Tags

, ,

Writing

31st October 2010

Bollocks to jet lag! This is the all new, smile through the pain, rootin’ tootin’, punch each other until we’re injured, England. So it’s straight into a full days training. All bar Tremlett, who’s still shattered after attempting to sleep in a sitting foetal position on a bar stool. Don’t know who told him that’s the only way to stop a funnel-web climbing on you during the night, but it’s left the team physiologist needing to put in some hard yards before tonight…

Talking of hard yards, it turns out Tremlett was the lucky one, with the morning taken up by Sergeant-Major Gooch’s monotonous running drills. It’s the call-and-response chanting I object to most. Something from Die Fledermaus or Eugene Onegin would’ve been fine, but at the insistence of Monty we got a selection of obscene sea-shanties that would make Shane Warne blush. It’s always the quiet ones isn’t it? It was the same on his stag do. You know, my hands haven’t felt clean ever since that night. I should have never caught that ping-pong ball…

On to the afternoon and the first tactics slideshow of the tour – How to feng shui your pitch map towards success. It was basically an explanation of how repeating Harmy’s first-ball WTF moment from four years ago was a bad idea. This is why we’re paying Andy Flower the big bucks. For eighty grand less we could have had John Buchanan standing at the front shouting “Please listen to me!” with increasing desperation.

Advertisements