Top times at The (Kennington, AMP, Brit, Foster's & Kia) Oval

Pick a stand any stand and I’ll give you a memory.

Vauxhall End, Block 3 & 5 - England v West Indies, 2000

Two pissed Kiwis spilling beer over my dad’s mate Dave.  Dave was (and still is) a proud Welshman with a rugby background and is the kind of person who doesn’t put up with drinking overpriced lager let alone having it dropped on him. 

“Steward!  Come over here and sort this out or there’s going to be a situation”.  The Kiwis knew that situation involved them getting punched by a primary school teacher. They opted for muttered apologies and soon resembled scolded 7-year olds.  Albeit drunk ones. 

For their protection we were moved to better seats as Mike Atherton chiseled out a century (strike rate 33) and Curtly Ambrose bowled his final ball in International cricket.

Members, Upper Tier - Surrey v Warwickshire, 2005

Surrey thought they’d won their place at T20 Finals Day and were drinking beer in the dressing room when an umpire in body armour ventured in to tell Mark Ramprakash he’d made a mistake and the team had better come back out onto the field.  Ramp’s reaction would probably have been reminiscent of a scene from Carrie.

A bowl off was announced and with nothing else to show Sky Sports News broadcast a live stream of the subsequent hilarity as bowler after bowler lined up to miss the stumps.  Ian Salisbury did get it to pitch in line with middle stump only for the ball to turn a foot more than any delivery he’d ever bowled in his life. 

With their final ball Surrey had to hit the stumps or they were out.  On a slow track Azhar Mahmood decided to bowl a bouncer which somehow clipped the top of off stump. 

It went to sudden death or should that be 'Sudden Death'?  Heath Streak missed.  Tim Murtagh hit.  Then wheeled off and peeled off in the darkness. 

Meanwhile on the Upper Tier I was laughing so hard I had to keep hold of the railing because I was scared if I didn’t I would fall off.   As celebrating with wild abandon goes it was only beaten by my mate Josh five years later when Aldershot scored against Cheltenham Town in the 91^st minute.  

He’s the guy in the white shirt standing next to the goalpost.

Peter May Stand - England v Australia, 1993

Back in the days when you could just turn up and buy an Ashes ticket on the gate my brother and I did just that.  

Like typical teenagers we had been kicking around the house all weekend doing absolutely nothing when finally my dad's patience snapped. He ended up thrusting some notes into my hand and booted us out the house telling us both to “Go and watch a day’s cricket”. 

So off we went to cheer on England to one of those famous consolation victories over Australia.  While all the time worrying that the cameras would beam live pictures of us smoking straight to my parents lounge.

The Aussies were already two down thanks to a couple of dodgy decisions and soon slumped to 143/8. Despite a worrying late partnership between Paul Reiffel and Shane Warne, Angus Fraser came back to nip them out to spark what turned out to be my last ever pitch invasion.

I’m not sure my love of cricket would have survived the 90’s without days like this. 

Jim Laker Stand - Surrey v Northants, 1991

I set myself the target of following the ball from the moment it left the bowler’s hand to when it reached the batsmen.  I never came close. 

For three glorious seasons I was able to marvel at the quickest bowler I thought had ever been, Waqar Younis.  Of all the encounters I witnessed one match stands out over all the others. Allan Lamb’s Northants were the visitors and a place in the final of the NatWest Cup was at stake. 

Surrey were bowled out cheaply for 208 and with Northants 150 for five, Younis was called back into the attack.  At times it seemed the batsmen were more focused on protecting their toes than their wicket as he took 5/40 and Surrey won by 7 runs. 

OCS, in the posh seats - Lancashire v Middlesex, 2004

Neutral venues were used in the quarter-finals of the T20 Cup for some reason and I got handed a few free tickets through work.  We thought we were set for a damp squib when Middlesex were reduced to 21/4 before David Malan hit a sensational century.  “He’ll play for England” I said.  And nine years later I was proved right.

Vauxhall End - Surrey v Sri Lanka, 1984

After taking me to my first football match aged just four and having to hear me loudly ask such questions as “why do the players lie down all the time?” and “who’s the black man?” (the referee) my dad figured he’d wait a bit longer before taking me to the cricket.  

By the time he actually did I was ravenous for the game and devoured all the action at a game absolutely nobody else in the world can remember.  

By the end of the summer I had returned to pour over the scorecard so many times it resembled paper mache and still I marveled at the name Sidath Wettimuny.

OCS Stand, Block 17 - England v Pakistan, 2006

Thank heavens for Inzamam Ul Haq taking umbrage at Darryl Hair’s ball tampering accusation.  A moribund day at the cricket cut short for reasons nobody in the ground could fathom. 

What we did know was that the Umpires and England returned from their tea but Pakistan did not.  Then nothing happened for a bit before Pakistan did appear again despite the game already being awarded to England.

The farce continued as Geoffrey Boycott and Mark Nicholas recorded a piece to camera in front of our block of good natured but blind drunk fans.  We were rewarded for sticking around by being treated to some classic Morecambe and Wise slapstick as Geoffrey’s hat was blown off his head and the two chased it around the outfield for what seemed a good minute or two. 

Members, Balcony – England v Australia, 2005

The best spell of bowling I’ve seen as a fan.  With Australia odds on for a healthy first innings lead which would put real pressure on England Freddie Flintoff bowled unchanged for the entire session.  Or at least I think he did but I can't check because Cricinfo's website is down.

Anyway, somehow it was England with the first innings lead and we all know what happened after that. 

Even in a series that had it all it’s a passage of play that doesn’t get as much attention as it should and I had the best view in the house. 

Jim Laker Stand – Surrey in unknown county game that has disappeared from the memory banks circa 2004.

At precisely ten minutes past four I came to the realisation that of the 17 people sitting in my block I was the only one a) under 60 and b) awake. 

OCS Stand, Block 16 – England v Australia, 2009

Possibly my favourite day’s play ever. 

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.

‘

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? 

The return of the long-forgotten goosebump

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

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

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

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.

It's just not cricket

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?

I am the god of hell-fire and I give you

The smell of smoke pervades absolutely everything in my house. Nowhere is safe from the cloying, sickening stench of burnt plastic that has been my properties unwelcome new resident since the fire.

It is all encompassing in the way the cold is inescapable when you open all the windows during a gale. Unfortunately, allowing freezing wind to blow through is the only way to mask the smell. Closing the door to the kitchen the only way to mask the sight.