Ian Botham blew hot, probably because he was angry about the England performance.

Angus Frasier blew cold, more important things in the world, probably because he was resigned to England’s performance.

Matthew Hoggard, the different player of the day wheeled out to face the media, made a joke about it, which would have been my reaction, certainly in public.

Their loss displays a great deal of slap-dashery. Why was it in the back pocket of a back room staff member? How did it fall out? How come its loss wasn’t noticed? I know exactly where my ticket, credit cards, wallet, door keys are all the time, and I’m meant to be an absent-minded wuss of a poet.

Its laxadasical loss contrasts sharply with the prescriptive nature of the object lost. (Spot the Irony Time)

The piece of paper is not a bowling plan. It is a list of potential weaknesses of Australian batsmen. A bowling plan is how to get a side out in the least amount of time and runs. If England thought they’d lost their bowling plan with that piece of paper, it is evidence of not understanding the difference between tactics, plans and strategy.

Apparently these sheets of paper are laminated and pinned up in the dressing room (they come colour-coded too) I was surprised by this. You won’t be surprised that as a poet I do not have an alphabet, definitions or rhymes, forms of metre pinned up in my wardrobe, or indeed study. It denies any sense of prior assimulation of thought to think things through on the pitch – hence the formulaic dispositions in the field. To cut to the chase, England are being encouraged to play like a bunch of robots. It brings to mind the Don Revie era of England soccer management, where players were given inch thick dossiers on the individual opponents. Both Revie and Duncan Fletcher were/are cautious not to say suspicious men, especially of players with talent to attempt and achieve the unexpected.

The dossier/bowling plan approach indicates an excessively defensive mind set. It sets the opposition’s qualities above your own. Each weakness in the ‘bowling plan’ is fairly common knowledge. I’m just a fan, and thought ‘Nothing new there’ I’d also have thought it would already be in the minds of the England cricket team. By placing them in the dressing room you deny the bowlers their strengths. ‘Don’t care what their weaknesses are, if I bowl it on or just outside offstump on a length, and move it a fraction….’ In other words, it’s an approach which denies self-belief and confidence. You can understand why Rod Marsh and Troy Cooley, both recent members of the England set-up have been critical of its current effects.

Regardless of individual players performances you can also see why England have lost four matches on the reel against a team fifteen months agao they came back from one-nil down to beat 2-1, nearly 3-1. Would this England team have managed to hold its nerve to win Edgbaston and Trent Bridge 2005?

What of the fifth and final test at the MCG? Is it a chance of token redemption or are final rites inevitable? Will it be a sly Tuffer’s post-coital gasper, or a fag-end of the most one-sided Ashes Series since Warwick Big Ship Armstrong Mcgrathed John Won’t Hit Today Douglas’s England side 5-0 in 1921-2

Showers are forecast, which might help lead to a draw. McGrath and Warne will be playing their last games, McGrath on his home pitch, perhaps Langer too. They will want to end on a high.

Signs aren’t good. Not least the England team going round Sydney Harbour to enjoy the fireworks in a luxury cruiser called the Morpheus. In classical times he was god of the underworld in whose arms you fell asleep to die.

Whether or not England fall asleep to lose, manage to salvage a draw or wake up to a New Year’s win, I hope they do one thing. At the end of the last day’s play they walk across and share the series with their supporters.

So much for no Melbourne Day Four and Five talks. Any complaints should be directed directly to the England Cricket Team.

What to do – here is a poem on Day Three Old Trafford, where doubtless Pakistanis with a yen to complain took it up with their team.

Old Trafford Triptych 3rd Day 2nd Test England vs Pakistan 2006

Looking Ahead

two days to spare
what will we do tomorrow?

lick wounds
savour the taste of victory
naughty boy nets
what will we do tomorrow?

cancel a thousand barm cakes
dismantle tents and portaloos
ask landladies, scratch our heads
for other things to do
return quarters early
to a backlog of diy
ring the temp agency for other jobs
just above the minimum wage
what will we do tomorrow?

get so stupendously blotto
tomorrow falls out of the question
absent-mindedly switch on to 1500 metre
long wave to wonder why life in Ambridge
hasn’t yet stopped.

what will we do tomorrow?
maybe the outcome was never in the balance
one thing for sure
unlike Macbeth it’s all over
before Birnam Wood and Dunsinane Hill
came against him.

