Only got time to jot down a few quick thoughts tonight. The celebrations are already in full swing and I’ve drawn the short straw of making sure Botham doesn’t wander into the dressing room whilst Phil Hughes is still with us enjoying a conciliatory Red Bull and Cristal.
For us, ‘that catch’ is history now, officially at least. Although it was interesting that when I rolled a scotch egg towards Phil along the finger buffet table and it dropped just out of reach, bouncing off the floor into his grasping fingers, he put it straight into the bin without once looking like he’d throw it into the air in triumph.
Full marks for his food hygiene, but we all noticed the difference in what happened on Wednesday. He knows we noticed too. And we know he knows we noticed. And he knows we know he knows we noticed.
So much said without a word being uttered. Such is the power of a scotch egg analogy.
Earlier in the day we’d completed our trilogy of innings victories in front of the Barmy Army’s now familiar display of sunburnt moobs and middle-class t-shirt chic. The three remaining wickets eventually fell after an annoying shower break, although Steven Smith still found time to play the kind of innings that has 12,000 test run career written all over it – in the same way you find “my other car is a Ferrari” scrawled into the dirt on a Ford transit van. Stick with him Australia; one day he’ll be the new Greg Mathews. Male pattern baldness affects men like that.
I’ll have to get back and mingle now, if only to stop KP boring anyone else with how he beat me to the top of the series bowling averages. He’s pushing his luck with that, I can tell you. If his body’s found in the morning amongst the empty bottles and half eaten vol-au-vents with a copy of the tour averages smashed into his forehead by that replica of the Ashes urn, then, well, I doubt any jury would convict me.
Not an Australian one anyway…