Ashes Poetry

Ashes

To the victor the spoils
To losers, desolation
Dark doors darken dark doors
Shuts out welkin light
Puts wood in hole, shafts
Of night shadows the clacked
Clappered tun of celebration
Wrings, wrings the pain and din
Until the black tattoo stops beating
Bleak timpani within each ear’s dismal drum
Before blood dangles ruby red from each lobe
A mute sign that you are dead.  It can’t hurt
anymore than this, that’s for sure
Which sets you out to win

David Fine

This is written over two months after the event – a lovely fortnight straight-after in Brittanny, two weeks of my right/write arm paralysed with arthritis, then a month sorting out the effects of a manic episode, intervened. (Yes, folks, yrs truly is a bi-polar, or manic-depressive. It goes with the territory, ‘All poets are mad,’ Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, 1640. Tomorrow I shall write Schizo-Cricket to explain all.)

I had a fairly standard route to the ground, and on the Sunday chose to treat myself to a pre-Ashes fried breakfast reading the papers, where one of the broadsides said they’d feature me. No matter they didn’t, had a chat with an African sports lover, where we couldn’t quite figure out the lack of Africans and Afro-Carribeans in the English team. All twenty-two players in this match are caucasians. It struck me walking through the parks around the Oval. Around ten o’clock they were empty. Last century in 1948 they’d be packed with kids playing pick-up cricket games ahead of the Don’s final test innings. Today, two drunk tramps sleeping it off and a rather forlorn middle-aged woman jogger past some media vans parked up by their aerial to send today’s play across the globe. Somehow both the universality and mystery of the game has dwindled. It’s a shame those camera’s didn’t pick up the game of street cricket which had sprung up outside the ground as it had emptied. There’s less enchantment, which poetry or street cricket cannot provide alone. A quality that stands apart from victory if not defeat, for to lose is not to lose all, while to win means only to win a game.

The next day I was interviewed by Radio Derby and read out the final poem Ashes. I did tell them on air it wasn’t celebratory. ‘Oh,’ said the interviewer as we were squeezed inbetween phone-ins about Derby County (’What’s black and white and slides down the table?’) ‘I was expecting something more gloating.’ I’ve never gloated in fifty-six years and I don’t intend to start now. All victories require losses.

Yes, I punched the air when the final Aussie wicket fell. Yes, I was on my feet, and Yes it was great to be there, not least because I’d been at Perth when the Australians were top-dogs last time round. But no I didn’t sing “You’re not singing anymore’ as a few middle-class wannabe mockeney supporters sang. ‘Don’t be daft,’ I told them, ‘they never sang in the first place.’

And yes, I felt uncomfortable when Ben Hilfenhaus was seranaded with ‘Deutchland uber Alles.’ I’ve not a drop of English blood (quarter Austrian, quarter Barvarian, quarter Russian and quarter Ukrainian, to be precise.) Walking back up the Vanxhall Road at the end of the first day’s play,where the Southern Cross was just in the ascendancy, I fell in with a couple of guys about my age. I explained what I was up to, gave them my name. ‘Fine,’ said one, a Scot. ‘David Fine, I knew a David Fine, a tailor in Glasgow, made me my first suit.’ That David Fine was jewish too. Twenty years ago I bought an electric kettle from a Nottingham bric-a-brac shop. Looking at the cheque the shop-keeper said ‘Which bit of Europe did they throw your lot out of.’ His name was Finer, from Lithunania. None are our real names, just those selected, like a test match squad, to avoid potential difficulties.

Where am I going here? Wars, their threat, prejudice and intolerance pull people apart, games can bring them together. That is the charm of cricket, which is why and how C L R James wrote Beyond The Boundary. ‘Those who only know cricket, do not know cricket.’

Enjoy it and best question only its circumstances.

Over two months have passed since the destination of the Ashes was determined, so I’ve eschewed going back to my notes and rather reflect using memory as a sifter.

Overall it’s been a crazy series. At Cardiff, Australia should have won by a country mile except they let Anderson and Panesar bat through to an unfeasible draw where a Green Baggy win would have put the Poms behind a road-roller of an eight-ball. Instead England worthily won at Lords’ , an Ashes first since 1934, dismal rain made Edgbaston a draw, while at Headingley a dismal England folded like a pack of cards made from used Kleen-ex, leaving Oz holding a nap hand for the decider…. If you go back to the reflections on Cardiff you’ll find I said ~

“If England win the series and the Ashes, Cardiff 2009 may resonate as Headingley 1981 when Bothamland with Willisshire came back from the dead to win. It was far more demoralising for the Aussies (and therefore far more encouraging for the Poms) to have drawn with one wicket to go, rather than peter out with the final half-hour not taken. This is what should have happened. “

Am I wrong, or am I wrong?