“Any rubbish there at all?” asks the Virgin Blue steward onward to Sydney Test Five. England cricket team, I say, which is perhaps unfair because there is a chance of redemption or final rites in the fifth test. Will it be a sly Tuffer’s post-coital gasper, or a fag-end of the most one-sided Ashes Series since Warwick Big Ship Armstrong Mcgrathed John Won’t Hit Today Douglas’s England side 5-0 in 1921-2. Who can say but read BowlingPlanGate in tomorrow’s www.ashespoetry.net

New Year’s Eve Sydney Harbour Bridge tonight appearing on Radio 5 Live’s Julian Worricker show, and here’s a poem to prove it. Have a good one, one and all, not least the England and Australian teams and all their followers.

Harbour Bridge – 00 00 Monday 1st January

Sydney
a city and land defined by sea, a far greater bridge:
Flinder’s circumnavigation never left its moorings
from Donnington’s dominion. Seventy-five years
is nothing more than a life-time bearings.

Over and under, each passage changes yours
a fraction of a second or degrees more abruptly.
The click of rail tracks, ferry
boards or calendar make each journey
a new year for someone far or near;
Greek, Chinese, Korean, Indian, Thai, Mediterrean, Slav,
the city is a restaurant of nationalities,
not just UK nor Australia.
A two century skin to countless millenia
of aboriginal lands: hard to come to terms with
what Cook first saw when missing harbour
or orginal cooks sixty thousand years earlier,
each passage changed their being.

Every one of us history.

Today
after commissioned fireworks and similar paraphenalia
are dustcarted and dumped with any scent of sulphur,
the world becomes again what it was before,
edged on a little further from its origins.
Rail meets gunnel, steel the sea,
Kirribilli, Neutral Bay, Karra Point,
Mosman, Manly, Watson’s,
Pyrmont, Balmain, Parramatta,
all points compass Circular Quay.

Nothing’s left.
In the wind, rain, flood tides
and fogs, steamer horns stygian
the clatter of trains anchor chains
knuckling the bridge under. The smell of oil, riches,
ghosts of spices, wheat, sheep, cattle,
hides and fleeces, unwashed, chaffed, settlers too,
awash within the pattern book of antiquity’s development
the bridge pays its tolls to.

Watch the ferries dance their first footings
to dawn’s indiginous tune.

Just before setting off rung by Peter Baxter to appear on Test Match Special at lunchtime. Arrive at the MCG early enough to talk to staff about arranging clearance. Gwenne who takes me to the media centre mentions how she studied Dante at university. The Divine Comedies should be read by more, I say. Maybe the Inferno would make a better bet to describe England’s plight.

Get to my seat just in time to see Symond’s inning end with a waft to Harmison, caught Read. Interesting to compare Mahmood with Harmison, especially side-on. Stevo is like Meccano, an action all bolted together, angles and straight bits, which constantly needs nuts and bolts tightening up, tweaking, gears putting into mesh. Mahmood is slow springy silk drawn along a draper’s counter, ruffled then smooth again in the final delivery. Worth perserving with, even if Warnie gives him some tonk.

The MCG is gladitorial. A third umpire decision really would be a hundred thousand thumbs or down to decide the batsman’s fate. Warne makes merry, takes Australia to 419, England second dig 260 behind. ABC call for an interview at the ground before start of play tomorrow. It could be all over by then.

Over lunch I’m in the Test Match Special box with Jonathan Agnew. It’s unnerving as it is an honour. Henry Blofeld says ‘Cook comes forward and plays no stroke,’ and instaneously I’m tucked safely away in bed in Bakewell tuned in earphone in ear.

Test Match Special

I met him at a match. Daddy played,
one of his last, mummy in charge of teas,
we both agreed he was quite a catch
to bowl out dad and make the winning hit.
Egg and cress with cuppa held with no delicacy;
gloved paws crushed the bone-china twixt my knees.

Asleep now, or maybe awake, ear-piece to ear,
(my Christmas present to him last year)
tows him from my side to Australia
so far away, his flannellette hirsuite back
brushes my nose, the texture of bat-pad or strange
marsupial. Was it so different at our nuptials?
The raised colonade of bats from church door
in the mirror-polish of the chauffeured car
didn’t quite put me at the top of the order.
Nets, committees, summer and winter tours,
coaching the juniors. At least, mum said,
you know what he’s up to – don’t you?

