For England to draw was far more than a fluke. It halted a run of five heavy defeats in a row. Add a sixth to the list, and losing would no longer have been a habit, but fast becoming an addiction.

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. If Monty and Jimmy can bat out over ten overs, shouldn’t the top order have played well enough never to put them into such a position….

Why’s the England top-order like an MFI wardrobe?
One hammer blow and the whole lot collapses.

A variation on the joke about the final days of the last conservative government, who were similarly compared – one loose screw and the entire cabinet falls apart.

The potential pyschological impact of the draw can be seen by the latest Barmy Army t-shirt celebrating the great escape with Jimmy and Monty on a motorbike http://www.barmyarmy.com/barmyshop/index.php?m=full&productID=130 even though other Jimmy and Billy weren’t there. They wouldn’t have made the t-shirt if the score had been 320 odd for six at stumps.

The Aussies blew it. They forgot the cardinal rule of winning tests: the ability to take twenty wickets. As soon as Monty came in, they reckoned it was over, much in the same way as England entered the final day at Adelaide 2006 already on the plane to Perth, draw in the bag. Instead of a few yorkers straight up, the quicks bowled nothing balls or bouncers, which played into Panesar’s hands. His two best shots are where he aims not to hit the ball – his elegantly OTT front foot leave where the bat does a perfect windmill, or his minimal sway-back to the bouncer. Monty’s never bowled without playing a shot (unlike KP Pietersen) nor hit (unlike Strauss, Bopara and Swann)

This is why Ponting made such a fuss about the changing of batting gloves at Buckingham Palace. He knew they should be one-up and was furious that they weren’t. Perhaps the most decisive captaincy Strauss showed was winning the toss and sending out the gloves. England didn’t seem to have a strategy. Australia has – bat longer than they do, the worst that can happen is a draw. England played two spinners but were reluctant to use them, set run-saving fields on the fourth day when they needed to take wickets, (Mike Brearley wrote well about this in The Observer) and, Collingwood, apart none of the batsmen showed evidence of grit. Cooke and Bopara each have problems playing round their legs (scions of Gooch, who separated out bat lift and feet movement to go through a patch of incessant lbws feet in a bucket) Strauss so much bottom-hand he needs luck to make a score, and Pietersen…. the most talented batsman in the side makes the least of his abilities, while Collingwood, perhaps the least talented makes the most: is this why they bat well together? On the bowling side Fred looked tired on the fourth day, not suprised to hear he’s carrying an bad knee and retiring at the end of the series. Being the side’s totem has become the task of Sisyphus. Broad lacks penetration and the spinners weren’t allowed to bowl too well due to overdefensive fields exploited by Australian batsmen.

The Australian top-order looks awesome. Hughes and Haddin great timers of the ball. Katich an improved player, while Clarke and North would walk into the England side. Ponting is perhaps the best Australian batsman since Bradman, better than Greg Chappell? The quicks look hard and menacing, with Johnson bowling the ball of the match to Collingwood at the start of his second knock: on or just off off-stump, moving away late to miss the edge by a fag-paper. If Collingwood had played back he’d have probably curtain-railed and have gone. Horitz got better – he’s young and if you don’t go after him, he’ll tie you down.

By and large, the wickets taken reflect beginning of term essay results. England 6 out of 20, pretty mediocre. Australia 19 out of 20, almost perfect.

For that reason, and for that reason alone, I reckon Australia will lose at Lords. They haven’t for seventy-four years, so it’s about time they did.

C’ mon England!

Three days later, a great draw was a great draw – of crowds and attention to Wales – notwithstanding Nick Morgan’s comments after Day 4 (why not a Test Match Div 2 - Wales, Ireland, Scotland, Holland ….) The EWCB and Cardiff did a great job in making this the most welcoming of occasions, and the Gods of cricket rewarded them and a capacity final day crowd with a tremendous finale.

This must be the first test series where matches have been played in two capital cities, and Cardiff have put down a marker on and off the pitch for the other venues to strive for. It’s a lovely city, compact and full of culture, and Welshness in a cosmopolitan sense. All the flags of the rugby playing world’s nations are paved into the entries to the Millennium Stadium, (if only so the Welsh can walk over everyone else even before they go onto the pitch)

Talking of contests, behind the scenes a face-off between Swalec and npower (it’s the Swalec stadium, npower the series sponsor) seems to have been decided in favour of npower. I’d like to imagine it was decided by a cricket match between the two plcs with no ringers and winner takes all, but doubtless more diplomatic measures were involved.