Clearly between Headingley Carnegie and the Brit Oval something switched, and not just ground sponsors. How did the Poms turn themselves around? Even after a disappointing first innings knock, they played like champions-in-waiting, not rabbits waiting for headlights as at Headingley. Throughout the match at crunch-points they showed the better mettle – Broad making the most of a juiced-up strip after the rain in the Australian’s first knock, Strauss and Trott holding out to put on well over a ton in the second inning when being sixty-odd for three and in dire jeopardy, and great fielding to run-out two of the top order and stump the third even if Collingwood, fielding in the slips, his worst position, dropped a couple of good chances. Perhaps Broad and Swann’s defiance on Saturday morning at Leeds was the start of the great come-back. By comparison, the Australian batsmen didn’t seem to graft successfully, where Hussey’s excellent century at the end of the game and series was too much like the little boy with a finger in the dyke (careful now about double-entendres) when the sea had broken through just about everywhere else.

Lack of Australian ‘moral fibre’ is best evidenced in two places. Firstly on the morning of the fourth and final day choosing defensive fields and  leaving Johnson out of the attack till nearly lunch, when he had zipped out Bell and Collingwood for zip  the night before, where had they taken another wicket the game’s pendulum would’ve started to swing their way. It didn’t seem to add up; Australia needed to take wickets not staunch runs: how did the captain and manager and team decide to go all cautious rather than carpe diem? As it was Strauss started to step down the wicket to drive Clark, Stuart, as though facing his namesake Michael Clarke. The second instance was Brad Haddin tripping the light fantastic to  Swann only to hole out to the redoubtable Strauss at long-on. At this point he and Hussey were well set and if they were still there at stumps it’d be two hundred to get with five wickets down – second favourites in a two-horse race. It was the first faint tremblings of Poms’ squidgy bum-time, and better judgement was to place along the ground for a four rather than go arial for a six.

In terms of mettle when being on their mettle, England were past masters at The Oval, so unlike Headingley. As Strauss said afterwards ‘When we’re bad we’re very ba, when we’re good, we’re good enough.’ Very Australian, because good enough isn’t good enough if you’re going to be great.

As so it proved in the ODIs. Punter’s rehab back home did the trick, playing a Captain’s return by blasting England every which way but lose. Interestly the Aussie press didn’t give him any stick for going home, (critics of Trescothick please note) any ire reserved for the manager doing the same – but by then I guess team, skipper and manager could do with a bit of time apart: the intensity of the modern tour schedule must mean you get tired of even good mates at some times. England played like drains but qua Cardiff, managed to thwart the 6-0 ODI Strinewash in the last game, only Ashes are Ashes. Even 6-0 would have been like winning the Cod War after losing Trafalgar. Though Ponting may be the first Australian skipper to lose the Ashes, win them back and lose again in succession, don’t bet on him regaining them again down-under…

                                            It can’t hurt
anymore than this, that’s for sure
Which sets you out to win

Affixed to the original urn…..

When Ivo goes back with the urn, the urn;
Studds, Steel, Read and Tylcote return, return.
The welkin will ring loud
The great crowd will feel proud
Seeing Barlow & Bates with the urn, the urn
And the rest coming home with the urn

the urn, the urn, the urn

I’ve added an extra line in italics since the rhythm doesn’t work with the verse all on its own. (A quick ECB-approved level one and five-eighths cricket poetry coaching session in basic poetic techniques – repetition:- Welkin is sky, turned into a bell, (not Belly) which of course needs to ring, hence the repetition of the urn, the urn to make the sound of a bell, redoubled with return, return – simple and effective, and clearly aiming to link onto verse five.)

If you want your very own Ashes poem all you have to do is take the version below and substitute in the gaps who you like for the names of these old players. I’m sure they won’t mind, in fact honoured that you’re thinking about them. I’d suggest using surnames rather than first or nicknames, since it ties into the original language, and also check that the rhythm still works, so that’s where nicknames come in – to shorten Collie for Collingwood, but lengthen Strauss to Straussie since he’s captain, like Ivo, and everyone can join in the extra line as a chorus, the urn, the urn, the urn!