Where’s his head now? Next week in Sherbourne,
unjambing the utility door, on the list since the year before,
countless club accounts and planning applications
(on the cards since the year before,) grandsons’ birthdays,
(left or right handers; bats or bowlers.) Ungainly huddled,
drowsy he mumbles, sighs, then turns his head
to shadow the clock-radio’s score; three in the morning,
without warning he’ll yell ‘Shot! Stupid Fool! O no, not again’

- As if they’re listening to him down under, or me.
It’s only when it’s done, another Ashes series gone,
he rolls over, asking to be held like a small boy
lost in his mother’s arms.

Talking of ears, Glenn McGrath gives Strauss’s a right mouthful as they walk off for their lunch. ‘Might be a poem there’ I say to Peter Baxter, the TMS producer, ‘McGrath has this miserable demeanour.’

Grump, grump, grump I’m Glen McGrath,
Grump, grump, galumph, galgrumpalumph, I’m Glen McGrath,
I’ll bend your ear from here to the dressing room
And back again, over after over till you edge or miss
The point of my delivery

Around me are some of the greats of the game.

Not just Jonathan Agnew, but summarising with Blowers is Ian Chappell, in whose stand I sat in at Adelaide, perhaps one of the shrewdest and rudest Australian cricketers ever. Geoff Boycott walks in and out and in the foyer Ian Botham is grabbing some lunch. Ahead of me Blowers interviews Dennis Amiss, who I last saw in the flesh score a double hundred thirty years ago against the West Indies at the Oval, and stiill finish on a losing side (http://www.cricinfo.com/link_to_database/ARCHIVE/1970S/1976/WI_IN_ENG/WI_ENG_T5_12-17AUG1976.html

Dennis’s deft footwork nearly takes all the leads with him, and I take his seat, a right-hander with two left feet. Agnew is an excellent and perceptive interviewer. ‘I know nothing about poetry,’ he asks ‘but why are in one poem some lines in pairs and in another they’re not.’ I explain about techniques such as internal rhymes in V-8 batting

aussie cars come with muscle for extra hustle

From V-8 batting back to my seat above the Barmy Army Heavy Division. We’re 72 for 3. Cook played on to Clark, Bell lb to McGrath, not quite getting far enough forward, and Pietersen promoted up the order so he doesn’t run out of partners, drives round a straight one from Clark. Both Bell and Pietersen tuck their bats under their arms in similar fashion as they return to the dressing rooms. The Army still make enough noise for Brett Lee to pause and acknowledge the Oooooo! as he starts his run-up. As each wicket falls, the Aussie Fanatics prepare their come-back anthem ‘Four-nil’ to the tune of Auld Lang Syne.

In the commentary box they wonder why the BA start singing when they do. One aspect is them noticing the tv cameras coming their way, the media leading the march. Another is perhaps why the mad thrash outside off-stump. Like English batsmen, they just have to, just a matter of when.

Does the Barmy Army help or hinder those in the middle? If England’s fielding then probably yes. I remember standing with the Barmy Army during the last session of the last Ashes Test at Old Trafford. Everyone was on their feet cheering England on to take the last Australian wickets. Pietersen fielding in the deep urged us to make more noise, to help the team toward the extra effort of victory. Batting, not nearly so sure. You’re so focused, concentrating on the task at hand, it’s like every ball is a penalty kick; you divorce the crowd from your mind. Collingwood drives Lee to short-midoff. 75 for 4. So much for my TMS prediction 217 for 3 at stumps. Brett Lee extravagently bows towards the jeers from the Barmy Army.

Next to me is a cut-out Freddie Flintoff, while the real thing clouts Warnie for a two bounce four over square. Nick Whitlock, a poet from Cordite Poetry http://www.cordite.org.au/ rings and we arrange to meet at tea.

We agree to set the series into 11 line stanzas, one for each innings batting line up, he taking the Aussies, me the Poms. ‘If you don’t have to bat again, we’ve saved you some work.’ I say.

England all out 161, two more than their first knock, knockers please note, an innings and ninety-nine runs defeat.

Capitulation

Ghosts of ghosts of ghosts. The moving hand
Having writ will move on. Each stroke of the pen
Is a mark to be recorded but not taken back.
It is edgier than the blade.

The English batsmen, nothing to lose
Having lost the greatest prize, play at playing.
Their strokes not worthy of themselves
nor their imagination. Out.

Bat under arm, an envelope sealed of a letter
They never wished to write:
An imposition in detention,
It is signed, sealed and delivered.
The long slow empty walk to a lost pavilion.

