Ashes Poetry

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

A strange day. Poetry frustrated by players. To do a poem a day you have two or three in mind as play continues. Strauss looked imperious till he wiftily went to play then not play a Hilfenhaus ‘no-ball’ (maybe leave that to the electronics, and in all ball games never change your mind half-way through the shot) The Ballad Of Sir Patrick Spens (http://www.tnellen.com/cybereng/poetry/poems/the_ballad_of_sir_patrick_spens.html) came to mind – O whare wull Ai get a steely skipper to sail thi ship o’ mine) Then Bell rode his luck, I saw the Wedlake Bell sign opposite (law firm – http://www.wedlakebell.com) and thought ‘Wedlake Bell…We’d like Bell to make a ton…’ Siddled for seventy, played on, luck ran out but, Ian, a gap between bat and pad Blowers could drive a double decker going down the Harleyford Road through….

Then I was thinking of stand-bys walking to the ground – the Gasometers empty of hope – because hope is the last thing you want in sport, because hope is totally out of your control – you never hear any Australian player ever say ‘Hopefully, we’ll….’ or the John C Sebastian Loving Spoonful sixties anthem Summer In The City “Hot time, summer in the city, contest for Ashes gettin’ dirty an’ gritty.” Mark Butcher has a rock band…

I’m in the Peter May stand low down square on when…

“North to Trott, OUT, that is magnificent work from Katich! Truly incredible stuff at short leg! Trott uses his feet and clips to leg, Katich at short leg makes a sharp save and quickly gets a full-blooded throw at the stumps, Trott is still in the follow through and has to turn quickly, the direct hit has him well short”  http://www.cricinfo.com/engvaus2009/engine/current/match/345974.html

That’s the poem http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/08/21/run-out/ (Also see http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/07/09/katich/ for his ton at Cardiff)

We had the perfect position to watch. Although I don’t reckon there’s been a poem published about run-outs, and it’s the first of the series, I hardly think mine or anyone’s could do justice to Simon Kadich’s skill. Fielding at short-leg is suicide – you fear the batsman will knock your block off. You figure on catching or stopping the ball, and then shy for the run-out. Katich was shying for the stumps in his mind’s eye as the ball left the bat- stunning, like playing a squash-shot as the ball from your opponent’s racket is going towards the front wall – the Khans, Jonah Barrington, Geoff Hunt could do that, but with twenty thousand people watching? Truly great moments in sport lead you to jump to other sports. That run-out reminded me of Zizou Zindane’s outside the box volley to win the Champions League for Real – it was in the back of the net as the ball came over, no hit and hope, he pretty-well side-footed it in. Or McEnroe at the net, picking up half-volleys from his toes, placed to perfection, more or less every time. It’s not luck, not a fluke, it’s practice – the only people who wouldn’t have been surprised yesterday was Simon Kadich himself and his team-mates. ‘How good are these Australians?’ asks my poem. They know how good they are, and they want to get better.

Perhaps sitting next to the only two Aussies in the midst of the Barmy Army ‘You’re the convicts….’ led me to think of car-thieves, the 1974 Gone in Sixty Seconds film, remade with Nick Cage heading it up. To twock, a verb, used by cops and robbers alike – ‘taking without owner’s consent’ which is what happened to Trott. He must have felt someone had nicked his motor with him inside it.

In 2004 my daughter Laurel and I went to Old Trafford. She was twelve, her first Test. Brian Lara,Windies skipper and ?best bat in the world, took guard. ‘Watch Freddie,’ I said ‘He’ll try to move him across the crease to bowl him round the legs.’ Six balls later, Flintoff duly obliged. Admidst the cheers Laurel said ‘It’s worth coming just for that.’ Thank you, Fred, for helping to hook my daughter on cricket. It was worth coming yesterday just for Kadich’s run-out. As for the rest of the cricket, Mark Nicholas at the end of the C5 highlights reckoned even-stephens. No, Mark, 60-40 Australia minimum. Let’s see if Freddie can do Punter as he did Lara…

Tweet by Tweet Commentary

10 minutes 2 toss, Monty warms up catching practice with Trotty Are Blighty setting sail with two spinners aloft main sails? 0 longitude 2 c

Punter calls heads, comes down tails. Straussy bats, no Monty, Harmie for Onions, Oz as Leeds. Par for contest two wickets/sarnies by lunch.