When Straussie  stands proud with the urn, the urn;
               ,              ,                 and               return, return.
The welkin will ring loud
The great crowd will feel proud
Seeing                &              with the urn, the urn
And the rest coming home with the urn

the urn, the urn, the urn!

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child
By by, lully lullay

O sisters too, how may we do
for to preserve this day
this poor youngling for whom we do sing
by by, lully lullay

Herod the king in his raging
charged he hath this day
His men of might in his own sight
all young children to slay

That woe is me, poor child for thee!
and ever mourn the day
For thy parting neither say nor sing
by by, lully lullay

anon, medieval plainsong

When this Ashes Test is over
No more joy or misery
Let’s shake hands with erstwhile strangers
We’ll cherish present company

No more pints of polite clapping
No more shouting out for more
Shake hands with those beside you
They’re your neighbours  from next door

Sung with great feeling and Welsh choralness
A modification of the lyrics of When This Lousy War is Over, from “Oh What A Lovely War”; Joan Littlewood, based on the original hymn by Joseph Scriven, What a friend we have in Jesus

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child
By by, lully lullay

O sisters too, how may we do
for to preserve this day
this poor youngling for whom we do sing
by by, lully lullay

Herod the king in his raging
charged he hath this day
His men of might in his own sight
all young children to slay

That woe is me, poor child for thee!
and ever mourn the day
For thy parting neither say nor sing
by by, lully lullay

This is the Coventry Lullaby, a medieval plain song. No ordinary lullaby, it recounts the Biblical story of Herod slaughtering all infants lest one of them was Jesus.

It does more than this. It is the song or hymn you may sing when a baby has died. In the middle ages infant mortality was hundreds times higher than now; you may not have named a child for fear of it dying and their name bringing greater hurt. In church or at home the Coventry Lullaby would be sung as the last lullaby a mother might sing to her child.

I was born in Coventry, left when three and never returned. Losing one-nil at home to Swansea after a missing a first half pen hurts a tad. Though it is the Sabbath, here endeth the sermon.

What a day. Below’s the Tweet by Tweet Commentary, and everyone got into the idea that they were standing next to the Ashes poet on the day of a great Ashes victory.  I became more barmy than the Barmy Army as the Tweets show with Boycs and Sean Ruan being clasped to the copious bosoms of the fat lady before she lets rip. I started when next door neighbour Bob’s mate blackberried him from Dubai for a ‘a dirty limerick starting “There once was a man from Tasmania.”‘ I assumed he meant the Australian cricket captain, who doubtless must have felt he could well lose his marbles as well as the Ashes. I dictated and Bob blackberried back ….

“There once was a bloke from Tasmania
Done for kleptomania.
Amongst his stashes
Was an urn of ashes
“M’Lud, I’m a failed Australian cricketer.”

The Wicket-Taker (aka my mobile phone) came in handy for England’s cause. Having fired out Punter in the first innings when Matt Barlow from Radio Derby rang, and countless pithy texts from Laurel at home, the squidge and the bum were starting to come together. ‘I could ring up home,’ I said to Bob, ‘that could us take a wicket.’ (The usual ploy is to send the group nerd to buy the four pint max because a wicket always falls when you’re not watching – wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong; you shouldn’t entrust such a vital task to the team idiot, he’ll spill the beer and not take a wicket.) As I flipped open the phone (it’s Laurel’s cast-off twice removed) Freddie’s arm triggered back and once it clicked into place, crack, the sling-shot left his hand. The Wicket-Taker does Punter again!! The rest is history. We could start to relax. At tea I went to the Gents, waited in line for a space between two other gents, looked upwards towards the welkin while nature took its course ( I know ‘Our aim is to keep these facilities clean; your aim will help too’ but see Drink Less, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QbR2HivqRoM I’d not touched a drop, I was plenty high enough on just the excitement of it all) when, blow me down, Sean Ruane came blasting straight down my right lug -ole. Is there no escape? In my Room 101 he’d be the first to take the drop, and as I’m a medieval archaeologist (yes, they’ve carbon-dated my prejudices) it’d be the most Baldrick of cess-pits.

