Dances With Chazzwazzers

Last week I parted, reticently and rather sourly, with thirty-five Australian dollars to be led by a scruffy man in a silly hat a merry dance around the streets of Melbourne to look mainly at street art and the interior of a bank. As you’ll see from the inherent bitterness filtering all the way through that last sentence, the wound is still raw.

Yesterday went some way to repairing that damage. China’s pal Bets has a job interview for a nanny for a young couple who live between Coogee and Bondi beaches. Meeting Bets at Coogee Beach and equipping myself for the hike ahead as only the thinking man’s triathlete can, via the energising powers of a lamb & rosemary pie* washed down with a pot of Earl Grey, I’m ready for the six kilometre trek.

Bets has spent a bit of time in Sydney so acts as our tour guide and is delightful company. The walk takes us from the understated loveliness of Coogee Beach, where every square inch of sand or grass bank has been settled on slovenly by variations of slowly roasting human flesh, along an undulating coastal path to one of this country’s signature sights and a Mecca for anyone who’s ever bought a pair of Billabongs.
The blazing mid-afternoon sun means it’s as hot as Isa Guha while the route is more hilly than three people who spent the previous night in an Irish Bar would reasonably like it to be. The pathway meanders through Clovelly, Bronte and Tamarama, all teeming with locals and tourists politely jostling for surf space, while the piercing effervescent sea and its gentle breeze prove the perfect antidote to the heat.

We head for some shade while Bets speaks to her new employers. China takes a dip in the sea as bronzed, shirtless muscle bound all-Aussie kinda guy approaches me. “Aw look mate, I’m not being gay or anything but can you spray some lotion on my back?” He’s big, real big. Probably a prop forward for Cronulla Sharks. Or a lifeguard. Or a male stripper. Not being gay? You couldn’t get more gay if he’d have minced up with Kenneth Williams on his arm asking if I fancied making up a threesome for the matinee performance of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
I’m either getting punched or, indeed, fisted if I refuse, so to China’s great amusement and badly muffled giggling, I apply, as manfully as is possible when asked to perform such a request, the aforementioned spray. I make quite a good job of it as it happens, though luckily Bets returns from her interview in the nick of time and we make a sharp exit before the budgie smugglers come out. On the final stretch we pass Waverley Cemetry, a vast expanse of head stones and tributes overlooking the Tasman Sea that marks the dead centre of our walk.

Sorry.

Reaching Bondi we look around for something to eat, but decide, due to the vastness of the crowds and menu prices to head back to town. On the bus back, I watch on hopefully as a dozen or so tanned lovelies saunter past to find seating at the back of the vehicle. The unoccupied seat next to me is eventually taken by Johnny Vegas’s Bogan brother.
More badly muffled giggling from China.

Feeling like we’ve earned it, we head to George Street for a McScruffy’s steak & chips (Hello Jim!) but our tour of Sydney enters its second leg. Bets needs her baggage transporting from her hotel to the bus stop, a further four kilometres stroll around the city. As gentlemen, it’s the least we can do as a thank you for an enjoyable day. And this time we don’t get charged thirty-five bucks for the privilege….

*Pie-Day Friday Five Word Review: Probably not worth a review.

P.S. Where’s Wally? Scan the beach scene above to find the guy doing press ups in the middle of the beach.
“1001, 1002, 1003…. Oh-h, it’s the deep burn! Oh, it’s so deep! Oh, I can barely lift my right arm ’cause I did so many. I don’t know if you heard me counting, I did over a thousand.”

Knobhead.

Look…..

This cost me $1.

You can get them for your local Sydney Seven-Eleven.

It’s good coffee. Well, I mean, it’s not great, but it knocks that rubbish they give you at Costa or Starbucks into a cocked hat.

At last. A consumer win for the away team.

Whinging Pom, me? Abso-blooming-lutely.

Eagle-eyed readers among you will note a recent post where I proclaimed to be giving up drink in January. Thanks to Dimush Karunaratne this all went horribly wrong.
Shame on me for blaming him, people who know me best will know there was absolutely no chance of me going through with that folly. I did actually do drink-free January once. I’m still apologising for it now. The boy Karunarane’s demise called time early on this year’s efforts. My 56 hour prohibition ended via mine and China’s resolution to have a drink, despite all our previous best intentions, at the fall of every wicket.

