South Africa 1 Australia 1

It’s never quite as intense when you can’t smell the red and white face paint around your nostrils, but watching South Africa take on Australia at cricket is nearly always absorbing, even as a Englishman from afar. The current series is as magnetic as ever, thanks largely to the flailing failures (flailures? that should be a word) of the batsmen on either side.

Australian tribulations are particularly satisfying. Phil Hughes is the Great White Hope of the batting line-up and he isn’t that great. Although he is white to be fair to him. He’s also a human slip cradle. A Mardi Gras-style parade nearly broke out in Sydney when Usman Khawaja made a whole 37 on debut against England, such was the craving for a new talent to emerge. His average has since dipped to 32.5. Mitchell Johnson runs into bowl with the grace of a pantomime horse whose front portion has just farted into his partner’s face. He took 3 wickets at 85. All good fun.

But it is also strangely comforting to witness the Australians reveal their survival instincts and level the series at the Wanderers (obviously disregarding the pustular look of jubilation on Peter Siddle‘s face). Hughes and Khawaja made runs. Pat Cummins is a very fast bowler and he was born in 1993. I’m literally old enough to be his dad, although that would have required relations with a girl when I was 14, where I was actually just at home playing carpet bowls with myself on my parents’ landing. And even Mitch dusted himself down and made a poised 40 to win the game. In Perth last winter he seemed to strike a rhythm with the ball after showing it with the bat. Perhaps this will be the impetus for a five-fer in the deciding test.

The series is tantalisingly poised. It promises much. A famous showdown between two ferocious rivals.

What’s that?

Really?

Oh.

Nice Huss

The second day of play at the Gabba was more palatable than the first. Not just because of the scoreline, but also because the Australian hero today was far less abrasive. Watching Peter Siddle take wickets is similar to having your eyes scrubbed with a nailbrush and soap. If Mike Hussey hits a boundary, it’s more like being slapped in the face with a Curly-wurly.

Hussey has a hunted look like an maltreated kitten, it makes you want nice things to happen to him. If he was one of your friends, you wouldn’t mind him meeting your mum. He’d ask her where she got her scarf from. Your sister would take a shine to him. You might even let him take her bowling. He’d talk about cricket with your dad, who’d offer him a can of Guinness and a cheese bap. He’d eat it and then remark that it was the best cheese bap he’d ever eaten. Your dad would ask if he could call him Mr. Cricket. He’d say sure.

Mr. Cricket was a title handed to him apparently by Graeme Swann‘s older brother Alec while they were at Northamptonshire, designed to mock his unquenchable enthusiasm for the game. Seems that shit banter runs in the family. Liking cricket is not a reason to tease someone. It’s better than being Mr. Bestiality. Or Mr. Siddle actually.

Sid Vicious

It’s lunchtime. I’ve just woken up. Loose Women is on. I feel disoriented. I’ve got jetlag and I haven’t travelled any further than the kitchen. I think I might be developing a bladder infection. I spent most of the early hours needing the toilet but never went because I was worried that I’d piss away all my energy and drop off. I’m too old for this shit. The problem with maintaining an constant nocturnal vigil is that when the cricket turns into a nightmare there’s no waking up. You might consider that I’m being melodramatic, but take a look at the photo below. See the puce distorted features of my nemesis Peter Siddle. I had to pinch myself during his hat-trick this morning. Not to check that I was still awake. But because it was a preferable sensation than watching his mangled ejaculatory gargoyle face.

 

The Nightmare on Vulture Street

I need to sleep now.

A Hate/Hate Thing

My friend Bonald is an England fan who has lost his appetite for Ashes cricket. Like an elderly monk who loses his faith on his deathbed, it potentially couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Bonald hopes that England will lose the opening match in order to reignite his interest. It’s roughly equivalent to punching yourself in the face just to feel alive. He’s also keen for Doug Bollinger to inspire the Australians at the Gabba.

If Bollinger isn’t selected tomorrow, then Peter Siddle will play instead. Both men are vital for Bonald and most England fans in stirring such a loathing that vanquishing them becomes paramount. Bollinger and Siddle share that brusque, angry, whingey way of playing of cricket, but it’s not just attitudinal flaws that gets up the nose, it’s also an aesthetic thing. Bollinger with his red face like a puking baby with his silly little baby wig. And Siddle with his self-regarding facial hair and offensive dentistry.

If this isn’t persuasive enough, then try looking at the below photo and then shoving your fingers down your gullet, inducing Pavlovian waves of nausea every time Bollinger appears on your screen. Once you start actively disliking these people you might start enjoying it, like a hobby. You’ll keep a picture of them on your bedside table just so the last thing you do before you go to sleep at night is hate Peter Siddle a bit. Just don’t be too overenthusiastic, you’ll end up simply liking them.