Perhaps I’ve been a bit unfair on the geezer. It isn’t his fault there doesn’t  seem to be any artistic direction to the song and dance programme, (except you’re not allowed to dance at The Brit Oval, unless you’re Mark Ramprakash, who of course walks on air for Surrey) it’s good publicity and as Bill Bryson said ‘I’ll write anything to keep my kids in Reeboks’ (’Did Reeboks pay you for your gratis product placement, Bill? Missed out there, and if you didn’t advertise for Reeboks for free in the first place the rest of us wouldn’t have our nippers in our lugholes giving it some gbh for gratuitous foot candy.) Where were we? I’m sure Sean gets at least as tired of belting out Jerusalem, breakfast, dinner and tea  as I of hearing it. “One song, you’ve only got one song” So I’ve written a new one for him … Or rather adapted an adaption of a standard, namely ‘What a friend we have in Jesus.’ Beautiful tune, dreadful lyrics, like too many hymns..

Sean’s Song

When this Ashes Test is over
No more joy or misery
Let’s shake hands with erstwhile strangers
We’ll cherish present company

No more pints of polite clapping
No more shouting out for more
Shake hands with those beside you
They’re your neighbours  from next door

Sung with great feeling and Welsh choralness
A modification of the lyrics of When This Lousy War is Over, from “Oh What A Lovely War”; Joan Littlewood, based on the original hymn by Joseph Scriven, What a friend we have in Jesus

Back on Planet Oval, Hussey’s ton (the most valiant of knocks) at 300-5 makes the cleft between squidge and bum start to get sticky again, “Don’t lose another before stumps will probably mean 150 to knock off with 5 wickets left.” Around me faces drop at the npower Ashes poet’s words. He has spoken the unthinkable, thought the impossible, Australia might win!!!!! “Think about it, just behind the favourite in a two horse race. You wouldn’t mortgage everything on that, would you?” It starts to sink in. I hear the pneumatic drill compressors  of the Albion Underground Southern Extension running from Lords to Oval via Australia start up “Albion Underground regrets to announce all services on the Victory Line are suspended until the ends of time … see also http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/07/19/albion-underground/ Then Brad Haddin two-steps to Swann, welts it welkinwise only to drop in the kangeroo pouch mitts of steely skipper Sir Andrew Strauss. At two in the morning all the lights went out throughout Australia, the Southern Cross the only ones remaining.

The stewards steward themselves into end-of-match mode, and I start finishing my last poem, one which worked whichever team won. Don’t necessarily expect celebration just because I’m a pom – it’s an Ashes poet in residence, not the England team poet or the Australian team poet. I’m not the first Ashes poet in residence. That title and honour goes to whoever wrote the poem on the urn, (’ the fourth verse of a comic ode published in the Melbourne Punch on 1 February 1883: http://www.lords.org/latest-news/news-archive/ashes-countdown-the-urn,1373,NS.html. which Lady Clarke (not Stuart or Michael) affixed onto said urn)

The DIY Ashes Poem

When Ivo goes back with the urn, the urn;
Studds, Steel, Read and Tylcote return, return.
The welkin will ring loud
The great crowd will feel proud
Seeing Barlow & Bates with the urn, the urn
And the rest coming home with the urn

the urn, the urn, the urn

I’ve added an extra line in italics since the rhythm doesn’t work with the verse all on its own. (A quick ECB-approved level one and five-eighths cricket poetry coaching session in basic poetic techniques – repetition:- Welkin is sky, turned into a bell, (not Belly) which of course needs to ring, hence the repetition of the urn, the urn to make the sound of a bell, redoubled with return, return – simple and effective, and clearly aiming to link onto verse five.)

If you want your very own Ashes poem all you have to do is take the version below and substitute in the gaps who you like for the names of these old players. I’m sure they won’t mind, in fact honoured that you’re thinking about them. I’d suggest using surnames rather than first or nicknames, since it ties into the original language, and also check that the rhythm still works, (read it out loud is best) so that’s where nicknames come in – to shorten Collie for Collingwood, but lengthen Strauss to Straussie since he’s Captain, like Ivo, and everyone can join in the extra line as a chorus, the urn, the urn, the urn!

When Straussie  stands proud with the urn, the urn;
               ,              ,                 and               return, return.
The welkin will ring loud
The great crowd will feel proud
Seeing                &              with the urn, the urn
And the rest coming home with the urn

the urn, the urn, the urn!