As it turned out, the first day of the Sydney Test Match was eventful. Not as much as the Melbourne one though. Aussie captain Michael Clarke’s strange decision to put the opposition in backfired as Sri Lanka lasted the whole day and were better value than the previous match ending on 294 all out. Australia look as though they are still unsure of their best pace attack with the Ashes just six months away and their plan to roll the opposition over went badly awry as Sri Lanka got stuck in.

Back to the Devil’s Brew though. Thankfully, there are better people than me on God’s earth, people with more resolve, heart, people that back their conviction and stick with it. Readers, we should celebrate these people and the good that they do. Step forward a pal of mine, Gareth. He is going the whole of January without a drink. He is going to make a difference. He is going to raise money for Cancer Research for going beer-less in January. I encourage you to donate the price of a pint to Gareth to help him in his quest. Please see the link below and get giving for this great cause.

http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-gareth-copley

Meanwhile, here’s a picture of me with one of of my heros.

The de la France 24/7 Boulangerie. As French as a hastily prepared ferry blockade yet staffed almost entirely by Chinese people, where George Street crosses Goulburn Street, Sydney. An unusual grip of homesickness has engulfed me, tinged with a certain sadness. One of my heroes, Sid Waddell passed away last year.

When you speak of the all time greats of sports commentary, very few could match Sid. Unparalleled for his peerless powers as a wordsmith, his unflagging passion for his pet sport and his ability to inform and entertain, the genial Geordie had it all. His passing last summer was a sad day for darts.

As I scrabble and scroll back and forth between Twitter, BBC Sport, emails, phone, books, there’s absolutely no doubt tonight’s PDC World Darts finalists are serving up an absolute treat.
Dear old Sid would’ve loved it. Michael van Gerwen, from the one of the now traditional outposts of darts, Holland has been in outstanding form throughout the competition. The future of the sport and a man for whom Sid would’ve been rolling out the well-worked one liners flies into an early lead, first two-nil then four-two. Phil Taylor, a Titan of the tungsten and the subject of some of the greatest Waddell-based commentary begins a fight back so typical of the great man.

I can’t see it nor hear it. There’s thrice as many people that will be lapping this up at Alexandra Palace that have walked past me, completely oblivious to another great day for this great sport happening on the other side of the world. Stony faced commuters at the end of their holidays, bronzed or burnt or both backpackers somewhere in between theirs. Efficient waitresses flit round with Lattes and Long Blacks. As the morning’s gone on, the swelling traffic has drowned out the Edith Piaf. Chase The Sun? Chase the bus more like.

Through my iPad I’m back home. Feet up in front of the fire, slippers on with a Glenmorangie (Hello Wiss!) in hand, looking towards the heavens as Taylor piles on the genius. Tweets and refreshed updates replace the looks of admiring disbelief from Dad and the brilliant Sky coverage from the Pally. Taylor hits back hard. From a perilous position of four-two down and the ‘darts is a young man’s game now’ platitudes doing the rounds, the grandad from Stoke on Trent, once again, prepares to amaze and inspire as only he can.
Four-two becomes four-three.
Four all. Brian Moore introduces me to a splendid new word on Twitter downplaying darts’ cynics and nay-sayers.
Four-five. We think we know what’s coming. Tweeting cricketers of all generations and abilities get behind the Stokie, the oft maligned Colin Murray is doing a great job in tandem with the live-blogger on the Beeb’s website.
Four-six. The young man, van Gerwen, judging by the commentaries, appears to be a broken man. Taylor’s experience and ability looks to have won him an unprecedented sixteenth world title.
Four-seven. Taylor’s trophy again. An outstanding achievement whatever your viewpoint on his sport. Van Gerwen’s time will come.

I well up at the mention of Sid’s name in the online post-final Taylor interview, a fellow tourist looks on quizzically. Lost in my memories and reminiscences I don’t bother to try and explain.
Sydney’s loss. Through Sidney I have gained.

Like something out of the Fosters ads, Jesse talks me through his cooking apparatus. Built by his father-in-law, the engine is an old windscreen wiper motor and powers the Heath Robinson like contraption. The chain looks as dated as the car the engine came from. The structure, a sparce, unforgiving looking device, looks like a warm up act for a Spanish Inquisition re-enactment society.

Debate ensues as to the best way of firing it up. A combination of everyone’s ideas does the job. The coals whiten invitingly. Then comes the lamb.

