Test 1, Day 2: Progress so far

It has been a good start for the press. They have not been proven completely wrong so far. No complete cock-ups by the England team, as yet.

Highlights of the day’s play include these:

Radio 4’s PM asked: “how many anthems does a cricket match need?”

Henry Blofeld kept us highly informed as ever: “There are four overs left. That’s three after the next one.”

Vic Marks revealed all: “I’ve got a small one. But I didn’t put it there.”

In other news, England did ok. I reckon that most England innings conform to the golden decline of three, the so-called the ménage à twats. Three wickets fall to the bowlers’ skill, three to luck and three to batsmens’ idiocy – every match has this pattern. EVERY MATCH.

So, England have done well, I reckon. Even useless duffer Collingwood got some runs.

The concern is the bowling department. We only have one specialist fast bowler – whereas in 2005 we had three. The rest are all-rounders, and everyone knows that you can’t be a decent quick unless you are a mug with the bat.

But, we were brave to go with spin twins, even though one of them doesn’t look like he could twirl a mop at the moment. But, slow bowling looks like the only way we can attack the Australians at the moment.

So, 450 runs to the Ozzlers on a lifeless pitch…probably.

Who will drop the Ashes first?

If you happen to be on another planet, or maybe on the same planet, but only on a less interested part, you wouldn’t have escaped the speed-fuelled media orgy that is the Ashes.

If I see that bloody picture of Andrew Flintoff patronising a depressed looking Brett Lee again I will stick my nearest limb inside the nearest farm animal.

Of course, the British media is convinced that England will win. Not just win, but win confidently. All you need to do is look at the track record: Australia beat South Africa at home; England lost to the West Indies. It’s obvious that England are the superior side.

We all know how good the media are at predicting future events. They are experts.

Plus, we have Andrew Flintoff now. Freddie’s phlegm is like manna from reverse swinging heaven. We will destroy them! And we will destroy them somehow!

It was as if 2006-07 never happened.

But, for the life of me, I can see no difference from the build-up of this series to that fateful whitewash. In 2006, England scored a few good results, had some spinners coming through, and some talented, if under-achieving batsman. But no great series triumphs; no storming tours.

And so with this Ashes, you would rather suspect that Australia are better prepared.

Although, Australia look rather more Englandatic this time. Their bowling attack is a bit of a one-man band, and their batting a mixture of risky young promise and autumnal greats. Their spinner looks like a part-time darts player.

So, the question we must ask ourselves is “Who is worse?” England are normally first to put their hands up, but, I think it would be unwise to underestimate this Australian side’s ability to cock things up. It will all rest on one horrible, staggeringly act of incompetence. But, don’t rule out a steady stream of moronic errors – that too is definitely a strong possibility.

So, my predictions, after all this studious deliberation is 2-1 to Sri Lanka.

Paul Collingwood shaving

Days have passed. An embryonic beard is growing: An unwanted fuzz forming like a rampant fungus creeps around the neck and face. Although little facial fur has been accumulated, Paul Collingwood sends himself in on the fifth day down to save his face from another hairy situation.

Plodding forth to the bathroom, he steels himself with his trusty, plastic reusable razor bought from Woolworths. Facing a revelation of orange before him, a rare moment of confidence surges forward, and he twiddles his weapon with an enigmatic flourish.

After picking up the razor from the floor, the former and current England captain begins the task before him: the steady construction of a respectable appearance.

Beginning, as is his habit, from the bottom, he worked over the entire field of play up to the eyebrows. As he takes the vorpal blade in hand, the weight of responsibility and expectation becomes too much.

He struggles early on, losing all semblance of technique. Pressure guides his every fumble. A lesser man would have crumbled at the accidentally hacking away of the bridge of his nose, but the redoubtable Collingwood gritted onwards and upwards. Onwards and upwards.

Throughout the mist of pain and self-doubt, Collingwood found motivation in the peaceful sound of progress: the sink’s echoing plops as it harvested the falling fibers, foam and flesh. He considered pass glories. His daily facial flagellation at his work experience week at Northern Rock. The unexpected electric razor discovered in Australia. The destruction of the Inadvisable Moustache.

After the blood began to clear away, Collingwood began to rebuild his confidence with a series of short, stubby strokes. Slowly revealing the tea-hued pallor beneath the ginger grizzle, as he roughly nurdled away at the persistent bristles.

In the end, as Collingwood stared deeply into the mirrored image of cuts, gore and pus, he reflected on the past three-hours of graft. Oh course, he wasn’t pretty, even his mother admitted that to him, but he was effective and he got the job done. Perhaps he faces the word as less of a man, but a least he's a man. And, at the end of the day, it’s not how, it’s how many useless ginger sproutings you cut away.