“Victory for Cricket” most will say, the fly in the ointment the water spilled on or not as the case may be over Jimmy Anderson’s batting gloves. More ink has been spilled on this being or not being in the spirit of the game, as if it is the greatest moral issue since MPs expenses or the Bodyline series – (Ponting should have quoted a predecessor, Woodfull, who was alleged to have said to the English manager ‘Plum’ Warner “There are two sides out there: one is playing cricket, one is not” That would have really got the pressure cooker cookin’.)

There was one crowd invasion of two blokes. http://www.cricinfo.com/engvaus2009/content/story/413910.html 

They were protesting about Ryanair’s dodgy employment practices. One of their daughters had paid £2500 to be trained up to work for Ryanair, only to be sacked the night before before she started earning. If  I were her da’ I’d have been livid, and if I were going to the cricket the next day…

The sad thing is that the press didn’t pick up on the story, not even that Ryanair’s dodgy employment practices helped save England from certain defeat – it took at least as much time to dump the protesters as it did to dry Anderson’s  wringing wet batting gloves. I feel sorry for the two blokes. It’s no fun being man-handled away against your will (It happened to me two years ago due to wholly inappropriate application of section 2 of the mental health act) and no fun for those who do the man-handling, unless they’re professional sadists. It takes guts to run onto the pitch and know you’ll going to get man-handled off it, and wind up in court. In many ways they showed more far more fight than the England top order. Will what they did help improve Ryanair’s employment practices? Probably not. What else could they have done? Not much. (Remember Ryanair are Irish, with 1 in 6 on the dole: exploitation is all too easy to let go.)

Did what these protesters do go against the spirit of cricket? Cricinfo reckons “The protest was slightly less eventful than that which occured during the Headingley Test of 1975, where vandals forced the abandonment of the third Ashes Test by digging up the pitch prior to the fifth day’s play. On that occasion, the protesters were campaigning for the release of George Davis, a 34-year-old mini-cab driver who had been sentenced to a 20-year sentence for armed robbery. “

The Ryanair Two delayed proceedings by a couple of minutes, not ruin the chances of England winning a test match and levelling the series, if memory serves. Not to pay attention to the cause of their protest soon leads to a cricketing world where the establishment turns a blind eye to apartheid, as originally the case with Basil D’Oliveira.

 What do you think? Reply below, and if you are travelling by Ryan Air remember to tie a knot in it, cross your legs or take some cash since it is a quid a pee in-flight.

Finished packing and lo, it rains. Reach the station and it stops again. Nothing can save Australia now from her destiny except the last eight English batsmen. Since Oval 2005 we’ve not a good record at batting out draws. One in Pakistan and that’s about it. The players we need are either in the press box or consorting with Connie Huk to greater exortations – Boycott, Atherton and Thorpe . The latter hit a match-winning century without a boundary in Pakistan and I saw him in 2004 Old Trafford hold England together with two big fifties against the Windies with a bust finger – KP ousted Thorpe next season, but I know who I’d like coming at four to bat and bat and bat. To win close test series you need to draw matches you’ve no chance of winning. England seem to have lost sight of this simple self-evident truth. Prior goes, five down, half an hour to lunch, enter Fred as Collingwood must remember Adelaide second knock left stranded on twenty-four not out. I feel a Parfitt moment coming on. Peter Parfitt was a good Middlesex batting all-rounder who never quite cemented his England place. When up against it, he’d be recalled at six or seven in the order. Listening to the radio England facing defeat “Parfitt comes to the crease.’ He’s worth a few, I’d think, we’ll be alright. Then I’d remember thinking the same at the same junction in the previous test. No disrespect to Peter, who was a very fine and honest cricketer, at the age of nine I’d experienced my first Parfitt moment: an English cricket supporter’s psychosis where unverified hope surpresses realistic expectations. Dickens is right. Great Expectations; The England Twelfth Man Wall of Support cobwebs into Miss Faversham’s bed-chamber. We must love being jilted, hooked on disappointment.

The lads down the row have itching powder in their Calvin Kleins – they keep disappearing for beer. ‘Why not one of you buy for you all?’ I ask. ‘Fags,’ they reply. Just before lunch another of them stands above me rat-arsed before one o’clock. They all have that perpetually-pissed look seasoned binge drinkers develop inside a season of binge drinking. One of them proudly bemoans he’s not eaten for forty-eight hours. A diet of booze and fags. Block 25 Row J’s the cancer and corony ward next door thirty years down the line. At least going at it at that rate they won’t become part of an aging population. If you want a steady career become an undertaker.