Jesse has been a busy boy. What looks like half of a Welshman’s conquest list appears on a giant skewer. The Caaaaald Ones come out. The route to midnight has started.
It’s just gone one.

The Caaaaald Ones continue to come out. The jokes get filthier. A huge hunk of chook appears on another skewer. The lamb looks like the greatest thing in the world, the chicken isn’t far behind.A combination of impatience and hunger kicks in and diners try to pluck opportunistically from the meat.

For the finishing touch, Symo symbolically squeezes lemons to add to the flavour. The flames lick higher.

Then the carving begins. Blokes take it in turns to act the role of their favourite man in the world come closing time. Eschewing the obvious ‘cheeelllleeee zorss’ and ‘Hello Boss’ comments in favour of warm encouragement, the lamb, five hours after the operation started is ready to eat.

My taste buds explode in orgasmic raptures. This is some New Year’s Party. This is some meat.

Thank you Symo and Carly, thank you Jesse. Happy New Year everyone.

Two or three or four beers in to Symo’s New Year’s Eve Extraganza and my thoughts turn to the last twelve months. I am still a spectacularly poor human being, but thanks to the outstanding experiences this year has foisted upon me, my life has been further enriched.

My two favourite things this year have been the onset of proud uncle-hood and my country. They thought it couldn’t be done, they poured scorn upon its credentials but we did it.
We smashed it. The Olympic and Paralympic Games of London 2012.

I am always immensely proud of being English and British but not everyone is. I hope the events of our summer will change this perception. We showed that nobody does it better. What follows is a personal account of my two favourite things of 2012, one with reason to fondly remember, the other to hope for the best for our future.

Earnestly, 2012. Thank you.

2013? No pressure….

Dear Alfie,
Well you just about got to the party, and like the best Wissons at the best parties, you won’t remember a thing about it. You were born a month shy of the greatest event to hit these shores for over seventy, maybe 150, years. Like your mother you were born in an Olympic year. Like your father, your birth year will always be synonymous with British sporting excellence. For him, the party he never got to was Botham’s Ashes. Then it was all about one man. Now it’s all about one team. Team GB. And one city. London.
You’ll learn us Brits are a funny ol’ lot. There was more resigned trepidation than fevered expectation leading up to the start of London 2012. Thankfully, the events of the next six weeks saw ‘daring to dream’ replacing ‘doing ourselves down’ as the nation’s default disposition. Danny Boyle’s wonderful Opening Ceremony helped set this mood. I slept through this, however in readiness for my first Games Maker shift at Lord’s Cricket Ground for the Archery event the next day.
I am proud to write that I was part of London 2012. And I’ve got the t-shirt to prove it. And the trousers, trainers, jacket, cap, socks, brolly, flask, watch, even the man-bag. All dutifully put by for you to appreciate- or profit from- when you’re older. And if you like purple, red and beige, you’ll definitely appreciate it.
Ah, appreciation. It gladdens the soul, emboldens the heart. At the end of my last shift, as I funnelled my way behind my team of fellow Games Makers for a congratulatory demobbing and closing ceremony of our own I noticed we were being applauded by some of the spectators. Emboldened and gladdened, I sought out one of their number. A charming English rose, Laura, who looked every inch the Royal Box dweller in summer dress and Ascot hat. ‘I just think you’re all so brilliant’ she gushed. ‘This is amazing.’
In between the nervy beginnings and that triumphant finish was four days of utter bliss. My role at the Olympics was in the Printed Results Distribution team. I had to get the results of the matches out to the people who needed to know. In effect it was a minor role in the grand scheme of things. But in my mind I was at the centre of the action as I walked, mooched and slalomed my way among and around the thousands of fans within the magisterial surrounds of the Home of Cricket. I was helping deliver this epic footnote to Great Britain’s recent history along with those important documents clasped tightly in my excited hands.
Walking smartly along the corridors of power(in this instance the home of Judges and Technical Officials) in the Grand Stand or climbing to the best seat in the house, the top of the Pavilion roof to the media’s base, to the athletes’ area at the back of the Nursery Ground, I roamed Lord’s like it was a personal fiefdom. That I spent one of my lunch breaks giving an interview on the hallowed turf to the host broadcaster television crew reinforced this view. But the fact of the matter is everyone looked as I did. That ten foot high tall walk, those wide smiles, the tangible feeling you were part of something very special indeed.
Those treasured tinnies and words of congratulation in the Coronation Garden was the end of my London 2012 experience, so I thought. My line manager had other ideas.
So thanks then to Omar Ahmed, a prince among men, I find myself zipping along the banks of the Thames in the DLR against the cool August dawn. Past the rejuvenated East End, through those Tube Stations referencing the past of this proud city; East India Dock, Prince Regent, George V then the steadfast industries, present for hundreds of years, will remain here to see Empire evolve into legacy. It’s my first Paralympic Games shift at The Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich and I’ve no idea what to expect from my next involvement in London 2012.
Pulling, changing faces, rotating the boss; so many new phrases, so little time. Unlike my outsider’s role at Lords I’m away from the public and in among the athletes. I’m stationed on the Practice Range, attending to stray arrows and even more stray media types. Being among the Paralympians is a fascinating experience. According to my colleagues in the FOP team (It stands for Field of Play. There was I thinking I was going to be lounging around all day in a big shirt reciting Keats.) the atmosphere is more chilled out than it was at Lord’s and so this proves to be the case as Games Maker and Paralympian happily coexist.
I get to be on nodding terms with these wonderful athletes and I chart their progress from afar as the competition hots up. One of the archers is taken to the hearts of the London crowd in particular. Matt Stutzman, an armless archer from the USA, captivates audiences with his unique style and charming personality and finishes with a silver medal in the Compound Open Final. The strains of Coldplay’s ‘Paradise’ reverberate evocatively around the arena at the end of the medals ceremony and with a lump in my throat I know my time at London 2012 is coming to an end.
The memories will live on however. What a summer it was dear nephew. Never mind all that rainfall from May to July you’ll doubtless be told about, 2012 was a golden summer; Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy, Mo Farah, Jessica Ennis, Laura Trott, Sarah Storey, David Weir, Joe Strummer, Ben Ainslie, Ellie Simmonds, Victoria Pendleton, Sebastian Coe, Greg Rutherford are but a few who are proof of that.
Here’s to your future. Here’s to our future.

