After a couple of refreshing beers, some looked-better-than-they tasted noodles and chicken, and a tour around the shops to secure that replacement for my lost cap, the time continued to drag. Last time I was at Changi Airport I was a smoker, and kept popping outside for a swift puff, knowing it would be my last for a good 14 hours or so. After the incident in Amsterdam when I coughed up blood, those smoking days had passed. Now I went out into the open air to wonder if my memory recall of it being the same as walking into a sauna fully clothed was the correct one.

It was. In among the outdoor shrubbery, steaming from the recent rain, it was that same old feeling as the pores opened up and the sweat dripped out. Must be fun to have to put up with that, but then again, maybe I’d lose a few pounds if I stayed there. One day, I might just find out.

Then it was time to go, to pick up the flight to Adelaide. As I recalled when we went to Brisbane four years before, the gate is well out to the side of the airport terminal, so involved a decent hike to get to. As we waited in line to have our bags scanned and tickets and passports checked, our first brief encounter with a cricket celebrity ensued.

Four years ago, on our flight out to Brisbane it was John Edrich and Paul Allott. On the flight out to South Africa in 2004/5 it had been Jack Simmons. This time, the unmistakeable loping figure of Angus Fraser breezed through the business class line and waited his turn. At the time he was the cricket correspondent for the Independent, and they’d obviously not needed him at the Gabba. Being the respectful kind, we did not bother the surly looking so and so, and made our way to the seats in the lounge by the gate.

One thing was evident. This was not as packed as our flight to Brisbane four years before, as had been indicated at Heathrow. In fact, when our seat row was called, we looked faintly ridiculous as Danno, Sir Peter and I crammed into our row and everyone else spread out. Like the overgrown schoolboy, I nabbed the window seat and awaited the flight departure.

It always happens to me on a flight. I’m a lump, that I know, so the sheer fact of flying is never going to be comfortable for me (and when Ryanair think about charging me more for my suffering, they can do one), but what I really do need is an ignorant tosser in front who is just going to sling his seat back at the first opportunity. Yes, I know it is an overnight flight, and yes, I know the bloke had every right to do so, but I don’t do it until the person behind has, because if the chap behind me hasn’t done it, then he’s knackered. It might be being English, but that’s me.

Add to that, you know a meal is going to be served an hour in, so can’t you wait? This chap had a vegetarian meal (wrong ‘un) and as soon as he finished, and before I had, wallop! The seat had gone back.

Seven hours of this joy. Thankfully we spread out a bit too, but not before I continued tutting about rudeness. I know some others who would have got up and lamped the bloke, but not me. I’m a moaner, not a fighter!

The flight took a while, as all overnighters seem to do, and I didn’t really get much sleep. I remember watching the end of Crash (I’d seen the first hour on the flight home from Barbados, but another inconsiderate passenger made watching the end impossible) – note this is the Oscar winner, not the Cronenburg version – and I thought it was a very good film. There’s your film review.

As dawn broke over the Australian outback, we knew our time was coming closer. The aircraft descended and we got a full look as we flew over the north of the city of Adelaide, where I got to see the Adelaide Oval and recognise some of the features from four years previous. It was a pretty odd feeling, I have to say, as the first thing we were going to do when we got to Adelaide, was to leave it.

Of course, before we landed, we had to fill out the superbly worded Quarantine Card. This caused me great stress first time around, as I kept asking the Aussie sitting next to me if I should cross the first box as I had a preventer called Becotide for my asthma, which is a steroid.

Here’s the question…

Are you bringing into Australia…

1              Goods that may be prohibited or subject to restrictions, such as medicines, steroids, firearms, weapons of any kind or illicit drugs?

It is a belter. I had medicines on me – so much so that last time I visited the quarantine officer wondered if I was dying. I stressed and fussed so much that I worked myself up into a right old state. This time I did as last – I crossed the box and underlined the word steroid. I wasn’t nearly as fussed this time around.

The plane landed at Adelaide International, which certainly had had a facelift from the last time I saw it. We disembarked, and made our way towards the passport control. While in the queue and officious looking border control lackey was questioning those who looked suspicious as to what they were doing in Australia. We must have looked honest. He questioned the bloke sitting in front of me, and it was like a meeting of like minded pig-headedness. I hope they stuck him back on the next flight.