I say this because yesterday’s paper was The Irish Post, for the Irish not in Ireland, and I want to feel celtic. It’s fun to read six pages on hurley and handba’ without a word of cricket in sight. Eire the also-ran tiger economy of Europe faces one in six on the sausage (sausage roll= dole) while England denies sending the drum majors to recruit south of the border for the war in Afghanistan. ‘They come over anyway’ explains the MOD official. A few years back the British Army was doing anything but recruiting from Ireland.

The Celts are a pround people. Occasionally Welsh hwyl, a bit like Jewish chutzpah, goes over the top, gets out of hand, as with http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/07/11/girls-write-poetry/, which Max Boyce more gently satorizes in “I was There.” As a lapsed atheist, Englishman with no English blood, an uncircumcised jew at birth, I feel with the Celts on the edge of Europe yet at times the centre of the Christian civilisation. Certainly that pride helps them to work well, be proud of their work. As well as a dearth of grafitti in Cardiff, I’ve not noticed the English avoid all eye-contact-with-the-customer-disease. ‘Well, I was saying, “Dwayne,” I was saying, only the other day to Dwayne, I was saying.’  The hand holds out the change as though you don’t exist. I walk away – see how long it takes to twig. If you take pride in what you do, you’re more likely to enjoy it. I get this feeling throughout Cardiff, not just the ground. Only Adelaide matches it in friendliness. Cardiff’s set a benchmark for the other four grounds to emulate or exceed. It’s been that good. The first test at Brisbane 2006 was its diametrical nadir, the Gabba’s security staff and coppers might as well have worn jack-boots, to match their state-trouper no-eye-contact Raybans. Not one steward or police-officer wore them in Cardiff. Such little things make an immense difference. A drunken chorus of Bread of Heaven lurches here and there in the grandstand, da-da-daa; da-da-da-da-daaa-da, they’ve lost the words, English, never mind Welsh. Here’s some lyrics I picked up queuing for the loos.

 I am pissed, and you are sober,
Guide me with thy gentle hand,
Brains has addled my brains completely
Till I can but hardly stand.
Safety Steward, Safety Steward,
My heart can’t bear watching Engerland – Engerland
My heart can’t bear to watch Engerland.

It’s lunch. Maybe Freddie and Colly can do it; Broad can bat, Swanny’s worth a few…. it’s that Parfitt moment again. Uncross fingers, grab a sarnie to cross them again. ….. We do it. God knows how, but we do it. You expect grit from Collie-Collie-Collingwood, Anderson maybe but Panesar? You little beauties.

Just before catching the train home I still can’t quite believe it. I want to go back to the ground, stare at the scoreboard to check it’s true, it wasn’t just a dream. All the Aussies in South Wales – old and new – don’t believe either, but they won’t want to go back to the ground to check. Instead while we rattle up the west side of the Severn, draw past Gloucester Cathedral in the setting sun, I try to capture the day as though you weren’t there:-

All Cardiff

All Cardiff’s a squidgy bum
no one sane believes England’ll save a game
lost before the day dawns, not without unheralded rain
under Australian sun the top order drowns
far too cheaply, far too quickly
Green Baggy victory becomes historical
inevitability. Ockers and poms await last rites
journos calibrate their most critical sights
the crowd still cheer the home side on
still knowing the honest chance of a draw is gone.

Down under late-night joints empty
hardened fanatics stay “Get it over quick, Rickie
work tomorrow, rip off the covers all too early”
one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, nigh on four,
the small hours lengthen, mad-cap writing on the tap-room wall
Panesar and Anderson, just one more wicket
Jesus, can their blokes really block it?

Sophia listens. The stands recalculate
the longest countdown since Apollo reached the moon
each ball, each minute winds the racking mechanism
of tension: sinews of deferred expectation stretch
stiffen, floodlight pylons vibrate, quiver
sightscreens avert gaze but still shiver
the empty village of tents and caravans daren’t breathe
damp brolly handles chewed through, hope gnaws hope
still to a final over, final ball, the final wicket or run
while the press box scores out wise words unwisely wrung
Anderson switches gloves, checks helmet, space-walks
to Panesar, Albion’s fate in their taut sweaty maws
cometh these men, endeth the hour
google earth agog England and Australia clenched
all Cardiff’s a squidgy bum
till a draw that is far more than a draw is insanely won.