10 minutes to the bell, overcast, could lead to swing. The King sits in Dunfermline Town drinking the blood wine, O wher, O where will I get

a steely skipper to sail this ship of mine? Mayor of London broadcasts his canned message to whip Oz. Bugger off, Boris, Welcome Antipodes

Five minute bell, Sean Ruane to fill gasometers with hot air, Trueman turns at his mark to get 300. Hawke ct Cowdrey, the spirit of cricket.

1-0 In midst of Barmy Army two pin-stripe gents in bowlers sit. A century ago all would be so fine and fancy dressed. Time to twitter back then.

7-0 Dead pitch, no bounce, no swing – yet – time to fill boots, I’m going to put my feet up and watch till lunch sails into view & hoves to.

12-1 Cook cooks his goose edging straight Siddle Back to Bish Tenison’s School Do not pass go Bell iffy Strauss imperious reaches fifty 96-1

50-2 “There’s only one Freddie Flintoff, Sure Men” helicopters overhead. Bleedin obvious fire ad agency Only one Billy Trumpeter nuff said

114-2 So certain Strauss goes withdraws to Hilfenhaus, Faintest edge, all gone, without redemption, stifled consumation, coitus interruptus.

131-2 Bell’s fifty, cut clapping, get cracking, build on your luck, at least a ton, a big ton before your game is done, son, and then some.

150-2 “There’s only one Freddie Flintoff, Sure Men” helicopters overhead. Bleedin obvious fire ad agency Only one Billy Trumpeter nuff said

162-2 Big green baggy shout, not out says ref Why is appealing so unappealing when yelled with so much feeling Neilometer shows some concern

172 – 2 North twirls on for Southern Cross, Neilometer worsening, Stuart Clark at long leg watches Barmy Army ‘every-where-we-go’ incredulously.

176-3 I bowl Collie drives edges gulley Hussey catches you’re XXXX Siddle. Trott trots to wicket to bear two bears ‘Only Fools and Horses.‘

180-3 tea Neilometer and JBull-Stick reading about same. Will have lucky Bakewell slice helping steward clear debris – 327-4 stumps still on

181-4 Wedlake Bell plays on when we’d like Bell to be a centurion – shoulitd’ve kept batpadtogether Neilometer rosy cneeked as vegemite song

189-4 Punter puts himself short mid-on to Trott, sure sign of reckoning a front -foot swiper. Sun shines down and all Oval is but a picture.

205-4 “He’s no need for a hair-dryer, He’s Matty Prior” Best Barmy Army anthem with harmonies to tune of the great Johnny Cash Ring of Fire.

218- 5 Jimmy and the Barmy Army barbershop choir do the Andy Williams Songbook before the convict colony medley. No end to their talents.

229-4 Barmy Army Choir sing Jerusalem with more feeling vim honesty & musical brio than Sean Ruane I join in – Aussies Aussies give us a song

229-5 Instead Johnson holds one back which scuppers Prior on the drive held by slip cordon ring of fire Enter Super Centaur Blighty expects.

247-6 Flintoff’ flails fails at whip-crack Johnson, out for seven.North turning it but slowly as Broad Trott face up-hill Ashes cul-de-sac

268-7 Watson, the Aussies fill-in Collingwood seamer, a no-go-to-man before Katich runs out Trott from short-leg brilliantly -today’s poem

277-7 Albion hopes rest on Broad and Swann as Leeds 2nd innings – to reverse-sweep Marx, history repeats itself 1st time farce, 2nd time tragedy

288-7 History repeats itself like Onions Don’t about it for too long Graeme, it might give someone the Trotts if tnew ball doesn’t next over

288-7 Hilfenhaus gets Deutschland Uber Allies from Jimmy Trumpet and Colonel Bogey – Hitler has only got one ball a new one is just on call.

290-7 Behind two procrastinating proctologists discuss falling between two stools. Schicklegruber’s new ball delay by need to up over-rate

303-7 “We are the Army, the Barmy Army, We are mental, and we are mad” 1 in 3 UK’ll have mental health difficulties as NHS goes down dunny.

307-8 Siddle siddles Swann on edge of length in corridor of uncertainty stretching right down The Old Kent Road to convict hulks at Tilbury.