Once I got to the passport desk, the officer asked why I’d ticked the box. I replied “I have a steroid for my asthma, and have a copy of the prescription here” and the card was scrawled with a big X and I was told to show this to the quarantine officer before we had the old “welcome to Australia”. All that after the same old nonsense about return tickets, where were we staying, when were we going home, and why we were here. Do you think I could emigrate without you knowing with your poxy baggage restrictions?

Once the suitcase had come through, suitably bashed up, and my travelling partners had their’s, I headed to the quarantine officer fully expecting another bag search. She was a surly looking woman, and when I handed the card with a big X, she asked “what do you have?”. I presented my prescription with Becotide on it, she took one look, and said “pass straight through”. No bag search, nothing. Hip Hip Hooray. I was already one up on 2002.

Once through the final customs clearance and into the main arrivals hall, we needed to find our car hire firm. Sir Peter had booked it online in advance, and it was now a matter of finding the office, securing the car, and we’d be away.

The rental pick up would be, funnily enough, in the car park. We picked up our estate car (can’t recall the make or manufacturer, but it was a sizeable beast, and it was silver) from a surly Aussie rental dealer, and decided just to have the one driver. The difference in price which was paid up front for some minimal insurance policy was paid for by one of our number, and I’m not saying who for reasons you’ll find out later, and we were set to go. As the suspicious cynical person you probably know me to be, we checked the car for bumps, scrapes and dents so that they could not charge us for something already on the car. Once all was cleared, and once the directions were given for us to get out of town, we were on the road.

A quick text home to tell Dmitri Jr we’d landed, a quick text to Adelaide Exile to let him know we’d arrived in the land of his domicile, and then Dmitri Old settled into the passenger seat for the job of his calling – map reading. You’d never have guessed that, would you?

We headed out of the airport, got onto Cross Road, followed that all the way down until it got to the A1, and the main Adelaide to Melbourne motorway. While giving the directions from the map we had had daubed, I also set about finding the cricket commentary on the radio. The hope that had been cast by the media of stormy weather (and I found this out from watching the live coverage my brother had taped, where Aspergers Botham was positively salivating over the possibility of a thunderstorm) had not, funnily enough, materialised, and England were starting on 293 for 5 with an outside hope of a draw, and to do so, KP needed to get a real biggie. As we drove along the main road towards the motorway, the Aussie version of Test Match Special reported the fateful news from the fourth ball of the day. KP had lazily flicked a ball from Brett Lee straight to Damien Martyn at short midwicket and England were six down and with their only hope of salvation gone. Welcome to Australia. The Jinx had arrived.

As we headed out of Adelaide, onto the increasingly sparsely populated A1, and passing such lovely place names as Mount Lofty, Mount Barker, St Ives and Hahndorf, the driving became easier and more boring. The test match wasn’t exactly giving us cause to get too excited, as seven overs after the KP dismissal, Geraint Jones played on to Glenn McGrath and a few overs later Ashley Giles edged to Warne off Clark departing like a “simpering lover who can’t accept he’d been dumped” according to cricinfo.

The road was becoming more bare, and the towns fewer and further between. The first major settlement (and name on the road signs) was Murray Bridge, and for some reason, and I recall not why, we turned off the Princes Highway and drove through and around it, seeing nothing. I got a picture of the River Murray. It will be appended. It is brilliant. Unutterably dull nonsense.

See....I told you it was dull....

We got back onto the A1 and took it to the place called Tailem Bend, where we got off the main road, and decided to head down the B1. The thinking behind this was if we got unexpectedly tired – well, if Sir Peter did, as he was driving – we’d find one of the towns en route, book a B&B or hotel and crash the rest of the day. This road took us along the coast passing towns such as Kingston SE, Robe and Millicent before we got to Mount Gambier, which would be our expected stopping point.

As we pulled off the main highway, the cricket wasn’t going according to plan, and when we stopped off at a roadside shop to top up the petrol and get some provisions for the journey, England lost Hoggard, and soon after we departed the garage, Harmison provided the final wicket and a mighty win for the Australians. England didn’t even make it to lunch. I did. I was munching on a large bag of crisps. No bloody change there then…

Meanwhile the drive was becoming a bit more interesting. The roads were empty, long and straight. The scenery becoming more dry as mighty salt pans stretched as far as the eye could see. The sheer brilliance of the light dazzling off the ghostly white salt pierced even the toughest of sunglasses. The heat, the sheer dryness of the landscape was awe inspiring. The photos I have do not do it justice. Once past Meningie, where we stopped, the road hugs the coast, but I don’t really recall seeing the sea.

