The 27 hour red eye route

**This is a blog I started writing on the way to New Zealand but life got in the way and I never got round to posting it.  So here it is.  Four months late but hopefully worth ten minutes of your time.  Eat a biscuit or two while reading it.  Drink a cup of tea.  I like tea.**

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Well here I am. On the way to the other side of the world. My fourth time to the antipodeans. Flying alone. Which is how I like it and how Fe demands it. She left the UK on Sunday. The day afterwards a 6.5 earthquake hit New Zealand's North Island.  When she landed it was in 100 kph winds. I wonder what awaits me? Sunshine and blue skies I hope.

The build up to a big trip is one I usually approach with dread. For while I love planning a massive holiday nearly as much as I love being on a massive holiday when it comes to the bit when I actually have to get there I am forced to seek solace in alcohol and Valium. So I hit upon an idea. Twenty seven hours until I reach New Zealand. How about I write a little 'blog along the way? Maybe it will distract me. Maybe it will make time go faster, maybe it will be something I neglect as the drugs take hold and the sheer boredom and futility take over.  We shall see. 

Hours 1-2 (four hours to Dubai, one day to Auckland)

Well, approaching two hours into my journey I am still up for it. Have just eaten a surprisingly tasty yoghurt chicken curry concoction. Have had a couple of beers and half a tablet. Had a chat with the woman one along, we have an unused seat between us, and I'm feeling okay.

I am flying in an A380 for the first time. Apart from the fact it has two floors (the double decker bus of the air world) I don't know too much about it.  After flying to New Zealand for my wedding my bro said it was the smoothest flight he'd ever encountered. He said he didn't even realise he'd taken off which I'm not so sure I believe but so far so good. It is strange to see a stairwell right in front of me. But it's so spacious it almost feels like you're on a very smooth ferry crossing. Long may that continue.

Right. I'm going to read some print outs from Cricinfo which I have saved especially for this flight. Rock and roll.



Hours 2-6 (fourteen hours to Melbourne, 20 to Auckland)

I didn't end up reading them. I started working out some financial stuff and that was enough to send me to sleep. I thought it would be wise to take advantage of the spare seat between me and Janice who is flying even further than I am. She is going to Whangerai. Or in other words an additional three hour wait and 30 minute flight from my destination, Auckland. All of which seems pretty far off as I sit in departures in Dubai.



In the end I got a few hours intermittent sleep and now find myself bleary eyed in a far too bright airport lounge. Catching a glimpse of my face in one of the many mirrors here reminds me it has been far too long since my skin had a bit of sun colouring.

There is only 90 mins stopover and I spent 40 of them walking around the airport reminding myself of the following mantra. "Thirteen hours until I am in Australia". "I will be in New Zealand tomorrow". Both of which sound pretty good. Whether that alone will be enough to get me through the next 14 hour flight remains to be seen. I am just praying the next leg is also on a A380. I already know I don't have a spare seat next to me.

10 and a half hours to go to Melbourne

This is tough now. Cramped. Still managed to sleep on and off for an hour. Have had something to eat. Felt pretty ropey when I got on the plane and have had a couple of panic surges but my chill out message and half a diazepam have calmed me slightly. Currently a bit of turbulence is adding to the wonderful world I am currently existing. Hopefully it doesn't last too long.

First time I've ever failed to find a single film on the in flight entertainment that I want to watch. So I'm going through the first series of Friends as I wait for the time left on this flight to dip below the ten hour mark. It's all about breaking it down. So with that in mind I'm still reminding myself that when I get off this flight I will actually be in Australia. It still helps. Also that I'm almost at the half way point between England and Australia. I'm ignoring the other three hour flight I've still got to take. Turbulence starting to kick in now. Not enjoying this. But I will get through.

8 and a half hours to go to Melbourne (14 to Auckland)

A baby has been crying since we took off. About five hours and five rows in front. So it could be worse. Oh, it's just stopped.....No, it's started again. Looking forward to being over land. Now it's screaming. Actually feel sorry rather than annoyed. Sorry for the kid, its parents and anyone sitting nearer than I am. Also relieved I can block it out by watching a Steve Coogan video. Is it still called a video?

8.05 hours remaining (still pretty much 14 to Auckland)

I've just worked out that If I pay $20 I can get 100mb of internet access. I can check out the NZ v India score, read the match report from West Ham v Man City! Check out the papers and a whole host more.



Unfortunately I made the decision to put my wallet in the case that's in my overhead locker. And I'm sitting by the window and my two neighbours are fast asleep.