Gone
in sixty nano-seconds
aim in mind before ball leaves bat
all done in one, out by yards,
victim dives after stumps splay
no recourse to redundant replay
dust stunned in shiv sharp speed
of broken glass stilled while braking
rods and cones alchemically fixed,
frozen forever in our retinas
suspended for life in vitreous humour
locked in basal memory forever
Katich twocks Trott.

Taken without owner’s consent,
No fluke or accident,
The practiced genie of anticipation,
How good are these Australians?

I J L Trott runout (S M Katich) 41

the crack is back.
out in the paddock steers sense
danger. A simple few step run
as short as Alan Davidson
but a bloody sight more quick,
left arm, right leg taut as a bow
held by Ursain Bolt at the gun,
no chance to reckon direction
before the whip comes over
Crack! Steers cower at its lash,
unable to go forward or back,
lost in the hurled midst
of the dark stockman’s attack
lashed between arrival and departure
through the paddock gates
till they too crack into failure.
Crack! The crack is back,
out in the paddock steers sense danger
Crack! The go-to’ll do ‘em agin.

Oval ain’t Headingley, all square, a fresh game, isn’t it?

England haven’t panicked and called up all their previous has-beens and failures,which is probably a good thing. Personally I was wondering if the selectors would plump for the no-nonsense solidity of Sir Arthur Wellesley or the more mecurial talents of Brunel I K, but still being level, they could hardly panic, and because they couldn’t panic, they couldn’t make many changes either. Instead they spent four hours at Trent Bridge to up Bell to three, bring back Monty and switch Bopara for Trott. What else did they discuss for the other 3hrs and 55minutes?

The Australians are spoilt for choice – Lee’s fit, reverse swinging if the ball roughs up, Horitz is bowling okay, no injuries… Each side will pick on looking at the pitch, determining none or one spinner (Australia) one, two (England) and choosing which pacy horses for which courses. I’ve a feeling it might be Lee for Clark, especially if the wicket looks quick, but it’s a nice predicament to be in. Mitchell Johnson http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/08/19/mitchell-johnson/ was world-class at Headingley; not for too long, no pom stood around that long, but in the second innings especially, you saw why he’s such a valued bowler. On a softish pitch without much pace or bounce he hurried batsmen up, got them on the back foot and then too slow to come onto the front. A genuine pace man who should get wickets on any surface with a left-arm slingy action that’s hard to pick in time. If the Oval’s at all quick he could be lethal.  By contrast for England Harmison looked leggy. The short stuff which used to hurry the best batsmen now gets pulled or cut for four, the Harmie of old seems history: the Oval ought to be quicker, (see Johnson M op. cit.) but who would you drop to bank on the Harmoniser? Not a nice predicament to be in.

All rests on Freddie’s shoulders, who delivered the five-for at Oval 2005 to set up KP final innings Ashes clincher. He might do it again, he’ll certainly try, but the big difference is Oval 2009 is the mirror of 2005. It’s England who need to win, not Australia, and Australia only need to bat it out to keep Urn happy. On the Neilometer, which measures the average Aussie average disposition is a wise look of quiet confidence, which could turn into a flinty stare towards victory were things to go their way, or a sudden squall of surprise were the poms to surpass themselves.

And maybe they will. It’s vital they don’t repeat Headingley, either with the bat or ball, but particularly the bat. They probably don’t quite have the firepower to force a win without Australia playing well below par. (At Lord’s they bowled pies the first morning and slack-batted the next day but bar that they’ve more or less been there or there-abouts – should have walked Cardiff, saved Edgbaston unfussily and hit their straps to the n at Headingley.) England should aim to make Australia fight, not let them dominate. All their supporters will forgive a draw or a loss so long as they contest. Everyone needs to be quitely confident, not brash nor cocky to play at the top of their game and to make the best of any luck. That’s the most any team can do, even Australia.

I prefer the Oval, the Brit Oval, to Lord’s, the lordly Lords. Easier to get to, lovely wandering down from Vauxhall Station to the Oval, bumped into a familiar face just past the gas works. ‘Hello, Mr Curbishley.’ ‘Hi.’ Perhaps he lives round here, Charlton just down the road. Meant to be interviewed by Radio 5 Live Kevin Bacon at ten but they’ve probs with the outside mikes (is that what we pay 120 sobs licence fee for) while everyone can hear Athers interview skippers at wicket. Ten minutes to the bell, overcast, could lead to swing – of fortunes? We shall see.