Ghosts of ghosts of ghosts,
The originals swear under their breaths
To weep real enough tears.

This is for cricket lovers, especially English cricket supporters, who wonder why the Ashes were lost so readily after taking so long to regain.

Previous Performances

We did better than the last time down under. The 2002-3 team lasted eleven days in their attempt to wrest the Ashes. At least this time it was fifteen. Whether this understated fact is considered significant probably depends upon individual reader’s expectations.

Selection - overall tour party

The tour party selection was good. No one has said no one who went shouldn’t have and no one who didn’t go should’ve. Maybe Robert Key can consider himself unlucky not to replace Marcus Trescothick instead of Ed Joyce, and some would argue that Neil Broad should’ve been called up once the pace attack seemed so toothless, but I can’t remember the basic selection being so right, and agreed to be right. Odd that the media hasn’t pointed this out, or may be it isn’t…

Effort and The Media

The team did try their hardest. The Daily Mail and other papers to bang on about too many parties etc is, to use a very technical phrase most readily understood by those in the media, bollocks. Not only is it bollocks, it’s hypocritical bollocks. This is the same paper that praised this team to the hilt and beyond, doubtless enthusing about Flintoff’s drunken state the morning after the night before regaining the Ashes.

Not only is it hypocritical bollocks, it is also lamentable bollocks. A common problem all England teams in all sports face is media intrusion and expectation. This in turn creates stories which don’t exist. My missus tells me that there is a dressing room fall-out because Flintoff doesn’t like Panesar. This story doubtless arose because Fletcher said he wanted Panesar in at Adelaide, whereas apparently Flintoff didn’t, thus breaking the cardinal rule that individual selector’s opinions are never ever discussed in public (it is a corporate decision) In turn journalists turn this into a “Freddie hates Monty” story, and regardless of substance it is difficult to deny (”Duncan denies Freddie hates Monty”) Can you imagine the Australian press running such a story, regardless of how well or badly the team was doing? No. And if any paper tried, they’d be tried and found guilty of that most heinous sin, not backing the team.

There’s no story in the first place, since there is no reason any two players should like or dislike each other. They are professional cricketers working together to do a job of work, and all professionals work with others they may or may not choose to otherwise be with.

Talking of being professional, sports journalists should stick to sport, rather than invade personal space. The hypocritical (does journos’ personal lives ever come under press scrutiny?) and lamentable (does invasion of privacy help England teams?) bollockry that fills far too many column inches does nothing to support England teams. Worse it leaves less space for true sports journalism. The ability of the Australian media to support their team in times of difficulty is diametrically opposed by the ability of their English counterparts to do the exact opposite. Stick to the facts of the matter at hand, and write about them well.

Efficiency of Effort

England did try hard, very hard, if at times they were exceptionally trying.

We are now getting to the facts of the matter at hand. As detailed in ‘Post Mortem’ after the Adelaide Test, England teams handicap themselves by using a mental model of Anticipated Outcomes – ‘We have won the Ashes, therefore we shall keep them’ which is particular weak opposed to the Australian model of realising desires ‘Let’s get the Ashes back.’

Both the England team and media used this model, as have the England soccer teams and press with the World Cup since 1966.

In this instance, it meant a complete reversal of the strategy that won them the Ashes. Instead of going hard, realistically attacking at all times, outdoing the Aussies at their own game, England were excessively defensive, keen only to protect what they held, not to grind the opposition into the dust. Doubtless this strategy was discussed and agreed by England team management and was the primordinal error, since it made it almost impossible for them to retain the Ashes.

Australian Conditions

Insufficiently taken into account. “We beat them last series, therefore we should this series.” Something which is quite hard to see on the box, the increased size of the grounds – which makes finding gaps different, and hitting boundaries and going arial harder – and the different nature of the wickets – more bounce, less lateral movement – means you need to adapt your game, never mind the sun and playing away. No amount of net practice will provide compared to time in the middle. In other words all the team were still experimenting during the First Test at the Gabba, and some still are at the Waca. (Not sure if Geraint Jones will ever have the game to bat successfully in Australia.)

Schedule

This comes down to schedule. England are playing not enough yet too much cricket. Before The Gabba they needed two hard four day State games in order to ‘hit their straps.’ Presumably this could have been arranged. It seems tour management believed this was unnecessary and also undesirable. In other words they underestimated the task at hand because they were already anticipating the outcome of retaining the Ashes.