Denied!



And I need a wee.

In more positive news I've just checked out the time in New Zealand and technically I arrive TODAY!!!!!  It's those kind of little things that get you through.  That and my third small bottle of red wine.

Baby is still crying.

7 hours and four minutes remaining 

REALLY NEED A WEE!!!



I ended up hurdling the guy next to me. I saw the woman on his left stir and took my opportunity.

Just under four hours remaining now.

...............and I'm clinging on a bit.

However being able to access the internet helps. Tweeting and facebooking people allows me to escape this fart smelling capsule momentarily. Also allows me to take my mind off my impending hangover which is starting to creep in. Dark outside but Perth is on the horizon. Despite having a window seat I'm on the wrong side of the plane to see it though. Shame. Knowing land is close by and that I've technically reached Australia is good for the spirits. Mind starting to turn to my last flight now but no complaints. In the last eighteen hours of my life I have spent 16 in the air. Seven remain with an hour or so stop off. Stay on target! Baby still crying.

Less than two hours to Melbourne

Thank god for the internet. Been chatting to Fe and also reading the thirty-odd emails my football team have sent trying to find a player so we aren't one short tonight.

Melbourne



Auckland ahoy! 

Staring out the window at the reason why New Zealand is known as the land of the long white cloud.



In reflective mood and feeling pretty wide eyed and clear headed considering the length of journey. Remembered that while I may only have 90 minutes left of this journey I should probably make one final entry. So this is it.

Lack of sleep, too much alcohol and a handful of prescription drugs aren't exactly great bed fellows for insightful commentary. But hopefully alongside the photos I have taken it all comes together to make a worthwhile blog. We will see. But first I've got to get to NZ. Fe is waiting at the airport. Or at least she should be. I couldn't text her from Australia. I'll find out shortly.

Stuck in the middle with you

I was sixteen when I first heard ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit'.  After struggling with my mate's heavy metal record collection I finally had music I could identify with.  I became obsessed with all things Sub Pop.  Decked in army surplus and with badly dyed hair I would hop on the 333 up Streatham High Road to Brixton Academy to watch the likes of Sonic Youth, Faith No More and Smashing Pumpkins.  Spare time spent scouring the TV for rare appearances, assembling vinyl collections and reading Melody Maker.

Brixton Academy and London Astoria became as important landmarks as the House of Parliament and Tower Bridge. A ticket to a concert allowing more than just entry to watch a band.  Getting past the bouncers like walking through a portal into a world where the biggest, stinkiest and ugliest sat atop the evolutionary tree and nowhere was this more true than within the mosh pit.

Nothing prepares you for your first mosh pit.  The moment your legs are swept from underneath and you find yourself swimming against the tide in an urban ocean rip.  Vast, chaotic, violent and safer than an evening at The Manor Arms.  The best bit was being able to recount the tales on a Monday morning at the local café thankful to have survived the event.  For some it was too much.  The mosh pit at Rage Against The Machine's 1993 concert led to two of my mates refusing to go anywhere near the front of a gig again.    

At weekends when money didn’t stretch to watching a band my friends would recreate mosh pits at house parties throughout South London.  One evening we were kicked out of a third floor flat after our energetic moshing led to the ceiling of the room below to cave in.  I still remember us trooping down the stairs with the owner shrieking and pointing at us “Look at your boots!  Look at your boots!  And yours, and yours!” as a steady stream of Doc Martin wearing Indie kids filed down the stairs.  Each of us taking a quick glance into the poor woman's room where large chunks of plaster covered her bed.

For something so archaic it was relatively ordered event to get a mosh started.  Two people would link arms and throw themselves onto a floor with other party goers invited to launch themselves on top.  Before long an island of limbs would be writhing away.  Darkened bodies would fling themselves off nearby tables, chairs and large pieces of furniture.  While the same characters every week would hang back to make sure they got the largest pile of bodies to jump on and avoid getting crushed or injured.  These sneaky types wouldn’t be allowed to get away with it for long though and would be collared and forced to start the whole process off again.

Any participation event that combines alcohol with wild youthful abandonment against a backdrop of heavy rock led more often than not to calamity and malady.  Chipped chairs, smashed family heirlooms and that broken ceiling I already mentioned.  Then there was the day I launched myself off a sofa only to find half way through my dive there was nobody waiting to catch my fall.  My parents were none too thrilled to find on their return from their weekend away not only had I hosted a party in their absence I’d broken my arm. 