On the road - lots of salt....

More Salt

Then, 150 miles or so from Murray River, we entered the town of Kingston SE. The SE stands for South East to differentiate it from another town in South Australia with the same name. Simple, but effective. It was named after George Strickland Kingston, and definitely not after the suburb in South West London. Then they might have called it Kingston SW, and that would have confused even more people. The other Kingston has differentiated itself from this Kingston by calling itself Kingston-on-Murray, the stuck up, pretentious, hyphenated nouveau riche that they are. 297 kilometres from Adelaide (around 185 miles) it would have been a mere dot on the map, but for “Larry”.

Larry The Big Lobster!

What the hell was this creature? Why make a statue / sculpture / eye sore (delete as applicable) like this to besmirch your town? According to Wikipedia, it is a “tourist attraction” (given it is 297 km from the nearest major city, I wouldn’t really go out of my way to see it) and stands 17 metres tall, made of steel and fibre glass. It is regarded as one of the best of Australia’s Big Things.

More Larry!

I’ll pause now to comment on one of the reasons I quite like Aussies, and I don’t mean it as patronisingly as it may sound. If, say, Southend had commissioned this eye sore and placed it on the seafront, you can bet your life the local council would have hired expensive consultants to come up with a suitable title for it, and a series of other such monuments, which “merged together the concept of the town’s dependence on tourism and fishing, and which matches symbiotically human and animal in the vivacity of life”. It would have been called The Essex Crustacean or something as part of the UK’s Living Concept Statues or some other piffle.

In Australia, they call them “Big Things”. I don’t care if they paid millions to the firm involved to dream up the title. Big Things. So easy, a five year old could have dreamed it up. “What’s that over there, little Bruce?” “Why, mum, it’s a fair dinkum Big Thing…”

Do you want to know more about the Big Things? I suggest looking them up on the internet. Here is the link. It started with a Big Banana…..

We stopped to take the usual tourist photos, but the town detained us no further as Sir Peter wanted to make headway for Mount Gambier. 158 kilometres further down the Prince’s Highway, we entered the outskirts of Mount Gambier, the largest town in Southern South Australia, and set about looking for somewhere to eat, fill up the car, and sleep.

The town itself had its usual fast food outlets, and Sir Peter doesn’t do McDonalds, because they are evil. I think we ate in the equally nutritiously deficient KFC, on Penola Road, walked up and down East Commercial Street, didn’t really like what we saw (and to all Mount Gambier residents who one day might stumble on this, I mean no offence) and decided to head on further east and find a seaside town nearer the Great Ocean Road – the whole reason we were doing this mad drive while jet-lagged.

We headed east along the Prince’s Highway and crossed into Victoria. The road continued as we headed towards Portland. By this time I was in the back of the car and had given up the ghost. My eyes were too tired to cope and I fell asleep. I do remember the outskirts of Portland, and then my eyes went. When I came round, there had been some car doors open and closed, a few discussions, and then Sir Peter awoke me.

“Where are we?”

“Port Fairy. I’ve just had a word with the owner, and she has a triple room for the night” (I can’t recall the price).

“How does it look?”

“It looks OK to me, shall we book it?”

“Absolutely, you’ve driven far enough today as it is. If its clean we’ll take it.”

I can’t recall the name of the place we stayed in; it might have been the Comfort Inn, but I just don’t know. Whatever, it was a triple room, it was comfortable and we could crash for the night there. It was around 6 pm and we needed to get some dinner down us to prolong the need for sleep, and to get us on to some sort of normal time setting. I’d had an hour doze, so I was up on the other two!

In the next instalment – some snaps of Port Fairy, a chance encounter, and the Ocean Road. I know this is a cricket blog, but it is mine, so there…….

Before I go, a couple of Port Fairy Pics…

If the owners, or any Port Fairy people know this hotel, let me know…

Is This The Comfort Inn?

Danno and Sir Peter On The Bridge...

At least, by the end of this instalment, I’d have bloody well got there. Hurrah, I hear you cry!