Much love,

Uncle H x

The Saturday afternoon sporting fix. The cricket finished a day or two early and all the local league matches are taking the traditional seasonal two week break. Melbourne Victory beat Emile Heskey’s Newcastle Jets last night and there’s no football until Monday.
Not the weather for rugby. Aussie Rules doesn’t start until March.
Golf? China’s keen but I tell him it’s probably best we don’t. I love the sport, but nothing brings on weeks of savage self-loathing more than a bad round of golf, which, as we’re technically still in the season of being jolly, is not ideal this time of year.

Hang on. Horse Racing? Cracked it.
Moonee Valley Racecourse, situated in Moonee Ponds twenty minutes outside Melbourne city centre is the venue for our excursion. It seems we’re not the only sport famished folk who’ve decided to go from the ‘G to the gee-gees as the train empties scores of Victorians into this quiet satellite town. We follow the crowd into the impressive looking grandstand and hit upon the idea of a couple of Caaaaald Ones while China gets his well-trained racing brain around the scorecard.

If Channel 4 still haven’t found a replacement for John McCrirrick, our man could be up there. He knows his stuff does China and routinely picks the winners and places out going using his tried and tested formula. My methods are less scientific, Billy Ocean’s When The Going Gets Tough sounds out over the PA while the name ‘Primitive Man’ in the card tells me all I need to know.
Amazingly, mine wins by a head in a field of eleven over 1600 metres. I then correctly place the next race.

Hope, damn hope. A familiar theme here (Hello Welsh Andy!).

Couldn’t it have been the other way round? Lose first, give up completely, then enjoy watching China and Rebecca getting rich. I start unwisely chasing the races like an errant Sri Lankan batsman after an Aussie quick. The inevitables begin to pile up. The sun gets hotter, the beer tastes better, the bookies get richer.
The standard of racing is good, as are the MVRC’s facilities and we are treated to an impromptu tour of the place by an obliging receptionist. My luck worsens and I end the afternoon only seven dollars down.

One less Caaaaald One for later then? You’d have thought so. The day does not end well however and alcohol will be off the menu for me until at least the end of January.

Tomorrow night excepted, of course.