Selection - match by match

Injuries and absences did make a difference, but not to the extent of a 2-1 winning side already 3-0 down. Put it another way, even with Siinon Jones, Trescothick and Vaughan avaiable, the negative strategy still would have played into Australian hands. The selection of Geraint Jones and Giles ahead of Read and Panesar was part and parcel of this negative ethos. As curiously was Flintoff as Captain – a great player in 2005, therefore best choice of captain in 2006-7. You’re only as good as the next ball.

Overall Rod Marsh is right. England have gone backwards since 2005. The question is how to go forwards again.

Where Next

Here I wish the solutions were as readily identifiable as the problems. I ‘d go for achieving quality and potential. This would mean selecting players on the basis of the prime part of their game (ie Panesar and Read rather than Giles and Jones) It would also mean hard warm-up games so that the team was match rather than net-hardened. Taken together this should mean England are as well prepared as Australia. Together with an aggressive attacking attitude, playing to win, it should mean that England has a fighting chance. Without it there is no hope except relying on outrageous amounts of luck.

It’ll be interesting to see whether England play with a different ethos in the last two tests. 

Analysis of Failure

And of course it comes with English weather, that intermittant fine veil-like haze of mist you can’t quite see but brushes the skin with the dampness of impending decay. It has already delayed the start of play. According to The Age it snowed in Victoria yesterday, which is probably less feasible than snow in Buxton in July, or England winning the next two tests. Now it is coming down heavier. It’d be an irony if at the MCG rain were to save Australia.

You feel sorry for the English fans who’ve arrived for the last two tests. Not only is the weather about as bad as when they left – not seen a pair of shorts, never mind sun crème today – they’ve set off knowing the Ashes are lost, and the next two are by comparison, bun-fights. I remember Jonathan Agnew being asked on a phone-in about whether the series would still be live by Melbourne, where the questioner was contemplating going out for the last two tests. ‘Oh yes,’ said Aggers, ‘England won’t have lost the Ashes by then.’

In a way my work is done. Before leaving England Arts Council England dubbed me ‘The Official Ashes Poet.’ I had me down as a bloke who was writing some poetry about cricket, two of his many loves. However my task as Official Ashes Poet is now effectively over, since the series has been decided. Pacé Orwell, sport is war without weapons, it’s like being a war artist once the war is over.

I shall just write poetry in and around the cricket. Or its lack at present. It’s suddenly become much brighter – they’ve switched the floodlights on. They’ve also taken the covers off the pitch, England have won the toss and elected to bat. It takes two overs for their openers to put that bat on ball.

Rain brings an early lunch, 36 for 1, Cook caught Gilchrist bowled Lee, shouldering arms. The rain also brings the nap out of the mown outfield whose plaid of rhomboid squares gives the appearances of one of those woollen scarves the Queen wears at Balmoral. And they play Aussie Rules on this during the winter.

Melbourne Cricket Ground

No village green or country paddock,
the mower misses the long grass wrapped
around the roller and peeling sight screens
pushed over for winter, benches tipped up,
in brass-plated memory of Roger or Ethel
who spent many a long afternoon
pint or thermos to hand and oblivion
the world passed by. At the heart of it all
lies twenty-two yards, wicket to wicket,
tenth of a furlong, a chain
to tie bat to ball, a landscape
of former empire, medieval origins,
acres ploughed through the mind,
one hundred and five thousand assemble
to worship.

44 for 2. Bell lbw Clark 7. Between showers very English conditions, overcast, ball daring about, not a single bouncer to date. Between showers, and only one boundary to date.

A great blow for radical thought and Australian freedom, one of the security team throw back one of the crowd’s beach balls. Melbourne, a city proud of its liberal virtues. Had it been Brisbane and The Gabba, they’d have probably neutered the poor security team member’s progeny as well as deporting him for Un-Australian Activities. Strauss hits the second boundary of the day, an hour after lunch. Thin rations all round for Boxing Day but absorbing cricket.