Well not so fast, because by the end of this instalment, in the words of Bon Jovi, we were half way there. (Well, probably nearly two thirds of the way, but who is keeping score?)

The story continues….

“OK, I’ll pull up here”. Viscount Brian pulled his roomy estate car over to the right hand side of the road on the Hammersmith One-Way System. This was where we would be cast adrift on our walkabout. An urban zoo, an awful underground station in the middle of a “gyratory system” on a dank, dark, dismal late November afternoon. We unloaded the gear from the back of the car, and set upon our way. I had borrowed a large suitcase from my brother’s mother-in-law which I was not confident was going to last the distance.

Lord, I’m off and rambling about suitcases now. When I went four years ago I bought a new case from a back street store in Eltham. Cheap in price, but roomy, it fell apart after the one journey. I’ve never used it since. Because it would probably disintegrate. I did have a smaller black case that has since done all the visits to the States, every weekend away, and indeed, South Africa. It is sturdy and although showing signs of age, is still intact. But no, I needed a bigger case, and this one was going to do. As I was pulling the damn thing through Hammersmith I was longing for the old case. This big blue monster was not going to make it, I could tell.

Any great journey starts with a small step, and this case it was buying a one-way ticket to Heathrow Terminal 3 on the Piccadilly Line. Tickets purchased we waited at the platform for the train to rumble in. When it did, it was packed. It seemed like everyone else had got on before us with suitcases, bags, pesky kids, noisy students etc. We somehow wedged ourselves in for what was set to be a luxurious 30 minutes or so! The journey was made all the sweeter when we came above ground and I was texted by Dmitri Jr to say WindyBricks were losing 3-1. It had been a great start to the season under our genius manager (who was fired pretty soon into it) and losing at the league leaders wasn’t a disgrace. It was also a little odd that I seemed to miss games against Robin Hood’s Wood due to travelling – we won 2-1 there on the day I flew home from South Africa, and beat them 1-0 at home on the day I arrived in Kazakhstan. I’m digressing again.

At Terminal Three (given the recent events in my life, my nickname for it “Terminal Cancer” did not seem appropriate any more), we disembarked and made our way to the check-in desk for Singapore Airlines. I recalled from four years previous that there was a bit of a queue and that Sir Peter and I had to sit in the middle seats on a 747 if we wanted to sit together. It was bloody awful, to be honest. I wasn’t able to online check-in for the flight this time around, for some reason or another, so we now had to work on three people getting put together for the flight. Also, last time around, going into Brisbane, both the London and Brisbane legs of the flight were packed. Given we were flying into Adelaide when the test was on in Brisbane, we hoped we’d get lucky and get a less crowded flight.

After about a 15 minute wait we were called forward. The check-in desk attendant took our passports and set about sorting out seats. For the flight from London to Singapore there was no chance of three together. Instead, Sir Peter and Danno were on the right hand side in two seats towards the front of cattle class, and I was placed in what the charming lady called “the big boys seats” at the back. These are the seats in a 747 where the row in front is of three seats, and the row you are in is of two. It allows us of wider disposition to spread our legs a little for that extra piece of room. For the second leg, we would all be together on the 777 from Singapore to Adelaide as the flight was “nowhere near full”.

Then a snag, and of course, it had to happen to me – Mr Nervous Traveller… the check-in desk attendant handed back Sir Peter and Danno’s passports and keeps mine. She mutters something about having to go back to the office behind her to “check something out”. You ever get that sinking feeling of total dread in your stomach? That churning inside….that is what I felt at that moment. Is there a toilet nearby?

At this point it runs through your head “why has she done that?” – if that isn’t stating the bleeding obvious, then what is? I booked on the same ticket as Sir Peter, so it couldn’t be a mistake on the booking, because he was fine, and she’d allocated me a seat. Maybe it was to do with not being able to reserve a seat and online check-in on the net and some problem there? I’ve travelled on that passport before, just a year ago,on long haul to Barbados, so what was the problem with it now?