Sri Lanka’s timid capitulation brings about an early end to the Boxing Day Test. Our choice of afternoon plans is between sitting in Federation Square topping up the tan or contracting chilblains, depending on the mood of the schizo Melbournian weather, or heckling the bloke who gave us the city tour yesterday as today’s victims gather around, eager and unknowing.
Despite struggling to put days to dates in the Christmas to New Year week, I remember it’s Friday and that means one thing. Leading China past St. Paul’s Cathedral and up through Flinders Lane we take in one of the many CBD based branches of Pie Face, a franchise that joyfully capitalises on the Aussie love of one of its signature dishes and seems to outnumber, in Melbourne anyway, the by now traditional but unwelcome fast food joints that engulf other cities worldwide.

The menu is fairly extensive, and the counter is rammed with enticing pies that gurn temptingly back at you from beneath the glass. Plumping for the deal of the day with full coke and cookie accompaniment, the snappily monikered The Stack. Grabbing an outside table we settle down, underneath the dive bombing pigeons and alongside the trams heaving with Boxing Day Sales shoppers, to a late lunch.

The pie-tender brings out the spoils. Seductively slathered in piped mashed potato, an e-number filled pea-based equivalent and topped with gravy thicker than the Sri Lankan opening batsmen’s second innings run out, today’s selection lives up to its name.

Where to begin? I press down with my plastic cutlery on pastry that billows as delightfully as a Melbourne maiden’s summer skirt in a playful south easterly breeze. The knife hacks at the pie top as forlornly as a hapless golfer in the rough. Spotting a way in through the spray-on veg, I hit the steak and cheese. The meat is chunky and tender while the cheese sauce tasked with guarding it from praying plastic forks lacks sharpness. Meanwhile, the gravy tastes like its come from the stockpot of heaven after someone’s enterprisingly added extra Worcester Sauce on the way down. The potato and peas are as anaemic as the cheese yet, combined with the steak and gravy, make for a fine Friday fix.

The nuisance birds would be reminded to not stray too close. Today’s successful trip and the extensive menu mean I’m already looking forward to my next visit to Pie Face. Today’s Steak & Cheese could be next week’s Thai Chicken, or Peppered Steak. Or the week after’s Pigeon Pie.

Think on, Speckled Jim.

There’s not really a lot for us Poms to whinge about over here, despite the locals bleating to the contrary. It really is a rather wonderful place to spend some time. One thing that does get our collective British gander up is that everything is so ridiculously overpriced.
Take yesterday’s activity for example. Following a recommendation in the guide book, China books us up for a tour of the city, by foot. Excellent work, I thought, a chance to immerse myself in the cultural heart of Victoria and a good walk in the bargain too.

Bargain.

What a horribly cataclysmic choice of word that is.
Our tour guide asks for his money up front. I reticently hand over my money, for the price I’ve paid this is going to be absolutely the greatest, most thorough piece of bespoke tourism undertaking ever. It has to be.

$35 for a walking tour of Melbourne.

Yes, you read that correctly, no I’m not re typing it because it hurts too much. The bloke didn’t even look embarrassed when I handed him over my money.
So then, what did this tour involve? Unrivalled access to this marvellous city’s famous points of interest, to the corridors of power atop the Eureka Building, to Kylie’s Summer House even?
Sadly, none of the above. It did, however, feature a lot of this.

Which is brilliant if you like that sort of thing. Well I don’t.
China isn’t helping. “Just think mate, we could be sat in Fed Square on deck chairs nursing A Caaaaald One watching the cricket on the big screen and the girls go by.”
It’ll improve. It has too. There’s all that history to go through. Ah, yeah, hang on, there’s not all that much history here to go through is there.
We pause for a drink. Now then, a chance to bring it back. Our tour guide’s getting the beers in, surely?
No, no he isn’t.
We repair to a run-of-the-mill Melbourne cafe for orange juices. “This has got to be the best orange juice in all of the Antipodes”, I suggest hopefully to China. “Sweeter than an England away victory, squeezed ‘twixt the thighs of skint, buxom Swedish backpackers and served in glass frosted directly from the Antarctic.”
I’m wrong. But it is a welcome break from the graffiti at least.
The tour resumes and we head towards the financial district and some old buildings, which I enjoy. Then we go to the Banking Museum of Australia, which, surprisingly and almost ironically, is free entry, so I guess we’ve got two tours for the price of one, right? However, the museum’s closed, so we have a look at the ornate foyer and the portraits of ANZ directors past and present.
Then it’s a shopping mall and a look round the coffee shops before a stroll next to the Yarra wraps the tour up almost exactly three hours since we set out from Federation Square. I couldn’t have felt more short-changed if I’d have bought tickets for Day Four of the Boxing Day Test.
“Just think about it,” says China resignedly, “that tour guide’s made $400 for three hours work. Times that by a week, that’s obscenely overinflated Chelsea player levels of ill-deserved remuneration.” The Caaaaald One tastes bitter, but it’s probably just me.

