back past the bowlers head were a definite no-no unless I had a good supply of tennis balls. While back on wicket-keeper duty a throw to the left of the kitchen wall while wearing my make shift gloves would only result in me diving head first into the rose bush.

But back to the cricket. The real cricket that is rather than the numerous games played in my mind. For at no point during those days in the back garden did I ever envisage that one day I'd trek around Australia watching England getting battered and bruised from Brisbane and beyond. Keeping my spirits high despite the constant capitulation. Forging out a new career that would surpass the one I was already proud to own. And putting in the miles that would mean that when the time came when the boot was on the other foot I would have earned the right to enjoy it all that much more.

I remember my dad saying he felt sorry for Manchester United fans following their treble triumph. Nothing, he said, would ever come close to that success. Ten years on and I'd say that statement still holds true. Imagine, if you will, that you became a Man Utd fan off the back of that season. Forever more every success would be held up against the triumphs of 1999. How can it ever compete? Last season when Fulham managed to avoid relegation I derived a greater sense of enjoyment that my red work colleagues got from seeing Man Utd win the title.

And so to Lords. On day one with England one down, two hundred on the board and one of my favourite cricketers in Ravi Bopara at the crease I was basking in the best days cricket I'd seen in years. The boundary boards had taked a battering as Cook and Strauss flayed the wayward Aussie attack. Surely Australia hadn't bowled as badly in fifteen years. I was loving every minute of it.

Looking back only days one and two at Adelaide could compete with what was on show. Both on and off the pitch that weekend will live long in the memory. Although it made the last day defeat that much harder to bear as the Ashes were all but lost in horrific and historic circumstances. Our dreams and hearts broken by Aussie cricketers and American maidens. Payback, I figured started here. But that would be too easy wouldn't it? And so it proved as England went on to lose wickets at regular intervals. Bad technique and good deliveries did for Cook, Bopara and Pietersen. Poor play did for Prior, Flintoff and Collingwood. Initiative firmly handed back to the opposition.

And when three wickets fell within the first fifteen minutes of the second day my feelgood factor seemed a lot further away than a single session and one half. But this being England and this being the Ashes it was never, ever going to be easy was it? Enjoy the good times a wise man once said. And with Ponting back in the hutch, the Aussies 49 for 2, nearly 400 runs shy of England first innings total, with heavy cloudy overcast skies covering Lords, and with four fast bowlers keen to get the ball in their hands, its time to sit back and enjoy watching the Aussies squirm from my private booth in the space age media centre. I can't think who deserves this more. Me or them.

Not that I took any enjoyment from an on field injury. But this is the moment that Hauritz dislocated his finger attempting to catch Strauss - the England captain strode down the wicket and smashed one straight back at him.

Enjoy the good times

2009-06-23T18:24:00.002+01:00

“I never thought I’d see the day when Dizzee Rascal was blaring out of the speakers at Lords while English women won the cricket World Cup”

Most of the advice I’ve received in my 34 years has been lost to time thanks to a poor memory and an inclination to drift off for one sentence in every three told. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve started telling a joke only to forget the punch line at the crucial moment. The anecdotes I do remember in their entirety are put on a revolving door of retell, the audience might change, but my stories never do.

But thankfully some things do stick. The words of wisdom my dad used to say to make me get back on track after I'd fucked up something school or life related. "Pick yourself, dust yourself down, and start again". Invaluable. He also used to say "80% of success is turning up". I think he stole that from a Woody Allen movie but Woody wasn't ever there on the numerous times I got myself in a hole. And over time I realised it to also be true.

Then there are the ultimate truths learnt on my own personal life journey. I look forward to one day reading my own sons 'blog to find him proudly retelling pearls of wisdom such as "You can never have too many potatoes". "Damn straight" he'll say. “Anyone who takes longer than five seconds to explain why they support their football club of choice is a glory-hunter.” FACT. Or, "Life is like an onion, you peel a layer away, day by day, and inside you cry a little". I still laugh at that particular gem. It was once scrawled on my brother’s wall by an adolescent girl friend, tortured by her unrequited love for him. What bastards we were and probably still are.

But not all life creeds are vegetable-related. One such motto, which has stuck a chord, was uttered recently. I have worked alongside Steve Morgan for a number of years. Through dark times we struggled on car crash radio only to find ourselves on far smoother waters. Whilst basking in the glow of buoyant listener figures and admiring colleagues (who spent their time longing to be on the show rather than laughing at it) he turned and urged me to 'enjoy the good times'. As someone I regarded as a peer but also someone with more experience of the industry I took it on board.