‘Monty and Jimmy, you beauts!’
Beneath the Southern Cross embers in barbies
winter-shrouded are ashes underdone
when Australia in Wales failed to tonk a pom.

From capital to capital a capital result
next step Lord’s, bring it on
all because all Cardiff was a squidgy bum.

Worked out what all the great and good gassing for England was about. It’s the ECB’s Twelfth Man Wall of Support www (The Barmy Army are also England’s Twelfth Man, which makes twenty-four, and with that number on the pitch we might just hold our own against the mighty mighty Tonkernaut) Sign up. I put “England Expects… nuff said” signed Horatio Nelson. “Just do it” is even shorter.

During this game eight squaddies have died in Afghanistan. We might lose more than a test match as Australia pile on the runs. North and Haddin makes centuries, four in all, which shrinks into curiousity value all eleven English batsmen getting into the double figures for the first time since the 19th century.

Australia declare two hundred and forty odd ahead, England bat, lose two LBWs – Cooke tries to get forward but can’t against Johnson’s pace – before rain comes down to stop play. Some Aussies two rows back are interested in what I’m doing. A Welsh Boyo inbetween declares “Girls write poetry.” Clearly they do, but that’s not what he meant. Already cheesed with Jimmy Carr – would you like what you did called an Everest of Shit, even if it was? – I realise the lad also has some difficulty with poetry, so I tell him what he just said is a good start to a poem. No comment. He yacks to his mates about rugby….

Girls Write Poetry

“Girls write poetry,
that’s all they’re fit for,
that and fucking,
but probably those who write poetry
aren’t that tasty: slags, bints and whores.
To be quite honest with you,
I’d rather have a wank,
(to tell you the truth, I often do,
if I can get it up.)

“Girls write poetry. Us men,
Us Welshmen, Us Welshmen
from the Valleys who follow the British Lions
through thick and thin, knowing how they could win
from the comfort of our tellies,
we know what we’re talking about

“For we are men, Welshmen,
from the Valleys and proud of it.
We can hand-off those girly-men who write poetry,
side-step the meaning of words when they don’t suit,
ruck and maul verbal inconvenience,
drift defence every awkward sentence,
kick into touch all our possession
to kill off listening stone cold dead

“Girls write poetry. Us men,
Us Welshmen, proud Welshmen from the Valleys,
when we have to get emotional,
we let the beer do the talking.
Girls write poetry.”

eight squadies died yesterday,
boys at the hands of other boys
playing big boy games
while girls write poetry 

 If you come to Wales, to Cardiff to watch the cricket, trekking past the Millennium Stadium each day, you have to end up writing a poem about rugby…. Watching the rain dapple the river I realise the gap between England and Australia in this Test is still at least as wide and as deep as the Taff, and nothing Connie Huk can say will alter that. Tomorrow I shall return to Gates 4 and 5 to give them their poem with thanks:-

To The Good People at Gates Four and Five

Not the hardest of tasks, perhaps, at first sight
to guide the throng to their appointed places,
scrutineers of belonging and belongings
of pilgrims who close soon their journeys.

An order of friars, day-glo orange habits,
forbidden by vows and observance
(with promise of sustenence)
to enjoin and enjoy the pilgrimmage.
Theirs is not the way, mere waymarkers

To control forbidden pleasures,
the softest censure of sinners,
most of all those who sin for sinning’s sake,
those who trouble make.

This they do with humour, charm and delight,
pleasure and pride in their task,
not its effects or power.

Ushers, sextons, beadles and wardens
of a later-day church worthy of praise.
Saint Simon de Hughe penned God invented the game;
If Saint Peter takes five from the heavenly gates
to watch play, he knows who to call.