I had also got my ear pierced and watching them walk up the front path I figured while I couldn’t do anything about the plaster cast that covered my entire arm I could do something about the two bits of cheap silver in my ear and hurriedly took them out as their key was put in the lock.

The worst bit about mosh pits weren’t the cracked bones or having to answer to angry parents demanding to know why there were footprints on the ceiling.  It was the claustrophobia that engulfed me whenever I was trapped amid the bodies.  Even after a couple of litres of Olde English I couldn’t stay in that position for long.  The fear would rise up to my throat and I’d start clambering out as quickly as possible.

I can remember the first time I ever experienced claustrophobia.  It was in the days before duvets and I burrowed to the bottom of my bed only for my dad to sit on the end trapping me inside.  The swell of panic was immediate.  It is the same for my brother and it used to be a frequent sight for one of us to be frantically hauling bodies off the mosh-pile to free the other when it all got a bit too much.

It’s been 20 years since my last house party mosh pit but alcohol still plays a part in my phobia.  I’ve long since learned to avoid certain situations while struggling with the after effects of an evening out.  Hangovers and rush hour on The London Underground do not make for excellent bed fellows.  And even now - every now and again - when my tube is stuck in a tunnel - I have to fight the fear.

Time slows down when you're stuck in a situation you cannot get out of.  Be it in a tunnel, under a pile of teenage bodies or after you've just called your teacher 'mum' in front of the whole class.  However there are no hard and fast rules.  Sometimes it's possible to shrug these situations off with a laugh.  Sometimes not.

And so it came to pass at just before tea on day three of the Lord’s test when I decided to take a walk little knowing I was about to test this theory out. I intended a quick stroll around the ground to a little vantage point I'd found on day one.  Instead I ended up getting properly stuck.

The Lord's media box is a famous sight in cricket.  From the outside it resembles something from Space Odyssey and it draws admiring glances from those inside the ground who bother to stick around after lunch to watch the cricket.  Inside though you'll find few in agreement.  It's difficult to feel connected to the action when you're locked away in a soundless environment so far from the paying spectator.  And however good the Lord's lunches are they are more than matched by how bad the lifts are.

Riding the Lord's lift is never a pleasant experience.  It is less reliable than an over by Steven Kerrigan.  It’s broken down more times than Ryan Harris and has even trapped Ian Botham in the past.  It also has a disconcerting way of wobbling up and down when it reaches the top floor.  

There were already six people in it as I entered and just as the door started to shut Michael Vaughan jumped in.  There were a few mock groans as a tight squeeze became a group hug but nobody minded too much.    

A moment later though this changed as seconds after the doors shut and the lift started to descend everything shuddered to a halt.  

We all looked stupidly at each other and there was a momentary silence before Vaughan started pressing buttons. There were three on offer.  The doors open option.  Nothing.  The doors close option.  Nothing.  The press in emergency option.  The opposite of nothing.  Immediately a high pitched wailing sound reverberated around the lift.  It was the kind of sound that meant if you hadn’t initially been fearing the worse you now would be. 

With the buzzer booming out I pictured the sight of the media floor slowly putting their cutlery down and staring at the closed lift door.  I could hear the collective sigh of relief that this mishap hadn’t befallen those about to tuck into tea. Meanwhile those inside the lift were beginning to understand the position they had found themselves in.

There was the sound of activity not far above our heads and we realised we were far nearer the top of the lift shaft than the bottom and soon a voice came through on the intercom checking we were alright and informing us an engineer had been called.  Oh and asking whether anyone had started freaking out yet.  Did they know I was in there?

The answer to both of those was no, we were all relatively calm.  Even me.  However every five minutes or so there would be a lull in the conversation and I would think to myself "am I going to freak out now?"  I would wait a second and after deciding there was no sign of a rise of imminent fear decide I wasn’t and carry on.

It was also handy that I wasn’t in desperate need of the loo.  Or that the cable didn’t snap while we were stranded twenty metres in the air.  Or that the air didn’t run out.  Or that the sounds of Mudhoney weren’t pumped down the lift shaft sparking off an impromptu mosh.

Lack of hangover aside the reason I didn’t start scrabbling at the doors and sucking in air was the sheer surreal nature of what was happening.  It’s not often you are trapped in a lift and it’s even rarer to be with two Ashes winners.  So I just stood there, chatting, sweating, unbuttoning my shirt and every now and again returning back to the question "am I going to start panicking yet?"  Nope, not yet.  So far so good.

One of guys worked for Lord's and he told us we were lucky the engineer on site. I mentioned Beefy had been stuck for a good half an hour before help came.  We weren't going anywhere for a while. 