Then this bloke turns up.

By way of introduction to China he opens with “Yeah, I’ve kinda lost it recently….” Brilliant.
It’s great to see him, six years on, he’s not changed a bit. Elstow CC’s original shambolic genius, Browny. Back in Australia.
A quick catch up later, some fond reminiscences of his time in Bedfordshire and we’re off on another tour. Browny’s Tour of Melbourne. We head to his current cricketing home, Emerald Hill CC based at St.Kilda Bowls Club for a few Happy Hour drinks then on to Acland Street for steak and chips. On hearing of our afternoon’s misadventure, Browny sagely pipes up, “aw look fellas, for seventy bucks I could’ve just talked shit at you for three hours and got ya pissed….”

I decide tomorrow’s a dry day and to not bother with Lonely Planet recommendations for the rest of my time in Australia.

Thank you to China for the photos. Top work mate.

As Boxing Day traditions go, it’s a bit of an odd one. Since the installation of satellite telly in our house a few years ago, my Boxing Day begins earlier than most people’s. A four-in-the-morning start. Downstairs, light fire, brew tea, sneaky bit of pâté on toast (with maybe some blue cheese and cranberry sauce) from yesterday’s festive spread, put on telly.
The imported broadcast from Channel 9. Australia versus whoever. A time to savour one of the marquee days in world cricket, a world away, from my living room.

Why? Indefensibly, I’m a Test Cricket tragic. One of my objectives as part of my current world tour was to get to the Melbourne Cricket Ground on 26th December for a day doing what I love doing most.

Sometimes my cricket fix works out really rather beautifully (2010- got downstairs just as our brave lads had skittled out the home team) and other times it doesn’t (2006- Bill Lawry nearly spontaneously combusting through paroxysms of high-pitched pleasure as Shane Warne took his 700th Test Wicket and our brave lads took a bit of a beating).

If I’d been back in Bedfordshire yesterday rather than in person at the ‘Greatest Sports Stadium Ever Built. In The World. Ever’ as a friendly local (Hello Rebecca!) keeps referring to it, I’d have probably gone back to bed.

Sri Lanka all out for 156. An inspired display by Australia’s pace bowlers and some horrid, horrid batting by the Sri Lankans meant The G was on a roll.

Yep, I’d have definitely put the half-done toast back in the bread bin, let the tea stew and trudged disconsolately and dozily back upstairs. As it was, I was there, so I had to endure all the Aussie grandstanding from close up. They bowled well, so they deserved it.

Tier 4, Bay Q18, Row D, Seat 10. An outstanding vantage point (Thank you again Gooders!) for an outstanding exhibition of pace bowling. Mitchell Johnson had one of his good days so we didn’t bother with the song. Jackson Bird showed great promise on debut and Peter Siddle loves playing in front of his home crowd as much they love him.
Sri Lanka were terrible though, Kumar Sangakkara excepted. The openers both got out stupidly. And early. Mahela Jayawardena had an off day. There was no tail to wag.

In reply, a rather dim-witted half hour from Australia almost made things interesting for the visitors, them being three wickets down but only six runs behind at the close. Michael Clarke and Shane Watson look in the mood against Sri Lanka’s pop gun attack. One of the travesties of our wonderful sport is that the preening, lazy but very talented Lasith Malinga isn’t out there giving his all for his country with his hooping, Yorking deliveries. Instead, he’s happy getting more money for less work playing in Australia’s Twenty20 competition. (I can understand it to a point, but it’s not right really is it?) The Melbourne crowd are being denied through Malinga’s greed, as are his rather forlorn looking Sri Lankan teammates.

This time next year, England are back at the MCG. My Boxing Day experience lived up to all expectations, a real highlight of what has been a rather wonderful year for me in one way or another.

Will I be sat beside the fire, remote control in hand, Richie Benaud’s unmistakable tones as mellifluous as any birdsong clearing away the sleepiness? Or, will I be among the Barmy Army, on to my sixth ‘Caaaaald One’ and halfway through the Doritos and Smoked Salmon & Avocado dip, roaring our brave lads on?