Vaughan finally succumbs to the final straight one

I was wondering whether to make note of the retirement of Michael Vaughan, former captain of Yorkshire.

I decided not. Then looked at the news, and promptly reassessed.

Vaughan will be remembered for his innovative and creative explanations for missing the straight one. Although the Lancaster Turncoat found success early in his career – averaging over 70 in his first series against the Australians – once he was “found out”, the glory faded.

In past decades, his weakness probably wouldn’t have been spotted. But in an era of in-depth video analysis and bulging teams of backroom boffins, his inability to hit a straight ball, that doesn’t deviate upon pitching on a true bounce, was eventually unearthed.

Baffled by this minor fault, Vaughan would often be seen prodding the treacherous earth, shaking his head and muttering about fickle fingers of fate as the mighty king was castled once again.

My favourite moment in the 2005 was seeing the English captain completely bewildered by one of Brett Lee’s unnerving straight ones. There was a period where Vaughan could lay bat on ball against Jacob Oram’s terrifying lack of movement.

The final excuse came yesterday:

“Two weeks ago in the garden with my little lad Archie he bowled a ball that hit a weed and knocked my off stump out.”

It is surprising how such a talent has been blighted by an unusual amount of rogue weeds. Presumably, they’ve organised a union to conduct a campaign of anti-Vaughanist flying pickets.

I am informed that his the “most successful captain ever”. In an era of manifold matches and guaranteed results, it’s difficult to compare his success to former captains – especially good ones.

Moreover, since most of his “genius” plans to oust certain batsman were informed by a tax-payer draining mega-group of backroom analysts, it is hard to isolate Vaughan’s influence on the game. Especially since commentators attribute brilliance every time a captain moves a fielder.

In fact, the test of a captain is how he handles a weakened team – this quality, for instance, defines Stephen Fleming as one of the game’s great leaders. When Vaughan was blessed with a penetrative four-man pace attack, England won. Yet, in later years, when then bowling lost its edge, so did their captain.

We can ascribe responsibility to Vaughan for England’s “go-slow” strategy at the World Cup. But, if we do so, it is only far to credit him with England’s glorious streak of victories that culminated in the reclamation of the Ashes. The years proceeding 2005, saw a tremendous stretch of success and skill, all helmed by Vaughan. For that, I suppose we must say “good job”, and other such things.

In other news, Australian sporting prowess has further sunken into the pit of oblivion. Late-on Hewed lost at Wimbledon. Which is just as well, as he would have been beaten by a Britisher in the semis – that or spank a Scot.

Australian slump slumpens

As if Australian sporting nadir couldn’t deepen any further, the Australian women plunge new depths on the diagrammatic chart of oblivion.

England dispatched the Australian women, as if they were a collection of pre-stamped envelopes, ready to claim tax rebates.

England’s conquest was delivered mainly by Sarah Taylor going postal, with a run-a-ball 120.

Australia, in response, seemed to get lost somewhere in the system, or perhaps it was Christmas over there, or maybe there was a strike, or possibly they simply ran out of postage-based metaphors.

After a promising start, Australia struggled to keep the runs coming. Nicky Shaw doing the damage early on with 3-39, and Laura Marsh saw her ten overs only going for 33 and pinching three wickets.

Placed in the context of other catastrophes, many people are now openly wondering wondering whether Australia has gone the way of the 1950s Hungarian football team. That, or the Mir Space Station.

So, what do we think? 5-0?

What’s Australian for “rubbish”?

Australians, being a crude bunch, offer the English speaker a variety of terms to express disapproval.

Now, with the recent invasion of Ozzy finest into England, the Antipodean idiom is introducing these phrases to the British.

Let us look at some of these new words:

Nathan Hauritz (verb): to spin uselessly in a confused dither.

Michael Hussey (noun): a tired, redundant knacker whose productive life has passed.

Brad Haddin (verb): to drop.

Brett Lee (noun): Michael Hussey.

Ricky Ponting (noun): a sort of nasty dog-thing native to Australia, that looks ugly, smells worse and finds itself misdirecting other dogs.

Stuart Clark (noun): Brett Lee.

Giles Ashley (adverb): performing better than the entire Australian nation at spinning.

Cricketo con cojones

My copy of cricketwithballs.com's excellent new book has gone missing. As have my credit cards. Recently, I received some smug photos of Madrid sent to me anonymously.

Here's booky enjoying the sites outside the Plaza de toros de Vistalegre. He loves watching firey bulls going hard at it.