Not too many takers down under, I imagine and the MCC may well alter The Laws of Cricket to allow strangulation with a bacon and egg tie of Ashes poets for playing fast if not loose (if you stand fast you can’t be loose, surely?) with the old stuff. (I’m not the MCC poet in The Long Room either)

‘A tear of victory ran down my rosy cheeks’  says daughter Laurel. ‘Yep,’ I reply ‘Nearly takes the edge off Cov losing against Swansea at home yesterday.’ (As my eldest brother said when we won the FA Cup in 1987 ‘There is nothing else to live for.’) We celebrate with Jake’s fudge at the ground, and back with family the toast :”To the urn and long may it remain in perfidious Albion” with the best bottle of Australian bubbly we could find, and I have to say it tasted better than most champagnes. On Channel Five Straussie and Freddie each say how they “couldn’t find the words” to express how they felt. Ricky Ponting could. The penultimate sentence of the last poem are his, and his alone.

Ashes

 
To the victor the spoils
To losers, desolation
Dark doors darken dark doors
Shuts out welkin light
Puts wood in hole, shafts
Of night shadows the clacked
Clappered tun of celebration
Wrings, wrings the pain and din
Until the black tattoo stops beating
Bleak timpani within each ear’s dismal drum
Before blood dangles ruby red from each lobe
A mute sign that you are dead.  It can’t hurt
anymore than this, that’s for sure
Which sets you out to win

 

David Fine

Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child
By by, lully lullay

 

Tweet-by-Tweet Commentary

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
00000000000000000000O Broad bowls maiden over

0-78 Swann makes one turn and bite which almost edges Katich’s bat, but soft-handed angled blade keeps it down and safe. Well played both

1-86 Kadich LB Swann YeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssS! Enter Ponting – remember Old Trafford 2005

2-90 Watson LB Broad 00000000000000000000000000 YeeeeeeeeeeeeeeseesssssS! off edge, even better, poor bloke umpire sawn him off both innings

102- 2 Ponting pulls Broad 4, so good liquid chronometer quick-silver footwork makes Ramps leaden-footed, eat the bones out of that, Tuffers

2-115 Time for bowling change Billy trumpets 1st trill, Australia more interested in Great Escape. If pitch breaks up they could tunnel out

2-171-2 375 still needed at lunch. Ponting and Hussey look as solid as the Great Barrier Reef. It’s do-able. HMAS Neilometer up periscope…

Warnie bowls leggies for grommits in training vid over lunch 1st ball clips top of off, in a way + sensational than Fat Gatt’s splat Legend

2-184 – Punter edges Swann, Collingwood fingers & feet nearly make hard chance a catch Green Baggies raise themselves by Collie’s bootstraps

2-203 A ghost of Barbadian barracker yells basso profundo ‘C’mon, Broadie, Gi’ ‘im di Ashes Ball’ HMAS Neilometer preparing to snorkle.

3-220 Super Centaur Gammy Knee Freddie Flintoff Gary Pratts The Punter 4-220 Fast Action replay Clarke Green Baggies hopes fast running out

“To lose the Ashes once by one run-out is unfortunate, Mr Ponting, but by two and twice is carelessness (From The Importance of being Punter)

4-228 Collingwood drops Nussy (both left-handers) but not relevant in great scheme of things (England’s best fielder in his worse position)

5-236 & so it proved North stumped Prior (glovework Oldfield Tallon & Grout would die for: Nussy was North by the way) Delay tea-time gasper

5-255 Not that Australia are Wigan – Wigan are far better. This is known in Oz as cutting tall poppies. Man U & C + Oz fall to grim reaper. 

283-5 Tea interval more interesting than play Couldn’t even escape canned Sean Ruane in the communal kludgie When the fat lady finally sings

Clasp the little eejit to your commodious bosoms & swaddle his napper tight till he finally expires What a way to go, boys, what a way to go

Eejit minor is now singing english folk made famous in At last the 1948 show with Cleese, Miller, Bennett (ex Cantab footlights) I’ve got a

ferret up my nose, how it got there I don’t know, but now it’s there it hurts like hell. I’ve got a ferret up my nose. Pick the bones out

of that, Stephen Fry (I’m an Oxford man) O yes England drop three catches in a row (Betting Scam for 12.47am finish I wagered myself this a.m.

5-300 Hussey 100 Superb knock for a bloke right out of form It becomes interesting again You bloody beaut he shouted Ashes Regained at Perth

5-311 Brett Haddin guides Anderson through slips, blade a moorish scimitar through the harem’s veil. He’s just old pro playing out the cons.