On the surface it seems the most obvious of statements for what else do people do but enjoy the good times? But I knew that in the media industry there are too many variables, too many audience monitors, too many rising stars and falling egos for anything to last forever. And so, when it's good, enjoy it, for if there is one ultimate truth in life it is that nothing lasts forever.

And so it was with this in mind that I spent the last couple of weeks in as near state of bliss that can be achieved with morality intact and the police happy to let things continue as they are. I was employed, on very reasonable terms, to produce live coverage of the Twenty20 World Cup. Two weeks of two-times a day, intense, world-class wham, bang, thank you ma'am, cricket.

For the purists it isn't really cricket at all lacking the nuances, guile and attritional of Test cricket. And while I sympathise with this way of thinking I can't help but feel the dissenters are not only shooting themselves in the foot but are in a state of denial. In the interim this form of cricket is here to stay and I'd argue that it isn't necessarily sounding the death knell for Test matches anyway. There's a lot to admire from the shortest form of the game and possibly a lot to learn. In terms of close finishes, audience enjoyment, fast pace action and sheer outrageousness this game is hard to beat.

And so it was that I found myself for a glorious fortnight in the best seat of the house alongside some of the biggest names in world cricket like Sunil Gavaskar, Clive Lloyd, Darren Gough, Graham Thorpe, Farokh Engineer, Jeremy Coney & Kepler Wessels. On top of this I was working with some equally legendary figures from the broadcast world. Just dipping in and out of their off-air conversations was a treat. I learnt a lot. And, for the most part, made sure I did just what I had been told to do. Enjoy the good times for life doesn’t get much better than this.

In the years to come when I look back at the tournament it’ll probably be random moments that will no doubt spring to mind. It’s not always the obvious moments that pop into the brain and improve the mood when slouched on the bus on the way to work. But then there are the moments where you are immediately aware it’s one you will never forget.

One such occurrence, of many, took place while watching England's must win game over Pakistan. I was sitting in the recently completed OCS Stand at the Brit Oval. Five to ten yards to the right of the bowlers run in to the crease. Darkness was falling and Pakistan were crumbling under the English onslaught. I was glued to the action as we had to win to get through to the next round. To my right sat Darren Gough, shouting into the microphone. To Darren’s right, one of my favourite England cricketers and Surrey legend, Graham Thorpe and the South African broadcaster, Neil Manthorpe. Behind them all, my favourite cricketer ever, Alec Stewart was larking about.

So engrossed in the match and with headphones on I didn't immediately realise that Alec Stewart was in the room. He was trying to put Thorpey off as he commentated. All very unprofessional I know. As producer I probably should have booted him out the room. But with England on top and the mood relaxed and from the best seat in the house I surveyed the scene, my schoolboy hero's whacking each other over the head with media guides and generally acting like schoolkids, England on the verge of the next round at the cricket ground I've spent more time at than any other, it hit me that I really am a lucky, lucky guy. And that I should make damn sure I got the most out of these occasions.

And there were several more like this. For a cricket nerd like me it doesn’t get much better than the moments I spent deep in conversation about the game with West Indies cricket commentator Tony Cozier or, the drive up to Nottingham with Kepler Wessels talking about the mood within the Aussie camp. Finding out that Clive Lloyd is as great a guy as he was a cricketer – and he was some cricketer. Watching as Clive, Sunil Gavaskar and Ian Chappell reminisced about high jinks on tour, was nearly as entertaining as it used to be watching them play and nearly as disconcerting as when the media centre started to shake when the Indian fans celebrated a wicket.

Then there were the hours spent chatting (and listening) in rapt attention to legendary BBC commentators Andy Smith and Ron Jones about their times working alongside the characters that made up the game while I was growing up. The moments I couldn’t wait to show off about to the few people I know who actually follow the sport. Like when Anil Kumble ordered in stackloads of curry for the team to enjoy. Or when Sunil Gavaskar did the same thing!

It’s not often in life that you get a burst of happiness and it’s even more of a rarity to get that at work. But this is what happened on more than one occasion. Usually as a bowler was running in, the commentators abuzz to the right of me, the sun radiating onto the pitch in front and with a whole not so lazy game ahead. Good times, good times indeed.