England continue to blaze a trail of glory through this World Cup. It’s not a recognised trail. You won’t find it on a Sat Nav. Because we’re off-roading. In a 4×4 pulling a caravan of WTF.
Some people say we’re the new Pakistan, but our inconsistency makes their inconsistency look like a pacemaker operated by a metronome. Some people say our name is already on the cup, but that’s only true if we rebrand ourselves the “sponsored by Castrol” XI. Some people call me the space cowboy, some call me the gangster of love, but they’ve been driven insane by Nick Knight’s voice.
I think I might be joining them. I’m not sure I can take all this in right now. It seems so surreal. I mean, four wickets for James Tredwell and a decent knock by Luke Wright? What’s that all about?
I’ll have to lie down in a darkened room and contemplate the meaning of it all before writing down my thoughts tomorrow…
Postscript: Dad called. Said today reminded him of when Bob Willis took 8/43 to win the Headingley test of ’81. Apparently he had the immersion heater re-lagged that day too.