Small talk became the order of the day.  There wasn't enough space to sit down or move around so we all stood there as the temperature began to rise.  We talked about the cricket, we complained about the heat and then we heard the crowd celebrate Peter Siddle's wicket.

The guy standing closest to the lift door kept coming up with helpful phrases like “well if any of us were actually claustrophobic we would know about it by now”, or “they are going to have to come and get us because there’s not even an escape hatch at the top of the lift” and the best one “we should have enough air to last us”.

Throughout all of this I was carrying my TalkSPORT microphone and recording device.  The thought did cross my mind to do some interviews with those present but it really wouldn’t have gone down well. In the end the only use I could find for my microphone was to wedge open the lift door to let in a little air.

 

A quick tweet was all I permitted myself as well as a call to the TalkSPORT control room to alert them to my plight. 

Twentyfive minutes in and a voice from above shouted they were going to winch us down.  We were to be delayed even more and again the thought crossed my mind that it was time to start weeping. The mood was lightened seconds later by another shout.  This time that an ambulance was waiting for us at the bottom.  I shouted back “why?  What’s going to happen?”

And then finally after nearly a half of football the lift began to move.  Inch by inch it edged downwards before suddenly speeding up - the end was in sight.  There were cheers (mostly mine) as the light at the bottom of the lift shaft came into view.  And then suddenly the doors were hoisted open, a great hulk stood at the door and we all stepped blinking into the bright daylight where four or five St John’s staff were waiting with wheelchairs and three or four of our fellow journalists stood with pencils and notepads at the ready.  I think they were all a little disappointed that the scene that greeted them all was so ordered.  

I will never take the Lord's lift again.  Well not the one on the left hand side.  Later that evening after I'd packed up my broadcasting equipment I figured I'd better get back on the horse.  I've got too many phobias as it is.  So I pressed the button and waited for the doors of the right hand side lift to open.  I stepped inside, alone this time, and watched as the doors closed.  There was a frisson of fear as the lift went through its worrying top floor wobble before starting it's descent.  I turned and looked at myself in the mirror thought about how surreal an afternoon it had been and less than thirty seconds I was at the bottom.  I wonder if I'll ever write so many words about an elevator ride again.

‘

The confession box

Okay, I admit it.  I want Australia to win this test. 

It might be sleep deprivation or the first sign of lunacy following two days of waiting for my sodding ISDN to work.  Maybe it’s because this English team is just a little too methodical to get that excited about or that the Aussies are made up of guys I kind of feel sorry for.  Hell it might just be the fact I can’t be bothered to sit here for three days watching a bore draw. 

Whatever the reason it’s not something that sits right.  My teenage self would be horrified to hear this.  I can imagine him now, smoking a Silk Cut, listening to The Orb & shaking his head in disappointment.  “Don’t judge me!”  I feel like telling him.  That and that maybe he should consider washing his clothes a bit more regularly.

I blame my job.  Working in sport warps you in much the same way betting on it does.  I remember one Fulham game in the season we were coasting our way to the Championship title & a bloke on the Hammersmith End had wagered money Fulham would win 3-0.  At half time we were 3-0 up meaning for the rest of the match he didn’t want Fulham to score.  It was at this moment I stopped betting on my team.

It doesn’t need money to change perception.  For years my mates would spend a good hour at the pub every Saturday dissecting fantasy football teams before then spending the next hour talking about real football teams.    It became such an important part of our lives that I still know exactly how many mini-league victories I have even though I stopped doing it years ago:  Three, one Premier League, one World Cup and Euro 2004.

Our group’s obsession with fantasy football got so ridiculous that I would be celebrating a Fulham goal only to turn to my mate who (sporting a stupid grin) would be shouting ‘Dream Team!’ signalling he had the player in his side.  I remember being disappointed Clint Dempsey had scored because my mate was going to get seven points for the goal.  It really doesn’t take much for lifelong loyalties to be forgotten. 

Eventually I realised it was time to give fantasy football a rest when I went an entire season hoping Chelsea wouldn’t concede a goal because I had John Terry & Ricardo Calvalho in my team.  That really is wrong & so is supporting Australia in an Ashes test.

With three days to go Australia have scored 527 and have set themselves the target of bowling out England twice.  England, big outsiders for anything other than a battling draw are under way and currently without loss.  Moments ago the captain Cook edged behind and the ball just dropped short of his opposite number Michael Clark and part of me wanted him to be out.  A long period of soul searching awaits.