The day’s play, tweet by tweet:-

1. npower ashes poet thumbs up/down from eight-out-of-ten cats dishing of series. Play starts on time Freddie champs at bit, no worries for Oz.
2. 5-502 Anderson and Broad stare at the ball Is it out of shape or their team? Billy the trumpeter heralds Barmy Army US Calvary long on Alamo
3. 5-502 Billy, embouchure’s in fine fettle, hitting top G, plays ‘Neighbours’ as English in the crowd don’t talk to each since they’ve not met
4. web @saltpublishing – publish with audio downloads (mp3 bit old hat) You wouldn’t want to go to the game and only hear the crack of Haddin’s bat
5. 5-523 England need but not set up to take wickets. Round wicket North two slips for slips on the drive. Easy game when you’re not playing it
6. 5-537 Swan spins it like a top, enough to topple Aussies before England face batting last on a spining tekciw
   about 10 hours ago from web England expects – nuff said Post yours on http://bit.ly/aVVmd Nelson H RN
7. 5 – 549 Haddin’s ton, four in all, matches the light stanchions as Albion’s beacon’s glimmer dim. Put out the light, then put out the light.
8. 5 – 559 Right said Fred, bowling with another new ball under his belt. North belts it square towards his ton which comes anno domini
9. 5- 575 Stop Press The Sun castigates England breaking through expected rain in time for lunch. England now looking to survive four sessions.
10. 5 – 603 Haddin bottom edges Prior spills on the bounce a Knott, Taylor Russell, Stewart even would catch. Haddin lofts Swan into Barmy Army
11. 5 – 635 two ton ahead Collingwood back of length twiddly field changes skies lighten darkening over England where the urn’s a pandora’s box
12. 6-674 Haddin caught in the deep. Captain Ponting in the driving seat views from the bridge to bring them in. Albion adrift, left out to dry
13. 18 – 2 Cooke and Bopara lbw, maybe iffy, under the lights, tea and spotting. As the #BarmyArmy says “Only rain can save Australia now.”

Girls Write Poetry

“Girls write poetry,
that’s all they’re fit for,
that and shagging,
but probably those who write poetry
aren’t that tasty: slags, bints and whores
to be quite honest with you
I’d rather have a wank
(and to tell you the truth, I often do,
if I can get it up)

“Girls write poetry. Us men,
Us Welshmen, Us Welshmen
from the Valleys who follow the British Lions
through thick and thin, knowing how they could win
from the comfort of our tellies,
we know what we’re talking about

“For we are men, Welshmen,
from the Valleys and proud of it.
We can hand-off those girly-men who write poetry,
side-step the meaning of words when they don’t suit,
ruck and maul verbal inconvenience,
drift defence every awkward sentence,
kick into touch all our possession
to kill off listening stone cold dead

“Girls write poetry. Us men,
Us Welshmen, proud Welshmen from the Valleys,
when we have to get emotional,
we let the beer do the talking.
Girls write poetry.”

eight squadies died yesterday
in the foot-hills of Afghanistan
boys at the hands of other boys
playing big boy games
while girls write poetry

To The Good People at Gates Four and Five

Not the hardest of tasks, perhaps, at first sight
to guide the throng to their appointed places,
scrutineers of belonging and belongings
of pilgrims who close soon their journeys.

An order of friars, orange habits,
forbidden by vows and observance
(with promise of sustenence)
to enjoin and enjoy the pilgrimmage.
Theirs is not the way, mere waymarkers

To control forbidden pleasures,
the softest censure of sinners,
most of all those who sin for sinning’s sake,
those who trouble make.

This they do with humour, charm and delight,
pleasure and pride in their task,
not its effects or power.

Ushers, sextons, beadles and wardens
of a later-day church worthy of praise.
Saint Simon de Hughe penned God created the game;
If Saint Peter takes five from the heavenly gates
to watch play, he knows who to call.

Tonk-a-pom was a dubiously effective ad campaign for a dubious quality Aussie beer, whose name I’ve long since forgotten (crap ad campaign like the beer) Matthew Hayden, well-known Christian, gourment chef and mighty opener of both sledging and batting, told you how to tonk a pom. You just did it. I’m listening to the great and good from Bumble to Boris Johnson via ex-Blue Peter Bimbette Connie Huk exorting that we need to beat the Aussies or in the words of poet Christopher Logue on why you should vote Labour (real Labour in the sixties) since otherwise Engerland’s no longer great and our balls will drop off, even Connie’s. But they don’t tell you how. Tonk a Pom does:-

1. Find a pom.

2. Tonk it.

Who’s heard Germaine Greer or Dame Edna Everage – scions of Australian culture – imploring the green baggies to do their best/worst. Tonk a pom. You don’t need to be told twice.

England have fought back. Three wickets before lunch for around a hundred runs rates B+?+. Half an hour afterwards judging by the serried ranks of empty seats, most of the members by the sports academy have either come in unbelievably effective fancy dress costume as The Invisible Man, or are still scoffing and quaffing a bottomless lunch, which seems moderately obscene, rude and vulgar – would you stay in the RSC bar during the second half of Hamlet? By tea-time, with Clarke and North cruising towards centuries, they’ve just about returned to their seats in readiness to leave them again. Why attend a cricket match and not watch the action? You might as well sit in a strip joint with your back to the stage.