At the time it hurt. If you support England you don’t like to see any English batting collapse, and not two in percussive innings, interspersed with bowling pretty well as bad. With a week or more to think about it – it still hurts!

It wasn’t quite as bad as the fifth day collapse Tuesday 6th December 2007, Adelaide Oval. That hurts, eighteen months later. The worst performance I’ve ever watched from any England team in any sport anywhere, ever. England self-destructed, end of. See http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/06/30/adelaide-requiem-for-duff-batting/  and apply the ire to last week at Headingley.

If you saw that result with Zimbawe, Bangladesh, West Indies, New Zealand inked in as the losing team perhaps you’d have thought ‘par for the course. England’ll do better.’ However, overall it was the worst England cricket performance this century, possibly the last and hopefully forever. Australia took four more wickets than the middle order contributed runs. (Broad and Swann’s spirited end-game slog was icing on a half-baked cake of dross.) No need to go into a comparative calculus of crap, the question is why. Forget fire-alarms, no Freddie, Prior’s warm-up injury, Sidebottom’s sidelining, winning a toss to lose, that just a collective bad hair day. We weren’t howitzered because Jimmy’s gell didn’t.

Unlike Adelaide where England outplayed Australia unto the final day, at Headingley the green baggies were at the top of their game, England rock bottom. It was The Cars that Ate Paris where a big-boy’s big V8 pick-up scythes a kiddie’s tricycle. There is something impossibly majestic about an Australian team hell-bent on destruction, so micrometered, slide-ruled and jewelled, Harrison’s cricketing chronometer, they couldn’t stop if they tried. A road-train juggernaut on the Ghan trail, the Gods lizard from under its blazing thunder praying shonky stutters just to survive. The Neilometer purrs. Were I an Aussie, I’d have thought heaven had come early.

At Headingley 2009 they emulated the 1948 Invincibles – against a run-of-the-mill club side.  Clark came back to bowl a stunner, Siddle found the right length and length (in the first innings he bowled one, just one ball down the leg side.) and Johnson was again the bowler who was ruling the world after Christmas, more relaxed, delivery stride marginally shorter or easier, from which all falls into place, the javelin arm a little higher and more accurate – see http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/08/19/mitchell-johnson/. Oh yes, Hilfenhaus was his usual reliable self. All the edges carried and all the carries stuck, North’s to take Strauss was in Mark Waugh territory, or Phil Sharpe. Simple enough to make runs with caution and aggression alloyed together after that. Hard to think how Australia could have bowled, batted or fielded much better, so even if England had shown some application they’d still been up against it at the crease.

The big difference came in batting. Seven centuries to one says something. Australian players get into line. Watson, a make-shift opener, gets into line, that’s why he’s replaced Phillip Hughes, the one batter who doesn’t. And because Aussie batters get into line, Aussie bowlers have to bowl a tight line too or just get smacked. (It’s a batsmen’s game – don’t make easy for them) How many of the England players get into line, so that back foot, front foot, hands, elbows and head are but a single transect? One. Andrew Flintoff, and perhaps Swan since he can’t get out of line of the short stuff. This is basic technique, the feu of Sir Geoffrey Boycott, and taught at ECB Level One. So why don’t ECB contracted players not do the basic basics? It drives Andy Flower nuts, not least because as he admitted straight afterwards on TMS he had to watch exactly the same thing last year at Headingley against the South Africans.

Perhaps that’s it. Headingley. The ball moves, just a little bit, but not that quick off the wicket. If you don’t get into line that little bit of movement means an edge, a miss rather than something not quite middled. Equally if you’re used to bowling to players who don’t get into line you don’t try to be that accurate, you don’t need to be, they’ll do it for it. Length and line at Headingley with a little bit of movement start to merge into one. The curious thing isn’t that the Australians exploited English conditions to the manor born, perhaps not surprising since they are and practice being #1 test team in the world playing #5. The weird and worrying facet is England batted and bowled at Headingley as though they’d never seen a ball move there in all their born days.

Oval ain’t Headingley….

I’ll talk about three areas here, all inter-related.