Or does it?  For while the fan in me who trudged around Australia watching England lose 5-0 would disagree it makes sense to want an Aussie win as it keeps this series alive.  With two tests remaining in Durham and London it would be a struggle to keep momentum going over ten days with the outcome decided.  The only outstanding question whether England could complete the same whitewash.  Even that isn’t looking likely now.

A defeat for England would also inject something that has been noticeably lacking in this test. Tension.  This is the first Ashes test match I can ever remember watching lacking fear factor.  Fear of defeat, fear we won’t win, that we can’t save the match, that the other team will, that the rain will come, that it won’t arrive, that my favourite player won’t score any runs, that Ponting/Hayden/Waugh will. 

At 2-0 up against the worst Australian side in living memory & nearly a decade of home Ashes series wins in the memory bank it’s almost become a formality.  And there’s nothing worse than watching a formality especially when spread out over two or three days or one or two tests.  This must be what it was like to be an Aussie cricket fan for so long.  In the end fans got so tired watching them churn out victories they realised the only way their own team could be beaten was to turn against them.

So, yes teenage self, I do want Australia to win this test so that this series can come alive once more.  So I can travel to Durham fearful that these words will come back to haunt me.   So that I can get a bit of this back in my system, and that so when England win I can celebrate & marvel at the magic.  So that we can give the Aussies a sniff of hope and then just when they think they’re within touching distance of the greatest come from behind series win in history England hit straight back and DESTROY THEM AGAIN MAKING PHIL HUGHES AND STEVEN SMITH CRY AND MICHAEL CLARKE RETIRE AND SHANE WATSON BECOME A MONK AND AUSTRALIA SINKS INTO THE SEA IN SHAME.

And then Joe Root got out and I felt a bit guilty writing this article.  I like Joe Root.

A question of sport?

It’s to her continual annoyance that when I recount to friends how it was that my wife and I came to meet it isn’t the stars aligning that I thank, nor a wondrous one-in-a-million against all odds chance that we met in a country neither of us hold a passport for.  Instead I put the thanks squarely at the feet of cricket.  Cricket, luvly cricket.

I pitched up in Sydney to witness the final throws of England’s disastrous 5-0 defeat in early 2007 & soon after cast eyes on her at a BBQ – where else?  Such was her insouciance towards sport that despite having lived in Australia for two years she didn’t know who Shane Warne was.  She does now.  Albeit begrudgingly.  

She's about as interested in sport as she is in reading my 'blog.  As hard as she tries to escape games as easily as she did as a teenager marrying a sports journalist has put paid to that.  It has invaded her life in ways she could never have imagined as she made her way to a party in the south west of Sydney on a balmy night; unaware of what life changing event was about to unfold.

In our first four years together she drew sympathy from all quarters as I travelled off for weeks on end to ‘work’ on the cricket.  I missed her birthday in Auckland to watch England lose in Hamilton & the following year opted for five weeks in the Caribbean rather than being by her side for another birthday, our anniversary & Valentine’s Day.  She got me back by burning down our kitchen.

While she put the final touches to our wedding preparations (which coincidentally took place in New Zealand ten days after the 2010/11 Ashes) I spent it on a two month stag do in Australia as England atoned for that 5-0 defeat with a thoroughly enjoyable 3-1 win.  And then we got married.

Payback began that same year.   While I knuckled down to my new job producing Keys & Gray she landed a five month singing gig in Macau.  KAPOW!  A twelve hour flight just to be able to see her!  BANG!  This was followed up the following winter with a four month stint on a Musical in Frankfurt.  KABOOM!  At least I didn’t have to move back to the folks this time.  BLAAAAAM!!!!

However after a hiatus of two and half years (feel free to skate over the three weeks I spent in Poland for Euro 2012 and the six Champions League trips to Europe) where I’ve been on the UK receiving end of the Skype phone calls I’ve re-joined cricket’s media circus for the Ashes summer.  

It may be 12 hour days & weekend breaks rather than month long excursions but it’s nice to be back on the road getting paid to watch something live that I would only be watching on TV anyway.

I’m earning my money though.  Following cricket at your own leisure allows you to dip in and out depending on whether England is getting battered or not. Working in cricket is rather different. 

The days are long with 6am alarm calls the norm & re-appearances back at the hotel rarely before 9pm.  Like the game itself it’s a bit of a slog at times.  And they say nurses have it hard.