The rain comes ahead of schedule after tea. If that isn’t bad enough (and for the poms it defers tonking time) we’re treated to more cod-opera. Italia 90 killed Nessum Dorma for me. I like music in its place and entirity. Snippets is cricket with only one batsman, kitchens without sinks, foreplay without sex. It’s good to have time to think and talk, we can entertain ourselves, thank you very much. “What is this life if full of care…” No, full of cod-opera snippets. Nessum Dorma, ‘Nobody shall sleep’ Not even at a cricket match because some tenor is giving it some over the p.a. Is nothing sacred?

Because Cliff Richard sang at Wimbledon (Him and Sue Barker, dear oh dear, a marriage made in heaven, if only) we get the Walls Cornetto song. Why not that great sixities R Dean Taylor classic “Windscreen wipers splishing, splashing, driving through the pouring rain, just gotta see Jane.” Something apposite. The Cod Opera Anihilation Society fights back. Here is the Walls Cornetto song, Cardiff Test style:-

Four-five-eight for four at tea
Tired old England sips misery
Their fielders pray for the end of the day
Or better still, rain stops play!

That old standard, everyone buggers off reckoning there’s no further play today, when it lightens, brightens, and play under lights starts quarter an hour after the scheduled close. Never mind they also bugger off after about four overs, with Clarke caught behind, a skimpy hooker at Broad (think about it, but not for too long) and the light seems to get brighter after play’s abandoned for the day, the four stanchions in full glow flick a switch somewhere within the muse….

It’s been a funny old day. The game’s progressed but no further forward since runs scored vs wickets lost pretty well balance each other out. Australia still ahead on points, England still in there fighting, not yet on the ropes. Quite often the way with test cricket. For me the best part of the day was talking to a oldish bloke about poetry. ‘I aspire,’ he said. ‘We all aspire,’ I replied, ‘if you don’t you don’t get any better, at best stay the same which is really just worse.’ I showed him how the tweets worked too before the netbook became flooded. ”This has been the best part of the day,’ he remarked. And so it was for me. Close second were the stewards on Gates 4/5. They want me to write them a poem, and I shall, but those lights. If you hear Dylan Thomas’s Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night towards its end, you’re on the right track.
 

Four Lights

four lights, suns beneath clouds between the skies
four lights, south, north, east, west, encompass the world
four lights, countless candles power twenty-four figures
poles apart into a single arena strewn past shores
to land where twenty-two yards is the vital tack

four lights arc to the heavens where forty years ago
the moon landed at our feet    watch closely ball onto bat
bat onto ball across fields beyond    theirs is the future
for light is the promise and prism
as time’s shadows lengthen the season
until all there is light, then the dark

four lights, burning, burning, till all else is empty,
four lights meridian life and memory
no rush to leave this good night under its halo
of four tall lights before time is tolled to us all.

four lights, four lights, four lights, four lights

Oh yes, if they’d played cricket instead of golf on the moon they might have got their ball back.

The day’s play, tweet by tweet:-

1. In the Gods under replay screen espying Mitchell Johnson warm up to throw-down spinners in the nets England expects him in & out prior lunch
2. 1-259 Dear old England kick off with a couple of maidens and a Broad, so Fred will have a new ball to play with – if not a new world order.
3. 1-281 NEW BALL! hooked & driven 4 four in first over by R T Ponting. Flintoff starts with a super quick wide to then leave Katich agrope
4. 1-298 Katich edges Flintoff for 4, Chewbacca Flintoff blatts him on the shoulder. Feel the force, Simon, feel the force. “Aaargh!” Chewbacca
5. 2-299 Anderson and Ponting play French cricket by comparison before little Jimmy tucks up Katich lbw. Beddy-byes, Simon, rest upon your ton
6. Buxton Drinks Break – the coldest spa in Blighty. Last resort on Roman Britain R&R, never quite made it since, a spa town too far
7. 28 – 5 Australia after fifteen overs. At Worcester where the pomettes stuff the Sheilas. Strauss & Co plc please note how it’s done
8. 3-325 Mr Cricket watching immovable object (Ponting) face irrestible force (Flintoff) edges little Jimmy Anderson to Prior Loz, you’re right
9. 4 -331 Monty bowls Ponting backing away on the cut. 150. Poor shot before lunch if an inside edge. Smart bowling change Mr Strauss
10. Super Centaur Fred puts new boy Clarkie through wringer. Can’t have too many overs left in nosebag
11. 4-404 Buxton drinks break. “Wow, it’s cold! Stoke it up, Grommit!” Australia pile it on Strauss thinks about Wallace bowling some Wensleydale
12. 4 – 412 Clarke’s 50 Dances down pitch Swan sees him drops it short Clarke delays shot still four Cat and mouse Who’s Itchy? Who’s Scratchy?
13. Barmy Army sing Bread of Heaven as mighty mighty England seek crumbs of solace before Collingwood runs in with no slip, just hope.
14. 4 – 458 a mexican wave stops as it starts. England hope one will flood the pitch. North reaches fifty. Antipodean tide of progress irreversible Tea.
15. I don’t care what the weather man says you won’t find me complainin I don’t mind if it’s rainin- Jeepers creepers umbrellas on the bleachers
16. 5-474 Play til 7.30 & Corrie Somerset Supporters miss their bus or Clarke gloving Broad on the hook under four lights to compass the world
17. 5-479 murk and drek curtail event horizon umpires Rauf and Doctrove leave last, wedding ushers wrangle just impediment to halt the ceremony.

