Tags

, ,

Writing

28th November 2010

Today was a great day to be in the England dressing room. Not least because an inspiring captain’s innings out in the middle meant four entire hours minus the mix tape of Michael Bublé, Curtis Stigers and James Blunt that normally drifts over from Straussy’s changing spot. Want to know why the lads look so enthusiastic when they run out onto the field? Try sitting in a room full of blokes in their underpants when “You’re Beautiful” starts playing. You don’t know where to look.

Two hundred and ninety runs for one wicket. Ouch. I wonder how the Australia media will report that. When it comes to their own sporting failure they normally show all the warmth and understanding of a speak-your-weight machine programmed to tell fat kids Santa’s not real. Perhaps they’ll just dig out the reports from four years ago and do an automated word replace of Pom with Ponting. The results should be just about right.

Good news on the Steve Davis front. Our reserve wicketkeeper was left behind when we moved on from Adelaide and he finally caught up with us today, marching into the team dressing room with a relieved smile and a certificate confirming he’s worm free from the Australian Quarantine Service. Not sure which lane he passed through at Customs to get that.

Early to bed tonight with a book, couldn’t take anymore of the inane late night chat in the hotel bar. Left just after “naming erogenous zones after British prime ministers” became the main topic of conversation. Not my idea of intelligent conversation, although I have to agree with one point; never marry a girl who’ll let you near her Edward Heath on a first date.

Advertisements