5-320 Don’t lose a wicket by stumps it’s 400 and 150 to get with five blokes remaining, which would make Aussies close to favourites

7-327 Johnson edges Harmison’s off-cutter(!?!) to Collingwood who at last catches one in front of first slip. Poss/Probably all over tonight

in a two horse race 6-327 Haddin chasses, swipes skies to Strauss You’ve just welkined the Ashes Brett, u bloody beaut. Hussey stands alone 

Sir Geoffrey talks to Sir Geoffrey Ah keep sayin wikkits coom in pairs, then, boom-boom, like lots of things – doo-dahs when fat lady sings.

8-343 Siddle skies Harmie who cares who caught it except it was Freddie. 9-343 Clark pouched Cook short-leg, hat-trick, no, all on feet

mainly mine. Neilometer says ‘Send in nightwatchman.’ Too late, mate, you just have. Hussey stands alone

10-348 Swann bowls to Hussey caught silly mid-off not too silly after all Let the welkin ring ring with their names the Ashes are ours again

Another great day for the Engerland, The Sundays will be full of it, so I won’t bother with the cricket itself, except to say why today’s poem isn’t about Trott’s ton. It may be the TMS Champagne Moment (my pop still would be Katich run-out of said Trott) but the real innings which changed the character of the day and confirmed the course of the match was Strauss’s. From 63 for 3 and uncertainty he took his side and country almost  to the point of festivity, if not victory..

333-8 The Ashes Procession already begun, Swan welkins himself out, Australia in a treble Nelson; one eye, one arm and one submission. Wrestle with the deep.

The last phrase leads to the  poem, where it helps to know the medieval poem ‘The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens’ (hyperlink to come)

The Ballad of Sir Andrew Strauss

ALBION sits in doleful frown,
Drine king most of the time:
‘O where will I get a steely skipper
To sail this ship of mine.’

Up and spoke a bearded miller
Sat at the ECB,
’Sir Andrew Strauss is the best skipper
To sail against history.

Albion penned broadest honour
To sign it for Engerland,
And sent message to Sir Andrew,
Doffed caps, caps in hand.

The first line that Sir Andrew said
A loud laugh of delight
The next line that Sir Andrew read
Ashened face bone white.

‘O what is this has done this deed,
This ill-deed done to me,
To send me out this time of year,
To skipper agin Eausea’

‘Make haste, make haste, merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn;
O say not say, my  players dear,
I fear an Eausea storm.’

‘Late late yesterday I saw their new team
With their old one in their arms,
And I fear, I fear, my dear players,
That we will come to harm.’

O our hopes enobled were right loathed
To wet their heel-highed shoes,
But half o’er the play was played
Their hats they were drowned.

O long, long may Eausea ladies sit
With their tinnies in their hand
Before they see Sir Andrew Strauss
Come sailing to Engerland.

O long, long may these ladies stand
With their gold combs in their hair,
Waiting for their own dear lairds;
For they’ll not see them no more.

Half over, half over to Australia,
It’s fully five bells deep,
And there resides good Sir Andrew Strauss
With the Eausea at his feet.

An early unpublished draft
Based on The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens (version Percy’s Reliques, 1765, I, 71: “given from two MS. copies, transmitted from Scotland.”  b. Herd’s Scots Songs, 1769, p. 243.

Tweet By Tweet Commentary

62-3 In late,Siddle wides with leg-cutter which doesn’t quite come out of back of hand, Alec Bedster would approve intent but not execution

68-3 Kay calls from home, return of squeaky steering column on jamjar, cure a squirt of furniture polish Wheels not fallen England’s inning

79-3 Why hasn’t Punter started with Johnson? Too defensive by half, without using all of four of a kind, he’s dealing himself a busted flush

92-3 North on, Trott takes five, lots of dust but nothing coming through surface, Put Dave Brubeck on, Punter, to bowl them a few pianos..

98-3 Clark>Strauss, Katich silly mid-off flinches at Strauss raising bat, then next ball dipped down third man, fifty worth century Albion’s

118-3 steely skipper is orchestrating the field, two fulminating cover-drives changes tempo, adante to allegro,pianissimo to forte Bang On!about 22 hours ago from web

139-3 a hundred partnership sea-change as steely skipper leads Albion afar to north Norway coast and to coast against North without compass.

to make merry. O to be in old England, in old England very fine time. A Flintoff c Siddle b North 22 with tears in his eye. O to be, O to be

157-3 the haven of lunch hoves to and Lord High Protector of Albion’s Commonweath edges North and iced out from the steely skipper’s tiller

157-4 Enter Prior smacks silly mid-off Ponting in face with literally full-blooded drive Harmison (Lord’s 05) looks on from distant pavilion

200-5 service delayed due to dodgy garages. Dogged England broadside Australian man of war. Prior lost overboard on the over-run Enter Fred!