Four Lights

four lights, suns beneath clouds between the skies
four lights, south, north, east, west, encompass the world
four lights, countless candles power twenty-four figures
poles apart into a single arena strewn past shores
to land where twenty-two yards is the vital tack

four lights arc to the heavens where forty years ago
the moon landed at our feet    watch closely ball onto bat
bat onto ball across fields beyond    theirs is the future
for light is the promise and prism
as time’s shadows lengthen the season
until all there is is light, then the dark

four lights, burning, burning, till all else is empty,
four lights meridian life and memory
no rush to leave this good night under its halo
of four tall lights before time is tolled to us all.

four lights, four lights, four lights, four lights

Things went better for England then worse. Vice-versa for Australia; the antipodes of expectation, except Australia does rather than qualifies. On the way home I heard a home counties middle-class accent say “It seems…” Nothing seems in Australia, except the cricket ball, and then not that often. Green Baggies deal with what is, not what ifs.

Yesterday brekkers at Varsity Bar, courtesy of  Barmy Army  ,’Hey Hey Ricky,’ is their new single, with chord structure and kick-off of the TMS theme tune. The words could be a bit sharper, here’s a suggestion:-

Hey hey Ricky you are going to lose,
Hey hey Ricky this isn’t even news
Hey hey Ricky imagine the pain
When the urn goes walkabout again

 Mr Ponting did his utmost not to make this happen. Before lunch was England’s – the tail wagged mightily and I thought I was going to be able to say ‘told you so’  (”The series may well come down to how the middle and lower order bat” http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/07/08/looking-forward/) the last three wickets adding a ton. That and how easily the Australians played the English attack puts the English top order into perspective. In on this strip you should back yourself to get three figures. Decent even bounce, no lateral movement or differential pace, it’s a batsman’s paradise. Sloppy shots stopped England filling their boots. Not sure which was worse. Pietersen’s kamikaze sweep, (which has replaced his flamingo shot) or his explanation “If it hadn’t hit my helmet I’d not have been caught.” If you hadn’t tried fetching from outside off-stump, it wouldn’t have hit your helmet. It doesn’t seem to have knocked any more sense into him. He wants to play shots others can’t play, not just be the best batsman in the world, which is a different proposition.

Is Ponting? He played supremely. Has there been a better Aussie bat since Bradman? Neil Harvey maybe for elegance, followed by Mark Waugh and Greg Chappell; Ian Chappell, Steve Waugh, Peter Burge queue up for bloody-mindedness and Norman O’Neil with Doug Walters and Hayden in his prime for destructiveness. But Punter scores in all three areas, together with a classical technique and the best footwork in the world, feet move early, plays late. Odd his demeanour at the crease is total confidence, while as skipper in the field his body language is an X-ray of what’s going on inside his head. He seems to come up with the right moves, eventually, but perhaps thinking of others is harder than just your own performance. Doubtless true for all of us.

Another stylist on the pitch this afternoon was Tom Graveney, inducted in the hall of fame with Ian Chappell and the late Peter May (even his widow could’ve scored a few on this pitch.) Tom was always a favourite of mine. He left Gloucestershire just as I started to watch them. Left is a euphemism. If I remember right he reckoned he should be captain, and they choose an amateur called Pugh who was – amateur. Tom went to Worcester, and the MCC banned him for a year. His first game against Glos was at Cheltenham, to the warmest of welcomes outside the committee rooms. (Never mind his brother Ken, a middling county fast-medium pacer became skipper soon after.)  Late in the day he was fielding down at long leg talking to the crowd – everyone called him Tom – and someone pulled square. ‘Good shot,’ he said ‘I’m not running for that, worth four.’ About three years later in his latish thirties he was called back to English colours and scored a series winning century against Hall, Griffiths, Sobers et al. For a front foot player he was tremendous against the quicks.