101 for 2. Collingwood and Strauss play and miss to a fifty partnership and Strauss’s first fifty of the series before Collingwood edges to second slip off one which Lee gets to lift. Next ball is the big one. Strauss plays round a straight one from Warne and is cleaned bowled. No complaints there, not least from the Melbourne crowd where their favourite prodigal nabs his seven hundredth test wicket. A three minute standing ovation from everyone English and Australian alike. I wonder what Shane feels. Relief, I imagine. Mission accomplished, and in accomplished style. Now he’s reached his goal in front of his home crowd, retirement planned and announced and Ashes in the bag, Warne S K can enjoy himself, doubtless at England’s expense. Ladies and Gentleman, Shane’s seventh hundredth test wicket is in the MCG

Warne, Shane Keith born 13 September 1969 test match debut January 1992
(To the jig, The Sailor’s Hornpipe)

Warnie’s balls turn square, KP hits ’em in the air.
A six or out, there is no doubt.
You get a funny feeling one side’ll be reeling
Ev’ry time Warnie’s balls turn square.

A leggie with Clarrie Grimmett’s accuracy (plus extra hair)
The wrong ’un, hard to pick, and howzat when beaten through the air,
The flipper and the toppie, zooter and the slider
And the chatter: yells, looks, asides and pleas,
(the only time the bloke’s down on his knees,)
A Clarence Darrow George Carman at the crease
What umpire on earth however stoney could say no?
Another baffled though reluctant victim tries to dilly-dally but he has to go.

The next man in is almost out before he’s in.
The legendary magician will mesmerise him.
He knows he’ll have to face a flighty camisole tease:
A forbidden glimpse of flesh to tantalise
Reveals a hirsuite Superman medallioned Australian chest
Full of tricks the antipodean baccus of temptation doesn’t divest
Before the silly fool with bat and pads realises he’s transgressed
The blond cherubim’s spinning finger puts him to rest.

A waistline that indicates adequate social activity
Since an Ashes debut in 1993; Warne, S K.
Shoulder strapped, lucky charms, his daughter’s bracelet,
The facts are patently clear, he should really try to face it,
Whatever schemes and dreams of schemes are whirling on within,
The top of his head is not quite what it used to be,
(In fact, somewhat like this rhyme, going rather thin.)
Harum-scarums with mobiles and diuretics,
His simple way with words schtums clever dick critics,
Through thick and thin he’s always gone back
To his mark: a three-card trick-sy four-step run

That flummoxed Fat Gatt with the ball of last century,
At the lees of his career, the ikon’s tank is close enough to empty
Lo, he gambols past Strauss A J, namely number Seven Hundred
And yet another one. Forget the waist, hair and old age. Heed the old adage
If you’re good enough, you’re old enough. Let him rip his ripper one last rip,
As The Grauniad’s Trundler-in-Chief Selvey opines
‘No game’s over till the fat boy spins.’
I’ll buy that, gimme me one more, Skip.
Good on yer, Warnie. May The Good Lord Bless
How your balls turned square!

117 for 4 at tea, another defeat, like a U-boat periscope sighted by an English convoy, starts to loom… Except Gilchrist misses stumping Pietersen off Warne. The other ships go down with scarcely a trace. HMS Flintoff flashing at Clark, MV Read driving at Warne, SS Mahmood caught behind for a duck, Collier Harmison holed out to Warne, Show Boat Pietersen short of the fence, Pedalo Panesar another swipe. 159 all out.

Hard graft against the swinging new ball done, the last eight wickets fell for 58 runs.

Here’s a carol for Billy The Trumpet

I saw England collapse again
Collapse again, collapse again
I saw England collapse again
On Boxing Day in Melbourne

Warnie got 5 for 39,
5 for 39, 5 for 39
Warnie got 5 for 39
On Boxing Day in Melbourne

For it isn’t your father or mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass.
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass

But then something strange happened, the words on the page began to change of their own accord, and Everdismal shivered in the air-conditioned room.

The volume dropped from Everdismal’s trembling hand. In the glass before him was not a reflection of the room itself, but the ghostly apparition of a figure he once knew well but had not given a second’s cognisance for many a year. Together with the book, a question fell from his lips. ‘O terrible spectre, who art thou?’

In answer the ghost walked from the wardrobe mirror towards the bed, dragging great chains of microphone leads, earphone cans and satellite dishes.