Watching the Western Stand, it struck me that the Hogarthian vision of The Times’ Thunderer is scarcely more than jolly japes in prep school dorms. Midnight feasts, ragging of other houses and schools, hiding Screwbottom Jnr’s spectacles, building a periscope from pop bottles to peer up Matron’s drawers – is there much difference between that and plastic beer glass snakes? Except the upper classes perhaps got away with more, a lot more, read any Jeeves story by P G Wodehouse and you’ll find Bingo Little and his chums, Gussie Finknottle etc, of the Drones Club – says it all – regularly purloin copper’s helmets, JP’s hats and Wooster’s sang-froid. Prep school and Western Stand share this in common – confinement.

Ten years ago at the England South Africa Headingley Test at the end of the game you could walk onto the pitch, and we did, to make a crowd for the tv coverage as well as taking a dekko at the wicket. You wandered in, weren’t body-searched – one of the blokes remembered me from Edgbaston – could bring in any sort of booze, and more or less do as you pleased. Today you are stewarded, shepherded from one space to another, in very exact, predetermined and restricted fashion. Not much difference to how herds come and go to a modern, safe, efficient and hygenic livestock market. Maybe we have to. It’s a global society with global threats – foot and mouth, terrorism. Maybe we’ve become accustomed, feel safer being searched than not. One thing for sure is confinement leads to rebellion, about as axiomatically as rebellion leads to confinement. Given the length of incarceration, the potential amount of intoxication and tribal tradition, the atmosphere’s good.

It’s not just a matter of control. http://www.theashesfestivalinleeds.com offered more to spectators and the city alike. Yorkshire County Cricket Club have realised that their audience isn’t just the spectators but the city and all of Yorkshire. I reckon Cardiff and Leeds have been best at engaging with the wider world with Leeds just shading it. There’s the real shame that the test was over almost before it began, though the chasm in the revenue stream, if streams can have chasms, must hurt mightily. It was worth coming to Leeds just for the city’s Ashes Festival.

It’s about history too. Tomorrow Yorkshire play Lancashire in the perennial Roses game. http://www.yorkshireccc.com/archive/yorkshire_v_lancashire_lvcc_2009/index.html The original Tudor War of the Roses was by modern standards a relatively tame affair. The Battle of Bosworth Field lasted two hours – more or less England’s first innings – and ploughmen in adjoining fields didn’t even bother to stop and watch or run away. Since the start of this Ashes Series more British servicemen have died in Afghanistan than the ECB has contracted players; more have died than from Swine flu. Is it a necessary war, a just war? You have to decide. 

Deeds empty games, wars empty lives. Both confine their players to battle… http://www.yorkshireccc.com/archive/yorkshire_v_lancashire_lvcc_2009/index.html is also unveiling a blue plaque at Burley for Hedley Verity. He gave his life for his country in Sicily 1943, and the word ‘Engerland’ almost certainly never passed his lips. War of the Roses, WWII are history. All wars are once over, but beforehand decisions need to be made, not merely by government, not by the military from GOC to the spottiest squadie, but by you, for those spotty squadies are dying for you and your country, Engerland. Hogarth didn’t do war. Plastic beer glass snakes or rocket propelled grenades? You have a choice.

To help make up your mind:-

http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/08/03/hedley-verity/

http://www.ashespoetry.net/2009/07/11/girls-write-poetry/

Our Freddie, the heart of our eleven
Hallowed be thy knees.
Give us your all from test to test
While inbetween giving them each a rest.
Cortisone injection those Australians
From openers to tail-enders
But do not do yourself a mischief
As you would do unto others.
We forgive you your pedalos
As you would forgive us ours.
All square at your final test
Lead us not into temptation,
Premature celebration or commiseration,
Just strive for supreme victory
Not won for three-quarters of a century
At Lord’s, then as at The Oval
For thine is the yorker, the five-for and their bended knee
For ever and ever

Our Urn

Headingley Carnegie

In the middle of a stand batsmen discard their creases
to parley twixt jousts, their yeomen chosen duties.
Shuffle pads, box, gloves, helmets, fear and bravery;
lean on pikestaffs to dismiss failure’s haunted taunting,
to discuss the matter at hand, state of play,
how to withhold each wicket whilst withering their enemies’
intent, who may snide cunning cussword cudgels in passing,
as would they, were their innings turned inside out in passing.
Twinned and pinned before overs swap creases, they pass back
to tighten their mark. Their pitch splits again in a middle of a stand,
each readied to face loneliness unyielding.