Not that the opening test of the summer at Trent Bridge required any diversion.  It was perhaps the greatest test I’ve ever seen. Five days of action in its true sense. Wickets, runs, controversy, record breaking, astounding feats, dramatic collapses with the lead switching hands repeatedly.  It was a game that had simply everything apart from a comedy run out involving Shane Watson.  You can’t have it all.

It is the first test I have ever seen without a passage of play following its expected path.  A game that’s only consistency was its ability to confound.  I was spellbound for its entirety & so rooted to my chair that I trapped a small nerve in my back which has left me hobbling around ever since.

The second test started off in the same fashion with twenty three wickets falling in the first two days, more DRS incidents, another epic Ian Bell hundred and even a comedy run out.  And then?  Snooooooze.   

Day two was the day the Aussies lost the Ashes.  Day three was the day England gave them time to think about it.  Day four when they rammed it home.  After seven frenetic days of topsy-turvy cricket the last two offered no deviation from the script.  For the first time since the tour started I needed something to keep me entertained.

   

Test cricket is a sport that takes up six hours a day, five of them in a week, meaning at times there is a skill to watching it.  There are similarities between seeing off a particularly dull session & getting through a health & safety meeting. 

During particularly painful sessions patience, an active imagination & the ability to take an interest in life’s minutiae is crucial.  Two flies having sex will see you right for an hour or so, a plane writing a message in the sky as excellent excuse as any to avoid watching Ricky Ponting move inexorably towards his double hundred.  

Not that it’s always this bad.  The morning session usually zips by regardless of score or incident.  The novelty of a new day, the day’s first drops of caffeine, fresh articles to consume, emails, Twitter & Facebook to peruse mean that even the more turgid Paul Collingwood innings can be assessed with a pleasant frame of mind. 

The first 45 minutes after lunch is normally a pleasant experience as food settles & you get re-introduced to the game.  And then it can get difficult. The coffee stops working as the oxygen in your brain heads towards the stomach in a bid to break down the tasty yet sometimes stodgy luncheon.

It's around this time I usually venture away from the press corps to submerge within the fans.  To get a reminder of what it means to those who have taken time off work and spent a lot of money to attend.  To soak up the conversations in the stands, take in the smells, the sights, the sounds of the Barmy Army singing their familiar songs.  Then there’s the sun a constant companion overseas & for one summer only a visitor to these shores as well. 

There is no better place to let the mind pleasantly wander, to strike up a chat with a stranger (cricket fans are an approachable & amusing bunch) to cheer loudly at an England four or the fall of an opponent’s wicket.  In essence to be a fan again.

And then when it gets a little too sweaty & the songs a little too repetitive it is back to the coolness of the press room sated, inspired and deeply satisfied.  Sometimes accompanied with plenty of fresh material for another of my other constant travelling companion; my old trusty ‘blog.

For it was while staring at my pasty reflection on the black backdrop of a tube window on the way back from Lord’s that my mind drifted to this ‘blog.  From 2006 to 2010 I updated it regularly while on my travels & every now and again while at home.  Maybe now was the time to get it back up and running.  

As the cricket slowed down, England began to dominate and the action started following a path well worn (albeit in reverse) it gave me time to contemplate writing again.  It was just a question of what?  

I’m following this tour alone and in a far more professional capacity than in tours gone by when all I had to do was look to my left for inspiration.  And as interesting as Nottingham & London are they are far too familiar to get that excited by.  A tube ride to Lord's doesn't conjure quite the inspiration a ferry trip to the SCG.

However there is a real sense of achievement writing a ‘blog and creating the tiniest little slice of something that didn’t exist before.  While it sure is enjoyable having all my memories of over the last six years so readily to hand.  Being able to dip in and out of moments that I could otherwise forget.

As soon as an article is posted there is a temporary feeling of calm (almost relief) that an idea that has been squirreling around in my head for the past few days has been put to bed.  That feeling lasts for a while before the desire or urge to write again begins anew.  Or something happens that just leads itself immediately to being described.

I’m not the fastest writer but pieces like these can be done and dusted within half an hour. Others can take forever to complete with re-writes, re-jigging of paragraphs & ripping up of the introduction.  I began this article on day two of the Lord’s test now it’s the night before I head up to Manchester.  I’m a little rusty.  

However when in the zone, with an idea that wouldn't look out of place as a glint in the eye, then writing a 'blog is an absolute pleasure.  And while the words haven’t flowed as I know they can do with this entry, while I’ve crunched through the gears rather than clicked I know once I get this one out there the next will be easier to produce.  All of which just leaves the question of what to write about and will my wife read it? 

Last day at work

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

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

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

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

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.