It seemed an age before she came back, but smiled and said everything was fine. For some reason I didn’t think to ask what the problem was. When we flew home from Perth three weeks later, and the same thing happened, I did ask. The check-in desk attendant, who was a cheeky, noisy sort, said “I shouldn’t really tell you this, but I will. There’s a [Dmitri’s real name, including middle name] on our banned list, and we had to double check it is not you looking at further data like date of birth and any picture records of him.” So there’s an international ne’er do well going round with my name causing me grief (when I went to Orlando the following February, with Virgin Atlantic, this caused immense problems due to the US requirement to pre-register. I was ferried back and forth for ages at Gatwick, which is a garbage airport in the first place, and sealed the deal of me never flying Virgin again (if I could help it). I have never had these difficulties with British Airways).

At the time I was more concerned with getting on board, and that horrible self-conscious feeling that other people waiting in the dreadful queues at the time were being delayed by some problem I caused (when, of course, it was no fault of my own to be born with exactly the same name as troublemaker). All these people looking at you, thinking “what’s that effing idiot’s problem?” It ain’t nice when you look like your head is about to explode.

So, stress and panic over, we realised it was 6:30 and our flight wasn’t leaving for over another three hours. Killing time in Terminal Three is not the easiest. Given that one of us would have to drive at the other end, it was also not going to be the greatest idea to get tanked up in advance. I really don’t recall doing a lot, except maybe getting some water for the flight, some reading material, and lord knows what else. We might have had something to eat, I might have gone to the duty-free, but the time, I remember, went really slowly.

Ah yes! I remember now! Danno had somehow secured passes into the lounge at Heathrow. It wasn’t the Singapore Airlines one, but some sort of generic old tut. You didn’t get a lot of bang for your buck but you had the TV (Ramprakash in Strictly Come Dancing) and you could get free non-alcoholic beverages. We spent a couple of hours in there, and decided to leave. I decided to leave without my 2004 World Series Boston Red Sox cap, a harbinger of things to come. I like to think that some cleaner came along and claimed it for himself and I’ve created another Red Sox fan. It helps me sleep at night that other’s benefit from my absent-minded senility. I discovered the loss on the flight to Singapore, when I went to the bag and the hat wasn’t there. Miffed.

Once the delights of the lounge gave way to boarding time, we wandered off down the corridors to the gate. Being sat at the back I was in the first portion of cattle class to get on board.

On boarding the flight, I said bon voyage to the other two, and settled into my seat in the back on the left. In truth, I was dreading this bit. With the exception of the Adelaide to Singapore leg in 2002, the flight was dreadful, with no real leg room, cramped and dark cabins due to the flights being overnight, and the sheer length of time on board, it was horrendous. Singapore Airlines is a fabulous airline – their food was a delight – but it became an endurance test caused by space. Or lack of it.

This time, I got a result. This flight was not full. The chap assigned to the seat next to me took one look, probably thought “oh my God, 12 hours with that fat bastard” and said to me “if no-one takes the seat over the way, I’ll have that after we take off.” He didn’t even wait for that. So I got two seats all to myself, and had a pretty decent sleep, by my aircraft standards. To put this into context – on the flight to Singapore last time I might have got an hour. Possibly. For this flight, I got 4 hours.

I listened to music, watched Minority Report, I think (memory fading a bit) and visited the guys at the other end of economy a couple of times. I had a good chat with the old couple behind me who were off to Perth to see their daughter, and the flight passed relatively painlessly. I wished I could have opened the blind on the window earlier to see below, but I would probably have been shot.

As the flight wore on, the food and drink were as acceptable as ever, thoughts wandered to the stop over in Changi Airport. I have this wonderful memory of the airport from the previous visit; memories of a vast cavernous airport with nice shops, bars, food outlets and sitting space. I had barely given the 4th day’s play a thought.

The descent into Singapore takes an age. Once you’ve left Indian land, your disproportionate sense of distance leads you to believe you are almost there. Well, mine did. The Bay of Bengal is bloody massive, and it takes some time to make landfall (well you run parallel to the west coast) over (can you do that?) Malaysia. Pass Penang, pass Kuala Lumpur, then over the Malay Peninsula, looking at the islands below, then pass to the south of Singapore, turn north and land, just on the other side of a golf course I believe. It was grey, it had obviously rained, and I didn’t have a clue what time it was supposed to be!