200-6 in Old England – Shirley Collins and The Albion Country Band. I am, yet what I am, no man knows or cares John Clare ‘the peasant poet’

2004-6 Broad (The King is nearly dead, long live the King) Trott 67 without leaving his berth Dear Old England make hay while the sun shines

210-6 North drops Broad (who gives a XXXX) Australia sinking below waterline, (you can’t play from inside a submarine) Trott LXVII going 2 C

333-8 The Ashes Procession already begun,Swan welkins himself out, Australia in a treble Nelson 1 i 1 arm 1 submission Wrestle with the deep

354-8 Trott’s ton, who was last Blighty Bloke (South African) to century on debut? Agin Australia? Ask Kepler Wessels. Enough points scoring

379-9 Trott c Clarke b North. England declare “545 or 13 hrs before the mast” Can only rain save Australia now or is it a storming finish?

0-0 Neilometer off the scale

0-32 Aussie Team Talk: “We’re the best in the world, and we’ll get better by getting out of this alive” Swann comes on, it turns and spits.

0-67 Neilometer off the bottom. New King Broad bowls with roar from crowd like a Merlin engine of a Spitfire zoom Katich beaten all ends up.

0-71 Australian top order remain virgin intactica five overs to go Even if all young gun maidens the seated throng may feel squidgy bum time

0-78 Swann makes one turn and bite which almost edges Katich’s bat, but soft-handed angled blade keeps it down and safe. Well played both

The Ballad of Sir Andrew Strauss

ALBION sits in doleful frown,
Drinking most of the time:
‘O whair O whair will I get a steely skipper
To sail this ship o’ mine.’

Up and spoke a bearded miller
Sat at the ECB,
’Sir Andrew Strauss is the best skipper
To sail against history.’

Albion quills broadest honour
To sign it for Angleland,
And duly messages Sir Andrew,
Doff’d caps, caps in hand.

The first line that Sir Andrew said
A calm ripple of delight
The next wave Sir Andrew read
turns ashen face bone white.

‘O what dark fates have done this deed,
This ill-deed done to me,
To send me out this time o’ year,
To skipper agin Eausea.’

‘Make haste, make haste, merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn;
O say not say, my players dear,
I fear an Eausea storm.’

‘Late late yester’s day saw their team anew
Time as tide, their olden in their arms,
And I fear fear, my dear players
Shall succumb to succubus Eausea charms.’

O our hopes enobled were right loath’d
To scuff their heel high shoes,
But half o’er the play were play’d
Their baggy hats were sous’d.

O lang, lang may Eausea lads sit
Wi’ tinnies in their hand
Before they see Sir Andrew Strauss
Come a-sail to Angleland.

O lang, lang may these laddies stand,
gold roos dyed in their hair,
Waiting for their own dear lairds;
Who they’ll not see ne’er the mair.

Half o’er, half o’er to Australia,
‘Tis fully five bells deep,
And there resides good Sir Andrew Strauss
With the Eausea at his feet.

An early unpublished draft compilation by David Fine
Based on The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens (version Percy’s Reliques, 1765, I, 71: “given from two MS. copies, transmitted from Scotland.”  b. Herd’s Scots Songs, 1769, p. 243. http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/child/ch058.htm )

If the game ends tomorrow, England will hold the Ashes. Nuff said.

 Stuart Broad

Kneel to no one, not least those who cannot kneel,
Their bended knee arising from regal labours
In might and main to honour king and country
against the mightiest warriors from other lands
in fair contest and proud sacrifice
through surgery to fight and fight on. England’s
braw champion’s task is nearly done,
the ashes won and lost, and nearly once again won.
Heed not tomorrow’s outcome, a brief regency,
Shoulder to shoulder shoulder broad duty.
Old monachs, (Lear, Duncan) dare not come back,
Not even as ghosts. Bless his test retirement,
for you have come of age, earned the right
in your crowning glory on the field of play
to stand in succession of greatness.
Proclaim this day from all pretenders,
The king is nearly dead, long live the king.