With his skipper getting 2000 test runs against the poms, and 11000 in all including a 39th century, Simon Katich will probably bag less of the lime-light, so here’s today’s poem, followed by today’s play, tweet by tweet:-

Katich

nothing special it seems
vin ordinaire, perhaps du pays
to the casual palate

hardly flash, no big front of the mouth
explosions, nor rich plummy overtones
of wild berry sensations,
not merlot, shiraz, scarcely Australian
but scarcer still in exacting quality

Katich travels well: Derbyshire, Hants
scores freely when required, remains
steady even when bottled up
ideal for the most testing conditions

un demi-verre: nose, one or two sips
to note how the original vine
has matured with practice and age,
glam-rock finings and blending not required

hard enough to put this genie
back in its bottle till empty
prime vintage which keeps
the entire innings through

Twittering of Tweets 

1. In row c, marked g, stewards agree is grazy Duckless Anderson shows spirit of Drake cutting speedster Johnson, Broad’s broad blade
2. Broad bowled off his pads Swann waddles to the crease adjusting his pads to join ugly ducking duckless duckling Anderson Gulls swoop over trees
3. 50 @ run a ball poms’ tails wag as all their ducks move into line towards 400 while crowd give Aussies the bird for being all too appealling
4. Horitz spins one a yards Haddin misses Swann licks his lips and spinning finger before dancing down wicket to drive a brace of fours
5. 2 green baggies go back to the fence, noble Swan reverse sweeps the next for four more. Stop taking the mick, Swanny, unkind to dumb animals
6. Jimmy caught in the deep off a sker Green Baggies mob the outfield trying to come up for air Scene is set Enter the mighty destroyer Panesar
7. Monty runs as though in treacle he’s also trying to juggle Though each shot’s fashioned with great style and flourish though scant effect
8. Cricket Book We’d Like To SEE. “I was Monty’s Battting Coach” closely followed by “I was Monty’s Fielding Coach”
9. Grassed gimme in slips, mist run-out, byes aplenty, Monty caught off a no-ball. Aussies’ worst display and time in field since Gallipolli?
10. More cricket books we’d like to SEE “How to control your body language & influence people” R T Ponting. Bell tolls Punter plays 435 Game on.
11. Half-an-half, just half-an-hour to face before lunch, then onwards. The openers’ prayer but do openers dare do more than survive onslaught?
12. Katisch and Hughes, defenders of Southern Cross, prepare their brief. The junior partner is one to watch not least perfect timing of rebuttals.
13. Super Centaur Freddie – 1/2 man 1/2 horse, ball all ire fire and brimstone – chin-musics junior Hughes lucky to miss and miss being hit
14. 1-87 drinks at Australia’s numerical nemesis. Alice spring to their defence, Punter plays like dream and drain into twenties set for a ton
15. 1-110 Swanny and Monty spin-twins on in tandem. Laker and Lock or Tuffers and Embers. Jury out till at least close of play?
16. Punter already two grand up against old country Aren’t you being greedy, Ricky, still wanting to fill twinkle-toed boots Desire feeds itself
17. 127 – 1 R(e) T(weet) Ponting bags 11000 in all tests. Thought it more, wish it less. Well done Tasman’s chosen son. Get out and have a drink
18. Tea 1-142 Strauss changes bowling by numbers on Welsh futures market England can’t seem to buy a wicket for love or money – invest in hope?
19. Nessum Dorma – loves sleeps, put it to bed, please. May, Graveney and Chappell, Ian into ICC Hall of Fame, why not poetry for each – Tom esp
20. Cbeebies All-Time XI Andy Pandy; NoggintheNog; Thorn-Noxson; Uncle Bulgaria; Haddock (capt); Ivor the Engine; Dr Who, Doogle; Thompson Twins
21. 1-203. Ponting adds 5 to 11000 off two from Swann deliciously delicate late late cut to make square 3rd man run. Best Oz bat since the Don?
22. 1-215 Katich & Skipper 85 all. If Albion can’t split this pair tonight, they may have to bat out of their skins to save hides. Run-out call….
23. ….Third Umpire says ‘No’<
24. Super Freddie Centaur returns for final blast.England may soon be flogging a dead horse. Glue factory not Ashes  if they don’t stick to task