As we wandered off the flight and the seemingly endless pedestrian walkways, I switched on the mobile, intending to send a text to Dmitri Jr to tell him we had arrived in Singapore. 8 hours ahead, around 6 pm Singapore time, it would be a reasonable time, so away I went. The phone was switched on, and once a signal had been picked up, so I was all ready to ring. The usual first text came up – welcome to Singtel or whatever – and then one came through from Dmitri Jr. Again, I don’t recall the actual text because it has long since been deleted. I was fully expecting it to say “England lost” as bro’ is not a man of many words (you’ll find that out from his match report via text of WindyBricks home game against Huddersfield).

It went along the lines of – England 293 for 5. Collingwood got 96, Pietersen is 92 not out.

I passed on the news to the compatriots on the travellator (or whatever it is you call them), especially pleased that “my KP” was still in. Not a lot of hope, but at least some fight was the consensus of opinion. “Previous England teams would have packed it in” was another view. I phoned the younger Dmitri to let him know we’d arrived in Singapore, and asked him this and that, and promised to ring / text when we got to Adelaide and beyond.

Ah yes, Adelaide and beyond. The sheer scale of our task hadn’t really entered into our heads, and reality would soon bite. Three jet-lagged Englishmen would hop into a car, head south out of Adelaide and on towards Melbourne, a mere 600 miles away. We wanted to do the Ocean Road, we wanted to find somewhere to sleep as far as we could get on the way there. To do that, we would land in South Australia and have to drive over 300 miles. A piece of cake.

We settled down to the business at hand, namely exploring the endless possibilities of Changi Airport. For some reason I’d brought some Euros with me, so used them to buy another memory card for the phone (and I was thankful for that, the amount of pictures I took required three cards). I got some Singapore dollars out of the cash machine and we had a couple of Tiger beers at the bar we drank at four years ago. We ate at the same noodle place we visited on our last journey out there.

After the loss of the Red Sox cap, I needed another to supplement my short supply of headgear (rationed by the stingy luggage limits). The offerings in Changi were on the limited side, but I did manage to settle on a nice little white Nike cap (which I’ve since lost – what a surprise) which could have come off a tennis court. I fully intended buying some caps out there, so there was no need to pack any others, but you can always count on my stupidity.

The pictures I’ve seen from the trip that relate to our little stay in Changi are not held digitally (unless Danno has finally reached the digital age and got a computer – I think not). I do remember faintly stupid pictures of me in the Santa’s grotto, but we’ll never see Sir Peter’s pictures of them. I never bothered getting any pictures of an airport.

I have located one of Danno’s pictures – it is of me with a Father Christmas. I’ll let my comments I posted on a WindyBrick board tell you what I thought of the situation…

“Nice first leg of the flight.

Amazing how we in the UK apologise about Christmas but this airport makes no bones that it is that time of the year. And this isn’t a Christian country.

Next stop – Adelaide. Be good all.”

Indeed!

Next Instalment – the second leg, Angus Fraser, an obnoxious arsehole in the seat in front, losing KP in Adelaide, a giant lobster, salt pans, a disapppointing Mount, and a chance encounter…..

Thursday pre-departure (we were leaving on Saturday) was to be the drink-up to say cheerio to my mates at work, and also to meet up with Sir Peter and discuss final arrangements (him picking me up, how we would meet up with Danno, and how to get to the airport). I’m not going to go too much into a Kirin Ichiban fuelled frenzy which ended with me walking from the bar in Moorgate to London Bridge in a huff, and with young Mr Turner doing his best with female folk from the office he then worked in, only to say that as with most things, when we all sobered up, life was a little better.

However, going home that night, quite frankly, in a state, meant I was in no fit condition to watch the action from Brisbane. In a cunning piece of planning, the Aussie money and travellers cheques were to be delivered that Friday morning, so if they turned up at their normal time, I would be delayed getting into the office. Hence, no door bell would mean a lie in to recover from the previous night’s escapades. They duly turned up at a reasonable hour, by which time I had awoken from my drunken slumber and put on Breakfast TV to find out the score. What confronted me was not something to set the heart off with glee.

I remember prising my eyelids open to see the sports report commenting that Australia had declared on 602/9. I had woken up in the middle of the night and knew that Ponting was out, but that was about all. It would have been a stagger downstairs and swallow the ibuprofen job rather than any committed attempt to find out the score. But 602 seemed a lot, and it was evident that England had had an awkward time to bat. Then came the sting in the tail…

I’m paraphrasing, and memories may be hazy, but here’s how I recalled it…

“England made a decent start at first…”

“Oh dear, we’ve lost at least one, then….” I thought

“But it started to go wrong when Strauss was caught attempting to pull…”

“Jesus, we lost more than one, then…” I am beginning to feel a bit iffy about this.