Vomit

I’d Like To See Brett Lee Going Over The Top

I really enjoyed the Sky coverage of the abandoned Twenty20 international at Old Trafford on Tuesday, particularly David Lloyd, whose trademark look-to-camera was at its most intense. I was disappointed however the producers did not feel the necessity to send out Paul Allott and his microphone to collect some samples of the outrage among the crowd. I felt sure we’d be treated to some ancient gurning Lancastrian muttering darkly about the muddy patch and how it compared unfavourably to the fields of Passchendaele. 

I also felt the lack of one Peter Siddle. He’d been given the last week off since the Oval (as days in lieu maybe) and taken his ladyfriend off to Disneyworld in Paris. When you fly with Peter Siddle you fly first-class.

I’d like to think that in taking this trip Siddle was making some oblique statement about the ‘Mickey Mouse’ status of Twenty20 cricket but I would hazard that it is probably more likely that he’s just a massive fan of people dressed in large furry Goofy costumes.

The Barmy Army. It Was Funny The First Time.

I have spent most of this summer not watching the Ashes but reading it via internet updates either at work or on my girlfriend’s mobile. And therefore most of the words that I have published about it have mainly been based on what someone else has already written. To remind myself I’ve just paused the Sky Plus on the highlights at the moment Jonathon Trott took his catch. Yes, I was definitely there. A few blurry pixels in the distance. Somehow added to the massed ranks of the Barmy Army, who seemed to change session by session:

Morning:

Mostly middle-aged women. Who don’t know each other or like each other, preferring the company of the tiny radio plugged into their ear. Polo shirt is standard issue, mainly in red with a crazy nickname emblazoned across the shoulders. Names like ‘Badger’, ‘Gumbo’ and my personal favourite, ‘Ian’. Generally subdued. Which was a relief.

Afternoon:

Amazing. Obviously. Everything was amazing. Although I had the spectator equivalent of beer goggles on. And Broad goggles actually. All chants absolutely hilarious and the trumpet in no way invasive. Leader makes first appearance. Looks like a 100-year old Johnny Borrell.

Evening:

Chants getting tiresome. Can all be filed under ‘it was funny the first time’. Which is a sentence than can be used for the Barmy Army in its entirety. Middle-aged women have disappeared to be replaced by swearier recruits who seem to be completely detached from the action on the pitch. Not looking as England lose three quick wickets. Watching a man do a jig with a cuddly Flat Eric instead. All fielders from both sides appear to have been trained in a special backwards wave to appease the Army. Apart from Peter Siddle who turned around faced the crowd with a double wave and a grin as they sang something obscene about him and a horse’s penis.

Peter Siddle is awesome. I hope he and England both win the Ashes this weekend.

Mum Is Not The Word Mitch

One of the first lessons they teach prospective mothers at mum school is how to embarrass their children. There is all sorts of fiendish techniques available; ranging from classics such as the moistened handkerchief applied to unsuspecting chops or limbo-dancing at weddings to more insidious examples like asking your ladyfriend if she was pregnant because she was feeling a bit dicky (thanks Mum).

But Mitchell Johnson’s mum has thrown the textbook out of the window – she obviously passed this particular module of her education with flying colours, managing to humiliate her son in the national press with some disparaging comments about his girlfriend. And now she’s being blamed for his poor form so far in the Ashes series.

I am very suspicious about this. Largely because I cannot really relate to this sort of maternal jealousy. The first time I took my girlfriend to meet my mum she passed out onto the floor because not only was she shocked that I actually found one willing to go out with me but also that she wasn’t Filipino and didn’t show up on my Paypal account. When she came round she started foaming at the mouth at this new grandchild-making machine presented before her.

Plus there are certain stereotypes that we expect our rugged Australian fast bowlers to live up to. One of them is not being hypersensitive to the whims of an overprotective mother. Look at Peter Siddle. He’s a twat because he’s supposed to be. He probably keeps his mum locked up in the backyard with his pet dingo. You could learn a thing or two from him Mitch.

CyberAussies

I had so much fun ambling around Phil Hughes’ website the other day, it occurred to me that similar pleasures were on offer on the sites of other members of the Australia squad. I reckon that I wiled away 10 minutes clicking about on the Hughes site, so by my calculations with a eleven blokes in a team there could be around another 100 minutes of entertainment available. Which is about half a Hollyoaks omnibus. So well worth it.