In the middle of a stand neighbours jowl neighbours:
no loneliness here. Pass comment, beer, jests, victuals, perhaps favour.
Scuffle papers, crosswords, scorecards, programmes, radio-tuners,
cameras, bets, runners and riders (with riders on runners) before –
Roar, Yell, Clap, Cheers, Groan, Moan, Gasp, Ooooo and murmur
at the closeness of it all. Till closeness ends and closure comes,
to stem scored life seen from the very midst of every stand.

Deeds empty games. The ends of each stand leave first,
leaving the last no choice how to enter history. Gainsay no odds,
in each stand at Headingley are memories too many
to bury or resurrect except in their making. Play!

I’m an optimist – as an England cricket fan you’ve no other option. Not just sun-block, but full whack of lunch-time sarnies packed. I stowed up on luck too, varying my route to include Bramall Lane and Hillsborough as well as Elland Road. Today Ipswich play the greatest team in the universe at the Ricoh Stadium by which time the test might be over, and you’re left with might have beens. Suppose Freddie had been fit, Sidebottom picked instead of Harmison, Strauss put the Aussies in… Prior, Broad and Swann to hit centuries, Harmie to bowl like Willis Headingley 81 …. in this best of all possible worlds the aircraft flying over Headingley on the approach to Leeds/Bradford are pigs with wings returning from Never-never Land.

At the wicket Geoff Boycott is filming with Mark Nicholas an art of batsmanship piece for Sky while the two teams warm up in their respective quadrants. I’m sure Boycs is right about getting into line, how to play the rising ball… I’m not nearly so sure whether he’s the qualities to help professional players do just that. They’ll practice, they’ll know where to improve, it’s a question of working out how, which is where coaches come into their own. Listening to Sir Geoffrey may well be like an audiotape of a coaching manual, between 1956 and 1963, Suez and Cuba crises. It’s interesting that the Aussie experts, Ian Chappell, Alan Border, Matthew Hayden, don’t go  forensic on air. At Lord’s first knock just ‘not a wicket for pulls or hooks.’ ‘Nuf said.

Yesterday saw transformation of Mitchell Johnson pie-thrower at the home of cricket to world class quick. His slingy left-arm style, almost Jeff Thompson javelin action gives batsmen so little time to pre-react to the ball once it’s delivered. Maybe a poem there.

Warne and Bishop walk from the pitch, five minutes prior kick-off. Warnie avoids autograph-hunters and desultory booing of Oz Legends, Bishop accepts the line of seven million young and not young autograph hunters. News travels fast, “Ian Bishop’s a dead cert for a cop in the scrap book.” Ground more or less full, but not many bags full of sandwiches. Yorkshire folk have paid for tickets but not over-omptimistic either by nature or inclination. Talking of names, I’ve been spelling Cook with an additional ‘e’ as per Letter From America bod what came from Salford, not Essex. This would make Cook a Cook-e or Cookie, and though he’s batting like a bag of broken biscuits at present, it’s more half than twice baked. I’ve just swan-ed Swann, Clarke’d Clark, in http://twitter.com/ashespoetry and if you spot these ‘errors’ of my ways, blame Doctor Johnson, a Lichfield man, who though he wrote the first English dictionary, never played for England or Lichfield, nor Dictionaries. As a man of letters with a forthright way, he’d appreciate how Peter Siddle has lettered Swann’s ribcage with a short one. Those Aussies have worked him out – Swann doesn’t know how to duck.

England make a fist of a busted flush, Broad and Swann slogging towards the horizon of respectability – see Tweet by Tweet Commentary at foot of this post. It’s great entertainment but test cricket, Headingley test cricket isn’t just entertainment. Just after lunch it’s over, and all square in the series. Marcus North man of a match given by Iron Mike for an Athertonesque innings. Jim Maxwell notes third or fourth Aussie win in three days at Headingley (there better not be a fifth) before suggesting a timeless test at the Oval as the series goes to final game all square – quite rare in recent times at least.