‘Do you not recognise me, Everdismal Fletcher?’ the ghost asked in rounded Lancashire vowels. ‘I am your erstwhile predecessor, Accrington Bumble.’
‘Bumble,’ mumbled Everdismal. ‘This must be one of your dreadful practical jokes.’
‘Joke? This is no joke. What is more dreadful than to lose the Ashes inside fifteen months after spending eighteen years in an attempt to regain them?’ Accrington seemed more white and pearlescent than any of Mark Nicholas’s shirts. ‘I have come to give you one more chance before Christmas itself to heed the error of your ways.’
‘Errors? I still have the players’ confidence; they still come to me on numerous occasions and still talk to me about tactics. I have the respect of the players and that’s very important.’
‘Respect is not enough,’ thundered the Bumble, leads and cans rattling. ‘Even of the Australians. Enthusiasm and talent must come to the fore. No. Say no more, Everdismal Fletcher. Before the night is out you shall be visited by three further ghosts.’
‘David Graveney and the other two selectors?’
‘Enough. This is your last chance.’

And with that the spirit of Accrington Bumble vanished. A dodgy prawn, thought Everdismal, turning over in the air-conditioned coolness, yet he could scarcely sleep.

Rubbing his eyes at the wardrobe mirror, Everdismal thought he must be dreaming. At the end of the bed, sat a saintly figure in a cleric’s sunhat and whites, even his skin. ‘Michael Vaughan, that can’t be you – how’s the knee?’
‘You should ask him. I am the Ghost of Ashes Past. Are you ready for a journey?’

Without further ado, Everdismal was swept to Trafalgar Square where he and the Ghost of Ashes Past floated above an open-topped bus where the England team celebrated with the tumultuous crowds the regaining of the little urn after eighteen long hard years.

‘See how happy and enthusiastic they are, Everdismal,’ said the Ghost. ‘Even you’re smiling a little.’
‘Flintoff’s had far too much to drink. Not the way a future England captain should conduct – ’
‘Everdismal,’ the Ghost commanded.
‘Yes. I am smiling, a little.’

Suddenly the happy scene and joyous occasion were gone. ‘In an hour’s time you will be visited by a further spirit,’ said the Ghost of Ashes Past. ‘One you think you might know well, yet not at all.’

Everdismal could not sleep a wink, and the truth be told, did not try. ‘Enthusiasm, talent,’ he said to himself. ‘Bah, humbug. Application means results.’ It did not help the queasiness of his own spirit.

A huge jovial Santa Claus crashed through the glass, yet leaving it unshattered. Everdismal almost smiled. ‘I know who’s behind that suit. Freddie, come out, come out, wherever you are.’
‘The England skipper’s fast asleep with his wife and children, ready to enjoy Christmas Day, as all families should since I am also the Ghost of Ashes Present. What of you, Everdismal Fletcher?’
‘Me?’
‘Will the England team go out and enjoy the last two tests?’
‘Enjoy? They don’t have central contracts to enjoy themselves. This is Test Match cricket. The Ashes. Against Australia.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ laughed the Ghost of Ashes Present. ‘If you can’t enjoy thrashing the Aussies, what’s the point of turning up? Mend the error of your ways, Everdismal Fletcher. You could not retain by grimness what was won by enthusiasm and talent. It is not too late to change.’
‘Read for Jones?’
‘No. Well, yes. No, the error of your approach with two matches left.’

The jovial spectre turned to depart.
‘Don’t go,’ pleaded Everdismal. ‘I felt I was almost beginning to enjoy myself.’
‘So may others,’ replied Santa Claus. ‘Countless children to visit before the night is out – When a third and final ghost shall appear.’

Everdismal Fletcher nearly had a tear in his eye. Who would this third spectre be, and what might he bring? Past, Present…. just as he thought he saw the initial inklings of a Melbourne dawn, Everdismal realised it would be The Ghost of Ashes Future.

A bell tolled and a great vast shadow towered over him. The wraith was a gaunt thin skeleton, garbed but in a huge dark cloak, the width of the sky. Resting over his shoulder was a long keen scythe whose blade was sharp enough to shave off his pure white beard with but a single stroke.

‘You, you…’ stuttered the wretched Fletcher. ‘Accrington Bumble and the other two spirits were correct. You are The Ghost of Ashes Future.’

The shadow nodded.

‘The Grim Reaper… D…D..D…Death!!!’

The shadow nodded and shook his head. The blade of his scythe pointed to a distant scene. Atop the clock at Lords something was missing. Only the stumps remained.

‘Father Time.’

The shadow nodded but the blade of his scythe continued to point elsewhere. To a document entitled ‘P45’

‘And it has my name upon it! O Spirits I shall mend my ways. No more shall be I Everdismal Fletcher. The cricketing world will see a new man born upon this Christmas Day. For henceforth and herewith I shall be Neverdismal Fletcher, the life and soul of cricket!’

We shall see, shan’t we?