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Writing

19th November 2010

I am the master of my domain. Not in the Seinfeld sense. Come on, it’s a fourteen week tour of Australia for goodness sake. I’ve long since raised a reluctant, sullied, guilt-ridden hand of surrender there.

No, I am the master of my cricketing domain.

Before me Australia A have shown all the resistance of Aztecs to smallpox. Callum Ferguson has become my bunny and my off-cutter has become his myxomatosis.  I am the mime artist to Ed Cowen’s otherwise enjoyable days shopping in Covent Garden. I am the grains of sand in Usman Khawaja’s leopard skin posing pouch.

Each wicket was greeted by a pat on the back from my teammates and a warm, predictably confused, “Well done, Ted” from Captain Can’tremembermyname. I am England’s facilitator, the porte-cochère of our attack. I punched a second-row forward sized hole in the opposition for others to exploit. Australia A were left as disturbingly clueless as a Women’s Institute am-dram production of Porgy and Bess.

And yet, somehow, I suspect I’ll have completed my silver-service training by next February.

Flower is happy. I think. Is the phrase “your long-hops are an event horizon for Australian batting, they force them to projectile commit” praise or not? Hard to tell. By the time he asked to “stick a couple of ideas into your intellectual toaster and see what pops out” I was nodding off.

I wonder if Clive Lloyd ever tried this shit with Andy Roberts?

Swanny, Jimmy, Finny and Cover Girl have flown ahead to Brisbane. Saker joined them more as designated adult supervision than bowling coach. As usual Swanny records every step on twitter. It’s his new obsession. Every move is documented. Every thought detailed. Every deed chronicled. Yet strangely he never mentions his Second Life avatar is a Puerto Rican exotic dancer call ‘Cinnamon’. Whatever blows your virtual skirt up I suppose.

To bed. I can catch up with Cinnamon’s adventures in Queensland tomorrow morning…

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