Australia 160 all out S C J Broad 5-37

thanks to Mark who helped suggest what became the final line in conversation during the action

Tweet by Tweet Commentary

308-9 Jimmy lb for none, end of duckless run, another record gone, so much for promotion ahead of Stevie Harmison Memories of Snow and Higgs

311-9 Broad edges hook to Johnson, not quite a catch, a reprise of Leeds, Siddle not best pleased ‘I bowl, you edge, you should be XXXXed’

328-9 3 more fours, Harmie edge through slips and pair a pair genuine leg drives. Snow Higgs, 1966, final test last wicket Windies. At Oval?

328-9 Broad designs almighty broadsword drive vs. Hilfenhaus and ball goes inches. Hilfenhaus picks up, no words or looks exchanged Next a 4

332-10 two swipes by Broad, one misses, one edges, caught, all out, clueless, clueless clueless cricket, Stuart, you can and should do better.

 
0-17 Fred puts Watson through the mincer, and Watson leg-drives four Tough birds, Aussies, no wonder their fabled pies are just as inedible
0-0 reckon on1-65 lunch. Katich will be feeling million dollars after Trott run out – good or bad thing? Enter super, super centaur Flintoff

0-30 Strauss starts to load up in front of wicket for Flintoff to Watson for the one that stops Swann first change, bold move or desperation

0-50 nearly lunch, rain spotting. time to shut up shop, listening to Jim Maxwell, the Ritchie Benaud of radio commentary. You beaut, Jim

1-73 After rsp, Broad traps dear Watson, elementary LB. Enter the Punter Moriarty for the Reichenbach Falls with the deer stalking Freddie.

79-2 Ponting underedges Broad pulls away, gets away from strike off leg side push to face potential nemesis Flintoff, Matt Barlow from Radio

2-85 Derbyshire calls, not yet mentioned home town Bakewell, and Broad castles Ponting with Ashes winning inswinger. C’mon, you tarts!

3-89 Hussey XXXXed LBW revved up Broad, rain zipped up pitch Aussie middle order ripped up, Albion at their throat jugular exposed throbbing

4-93 Clarke off-drives Broad, uncalled for shot, caught Trott! 4-8 in 21 balls. Neilometer plunging into total depression as pressure tells.

4-99 daughter Laurel texts: “One word Broad X” She’s more pro Stuart than me, I’ll suggest to ECB that she’d make a Fine chair of selectors.

Bopara 188 not out Essex v. Surrey. Pressure or its lack always tells. Wonder what he felt like as news from Oval drifted to his crease

4-108 Swann first ball turns and fizzes, demon against left-handers…

5-108 next delivery the arm ball and North’s given LB. Katich 49 n.o. looks on preparing to carry his bat Haddin beaten all ends up by Broad

6-109 Katich c Bell b Swift 50 bat-pad Jim Laker & the 1950s Surrey/EnglandXI look down from the heavens to smile warmly at their inheritors

7-111 Broad five-fors peg-leg Haddin’s leg-peg I’m gob-smacked, Barmy Army barmy – Noslen – reverse Nelson 111 one arm one leg and 1 Stuart Broad.

7-121 Laurel texts again “two words Stuart Broad X” Is this the new Flintoff? The King’s nearly dead, long live the King

7-121 Johnson hits Swann for a near six, Siddle smacks Cook at short leg Broad kicks ball into middle-stump Recall his T20 soccer v Holland

7-129 Broad gives Siddle a master-class in swing bowling. Ponting micromanaging fingernails in dressing room Johnson c Prior b Swann 8-131!

8-135 Swan to Clark (not Clarke) makes him a complete mug you could drink yer tea out of as Clark (or Clarke) makes a horlicks of his hoicks

10-160 mistweeted ninth wicket – Swann>Clark then Fred comprehensively fredded Siddle middle peg Neilometer in repair shop but looks XXXXed.

3-0 According to the number of people who’ll say they were here, the capacity of the Brit Oval has miraculously increased to over 2,000,000.

17-0 6pm 21 overs left probably bowl 14 Blighty aim for 50/60 at stumps Time for ordinary batting and great chance for Cook to aga-saga his slot

19-0 I’ve absolute faith in England. Off to enjoy a Camel. When we win I shall buy twenty Sullivan Powell’s No 3s from Burlington Arcade Bye

49-3 HMG Health Warning Smoking and supporting England while counting chickens can damage your health. Johnson’s whipped out two more steers

51-3 Katich bowling Chinamen, North under the setting sun each ball could turn the Ashes, east is west and west is east inside out Antipodes

58-3 no overs left Neilometer repair shop reports recalibration of compass points needed due to oscillating fortunes, no change in condition