He then goes to see Carlos IV to exhibit himself at the Real Palacio de Madrid. Bastard.

It's an unknown fact that cricketwithballs.com loves views of massive cranes in actions. Bored of the culture, young booky catches some hot chocolate with churros.

Sus Australia practice Sussex

In days before news feeds, Australian sporting humiliations were haphazard affairs, dripping into your consciousness like sporadic summer rain. But now, with the plugged-in, high-wired, brain-fed media age, Antipodean abasement streams to every orifice like unwanted canine attention.

The Australians (not all of them, mind) are currently facing disgrace at the hands of a county that can´t even collect its residents´ bins on time.

I know Sussex. I used to live there. And oh, do I have some opinions about Sussex County Council´s pisspoor administration.

Yet, I can forgive years of the non-existent transport infrastructure, exorbitant rates and even the Chichester one-way system, if they humble Australia.

If you suddenly sharing a sense of déjà vu with the author, then, er, you would be right. To do that.

Sussex gave the Indians a fright in 2007. However, the Sussexians prudently didn´t press home their advantage. During the match, I noted the relative military dispartieis between the small English county, and the nation of over a billion. Perhaps, I thought, it would be better not to arouse feelings of revenge amongst the Indian populace.

“Let us not forget, India is a nuclear power. I have lived in Sussex. The respective local authorities scattered about the county are useless. They couldn’t even get the bins collected, never mind organise a collective nuclear counter-strike.”

It´s interesting to see how consistent I remain in my views regarding county refuse policy throughout the years. Anyway, I fully advocated that Sussex win the match, to provoke Indian, nationalistic sentiments, which would hopefully lead the extinguishing of that rubbish county in a massive nuclear strike.

However, in 2009, statistically speaking, there is a greater likelihood of weapons of mass destruction being present in Sussex than Australia. Thus, we can only suppose that the Ozzlers are kowtowing to the superior armouries of the Southern county, to prevent a Sussex-defeat resulting in violent backlash thus converting Australia into a dissolute, post- armageddon wasteland devoid of culture or sentient life.

I don´t know what they´re worried about though. No one would notice the difference anyway!

Badda boom ching!

First post on the upcoming ASDA Ashes

Would you believe, I have never written a post about the Ashes before? Or, as us mis-typers occasionally call them, the Arses.

Now that the rubbish is cleared out of the way, we can focus on the issues of genuine global importance.

After a rather vulgar tournament that shamelessly displayed skill, high drama and international enthusiasm, we can return to reality with an anachronistic context between some rubbish teams. A return to old days, where simple pleasures were to be found in honest forward defensives and half-hour ducks.

The battle between the fading giants of yore - admittedly, England have been fading since 1785 - will electrify a world that surely has not had enough of the continual gush of gushing, over-hyped mega-matches. “More meaningless minnow mega-matches” says the world.

But the Arses is not about ability, tradition or pride. No. It´s about the children - our children - who surely are our best hope for future non-Indian commercial opportunities. Cricket, after all, is about portfolio diversification.

One Indian spectator recently revealed to me in an exclusive interview:

“I don´t know why ya chattin´ to me, mate. I don´t speak a word of English, mate.”

A similar sentiment was spouted by the Australian Cricket Board. No one listens to the English Cricket Board, however.

Game on.

English women best in all the world

I am informed but a certain continental colleague of mine that the Spanish believe that England is the only country in the world that produces unattractive blondes. I was shocked by her sentiment, and would never publish such misogynistic clap-trap here.

But today perhaps the English women have finally proven their superiority over their Iberian counterparts, and indeed, the rest of the female gender throughout the world.

The international tournament of “who is best” was noticeable for its lack of Spanish entrants. We can only suppose that they withdrew from the field, once they realised the fitness of the opposition.

Yesterday’s final was the epitome of a ruthless dispatching of opposition. If the men’s final was a grisly, messy knife job, the women’s was a professional, even clinical shot in the back of the skull.

The rank amateurism of England’s opponents, however, created huge gulf in standards between us and everyone else. Their ill-preparedness and defective skills were especially noticeable in the European teams.

The finalists, New Zealand, have a shambles over their former captain, who didn’t believed that she was receiving adequate remuneration for the honour of representing her nation. Australia’s bowling lacks cutting edge. Most of the sub-continental sides are packed with duffers.

Whereas England boasts a multi-million pound (money) outfit, that provides central contracts for a class of professional cricketers. The sheer difference in quality overwhelmed a plucky, if under-resourced opposition.

Nevertheless, England’s women are the most dominant and attractive women in the world. The force of this argument is not weakened by the England captain’s resemblance to Andy Caddick.