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Writing

1st November 2010

Our backroom staff are at DEFCON 1. The medical team are sterilising the defibrillator. Our media manager is in full casual denial mode. Twitter is at a standstill. Western civilisation holds its breath.

For I have hit Graeme Swann on the hand in the nets.

Icarus has flown too close to the Sun. Alfred has burnt his cakes. As England’s best chance of retaining the Ashes played my bouncer like a 15 year old batting with a spoon.

Somewhere Glen McGrath is adding 5-0 to a betting slip. Somewhere Shane Warne is hiding a mobile phone bill from his partner. Somewhere in Perth there must be a decent kebab shop.

I’ll write again, just as soon as Princess Painful Paw stops milking it…

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