This is what I found, let’s start at the top:

Simon Katich: Katich doesn’t have website that I can find. He probably doesn’t know what the internet is, or if he does, he still calls it cyberspace.

Ricky Ponting: Richard seems to have bypassed the traditional website route and got himself one of those Facebook pages complete with a lovely picture of him and his new hair. His suspiciously regular updates are fulsomely commented on by people who obviously don’t know a lot about cricket. Like this obnoxious and agrammatical effort: “Im english but i can’t help but like you. Hope you guys come back in the next test and make it a really close contest, there is nothing like an Ashes test series! :)”. I couldn’t spot a single comment that said: ‘Ponting, you’re a cunt” which there clearly would be if an actual cricket fan had ventured their opinion, including Australian ones.

Mike Hussey: there’s a lot of interesting stuff on here about his career as Professor of Financial Economics at the University of Maine. In retrospect I think this might be a different Mike Hussey but if you’re at all interested in financial economics definitely worth a look.

Michael Clarke: I could only find a fansite that looks like it’s been written by someone who speaks in tongues. I also had never noticed that Clarke look strikingly similar to former Blue Peter presenter Stuart Miles so that is nice.

Marcus North: No. Clearly no. Although I did find a site for the Marcus North Shore cinema in Wisconsin. They’re currently running a season of flims about quite dull middle-order batsmen.

Brad Haddin: No. Nothing that even sounds lamely like Brad Haddin.

Mitchell Johnson: Nope. There is a Mitchell Johnson Financial Services though. And the first four results on the Google image search inadvertently creates the easiest odd one out round ever:

One of these men is an actual serial killer.

Nathan Hauritz, Peter Siddle, Ben Hilfenhaus: not so much as a Twitter account between them. Poor show.

So Phil Hughes is the only Australian cricketer in the Lords starting XI to have his own website which means that this post is a bit of a waste of time. Arguably they all are. I should have stuck to watching Hollyoaks.

I Told You He Was Too Old

I said that Tom Watson was too old to win the Open in my last post. I was right. Just.

After 71 holes I was drafting something, possibly hyperbolic, about the greatest achievement in the history of sport. I was also indulging in a vivid daydream about Watson reading my post and using it as the inspiration for an unlikely triumph by printing it off and blue-tacking it to his locker. Yes, I know that is absurd, but maybe he is a fan of the Ashes and hates Peter Siddle too.

But unfortunately halfway through the 72nd hole he began to look his age. He is the same age is my dad, and started to play like him too. My old man is quite good at golf, but you need to be more than quite good at golf to par the last at Turnberry to win the Open.

Stewart Cink will now always be the man who Tom Watson lost to at the Open, but he probably doesn’t care. He’ll also go down as the only golfer to win a major whose head looks like the plastic inner bit of a Kinder Egg. Put some fake tan on your bonce mate.

Monty And Jimmy And A Forward Defence Of Test Cricket

I gave up on the plan to write a daily Ashes post when I got drunk on Friday night. My friends and I drowned our sorrows and reminisced back to good old times and that halcyon Wednesday when we weren’t quite sure who was winning the First Test.

Since then until about three minutes ago Australia were Ramsay Streets ahead, and the Saturday hangover and some Sunday house removals came as a welcome distraction. But then just after lunch Test cricket became amazing again. And that is why it’s amazing. Because it can be inexorably rubbish for days and then suddenly from nowhere it’s amazing again. Light and shade. Rubbish and amazing.

England should be under no illusion. They have been mainly outgunned in this game and need to improve vastly at Lords. But they should also take heart that if Warne and McGrath were playing on that last day then there probably wouldn’t have been a last day. As we are constantly being reminded: Australia are a good team, not a great one. It’s just that maybe England are a mediocre team, not a good one.

This afternoon also gave another pleasing opportunity to hate Peter Siddle again after the Australian sponsored bat-athon. He really is a Merv Hughes for the 21st century. The facial hair may be more subtle but it’s certainly no less stupid. And he’s good enough to take English wickets, but not good enough to sit back and adopt the “actually, respect due” attitude that you might take for Warne or McGrath. Plus his mouth is an insult to orthodontists everywhere, which isn’t really reason enough to dislike the man but if you can’t take irrational umbrage against at least one Australian then there really isn’t any point in the Ashes at all. He’s probably a lovely fluffy guy off the pitch as most of these scabrous fast bowlers are, although I hear that rumours of Andre Nel’s bonhomie in the clubhouse are greatly exaggerated.

One happy moment from this weekend was that my team won their first game of the season knocking off the 93 runs we needed in just 10.4 overs. Our opener scored 68 not out. He’s Australian by the way.