I’m struck how both Broad and Swann, and Clarke and North each talked to one another during their stands made under very different circumstances…

Headingley Carnegie

In the middle of a stand batsmen discard their creases
to parley twixt jousts, their yeomen chosen duties.
Shuffle pads, box, gloves, helmets, fear and bravery;
lean on pikestaffs to dismiss failure’s haunted taunting,
to discuss the matter at hand, state of play,
how to withhold each wicket whilst withering their enemies’
intent, who may snide cunning cussword cudgels in passing,
as would they, were their innings turned inside out in passing.
Twinned and pinned before overs swap creases, they pass back
to tighten their mark. Their pitch splits again in a middle of a stand,
each readied to face loneliness unyielding.

In the middle of a stand neighbours jowl neighbours:
no loneliness here. Pass comment, beer, jests, victuals, perhaps favour.
Scuffle papers, crosswords, scorecards, programmes, radio-tuners,
cameras, bets, runners and riders (with riders on runners) before –
Roar, Yell, Clap, Cheers, Groan, Moan, Gasp, Ooooo and murmur
at the closeness of it all. Till closeness ends and closure comes,
to stem scored life seen from the very midst of every stand.

Deeds empty games. The ends of each stand leave first,
leaving the last no choice how to enter history. Gainsay no odds,
in each stand at Headingley are memories too many
to bury or resurrect except in their making. Play!

Tweet by Tweet Commentary

90-6 Prior dab-slashes Johnson through 4th slip to fence as he’s practiced in nets before. Punter puts 4th slip in, Prior unlikely to last..

104-6 Broad flashes at everthing Ball ageing, nothing in pitch, Prior fours Johnson two more full-toss pies, small acorn-filled Leaves next 

124-7 Prior follows Hilfenhaus outswinger Haddin one-handed catch. Could’ve left it alone (Prior and I guess Haddin) Fat Lady loosens corset

141-7 thwacks and chances aplenty Hilefenhaus they say can only bowl outswingers but also off-cutter which slices Swan in two as a lame duck

@saltpublishing Will Jen finish cycling 60 Suffolk miles before Australia level series in Yorkshire? On your bikes you poms

148-7 Vicious Sid Siddle bounces Swann but Swann’s learnt to hook 195 runs behind, the merest of bagatelles Ball doing zip late only from hand

178-7 V S Siddle just bowled eight wides in a row. Maybe he is V S Naipul in disguise. Will ask Paul Theroux to adjudicate.

193-7 Broad’s fifty, flashy in more ways than one Swann giving it some humpage too while Clark puts it in the slot gun-barrel straight 201-7

205-7 Stuart Clark 2-0-32-0 this morning acknowledges Western Stand cheers with rueful wave Who said Australians aren’t good sportsmen?

193-7 Broad’s fifty, flashy in more ways than one Swann giving it some humpage too while Clark puts it in the slot gun-barrel straight 201-7

205-7 Stuart Clark 2-0-32-0 this morning acknowledges Western Stand cheers with rueful wave Who said Australians aren’t good sportsmen?

215-7 Johnson nearly catches Broad hoick to long-off boundary. Crowd delighted Green Baggy slips confere. 100 partnership from 73 balls -123 adrift

224-7 Broad hook splits two long-legs Clark 3-0-42-0 Replay screen shows Punter micro-managing his fingernails. Broad finally out hooking

228-8 Johnson replaces expensive Clark. Tail-order hi-jinks shows it could’ve been a contest had England top order batted.It doesn’t add up.

230-8 Umpires not sure of number of balls in an over. Swann top-edges Siddle for six and fifty. Harmie offers batting advice and glove touch

243-8 Harmie gets four and one through point of opportunity, his favoured land. Leg drive not in repetoire Crowd cheer double figure deficit

245-8 North’s fingers cops Swann at mid-off, a moth flutters south – float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. Lunch just to please fat Gatt

247-8 Crowd had their Gattings for lunch. Johnson to shorten the Harmison with a throat ball. Katich short leg, Harmie doesn’t play off pads

250-8 “Stand up if yer 1-0 up” Two legside fours for Harmie. Swann edges Johnson ct Haddin 259-9 Fat Lady squeezes Sean Ruane to her bosoms

259-9 Clark sussed his line to Harmison, middle and off short of a length. One on leg through midwicket to ropes without moving his feet.

263-10 Johnson removes Onions’ off-stump 5-69. Australia win by innings and 89 runs. Could have been a wider margin, should’ve been far less….

“So it goes” Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughter House Five