“Cook soon followed, edging Stuart Clark to Shane Warne at slip”.

“Both openers gone then”. Cracking stuff.

“At 28/2 it looked bad for England, and it got worse, as before the end of play, Collingwood edged to Gilchrist and England were 42 for 3.”

“What the hell?” I’m beginning to question my sanity.

“Pietersen and Bell saw out the rest of the play but England face an uphill struggle at 53 for 3”

The language then shouted out at no-one in particular won’t be repeated here. The record showed that Australia built on their strong first day, with Ponting being denied a double hundred by just four runs, Michael Clarke making a 50, Hussey making 86, and the tail having a bit of fun and frivolity. Then England came in and made their customary poor start. It wasn’t surprising, it was bloody disappointing though.

The money turned up and I trotted into work. Packing hadn’t really been started, but I’m a bloke and as our flight wasn’t until late Saturday night I was going to have plenty of time on Saturday to do the necessary. This was so different to the nerves I felt four years before, which was my first massive trip overseas. Then I was decidedly apprehensive about going away because I’d never done it before. This time I was apprehensive as there was no-one to say goodbye to at home and no-one to come back to. It was different in the extreme. In many ways it was melancholic and depressing; I was nervous about leaving the house unoccupied – it would be the longest time that no one had stayed there in its existence. Stupid things like that going through my head made me morose and down. I am a strange creature. I hate that preparation part right before the holiday.

I went into the office, and Mike, my boss, made sure he got his money’s worth out of me that day. I went down The George for the lunchtime drink as people wished me a safe trip and all that, and we discussed some of the stupidity of the night before. I know the Irish Lawyer was out and said the rows the night before were already forgotten, which they always were, so that was one cloud gone.

After a busy day I went home and contemplated the next 18 hours or so before Sir Peter was due to pick me up. Recollections are very vague, and not drink aided before I get any comments, but I do know I was checking and re-checking tickets, getting out of my pram about not having a luggage tie for my labels, and quite possibly getting nervous over filling in the entry form for Australia where I have to confess to having a steroid for my asthma and likely have to pass through “quarantine”.As the night wore on, it got closer to the time to watch the 3rd day’s play. With no real need to wake early, I could stay up as long as I liked, but I was never going to be watching for long. This was the first time I could sit back, “relax” and watch some play without work the next day to interfere. Instead I sat there worrying about what the following day would bring.

Again, I vaguely recall texting the knighted one as the early action unfolded, and although he never says he tires of my nonsense, I’m sure he was getting a bit miffed with my rubbish, especially as he had Danno on his case as well. I was informed that the said newbie had purchased a linen suit for the trip. Good grief. I was more perturbed at the archaic limitations on hand luggage and the limits I could take on board. I’d bought a smaller rucksack to replace my holdall of many years and journeys, and how was I going to get everything in. I’d bought a Sony MP3 player to accompany my Ipod as the batteries would not last the flight. I had my camera with me, the one which still takes brilliant pictures. And the paperwork. So much bloody paperwork. All of this to fit into a rucksack? A small little thing within their stupid limits?

Back to the cricket. England started slowly, with Bell looking shotless but correct. Then the breakthrough. I’ll let cricinfo put its view first…

“A misjudgment of Gattingesque proportions from Pietersen. On a length, the ball jagged back, he had already decided to shoulder arms and the ball smacked into his back leg. It looked out before the appeal had even reached the “zat” stage and Billy Bowden agreed. Hawkeye says it was missing off stump … certainly didn’t look like it.”

Atherton was commentating at the time and said it was definitely out. I said “no” at the time, and not because of disappointment. I may like KP, but I’m also an honest person when it comes to the game, and although it looked bad, I didn’t think it would hit the stumps. When Hawkeye showed it was missing, the vindication wasn’t worth much. KP wasn’t coming back and the Aussies had their man, despite my plaintive cry being correct. Atherton blathered on about it definitely being out because it looked it. Hmmmm. That logic is lost on me when you are not LBW if Hawkeye says it is missing. I know the ball was too close to leave, and yes, the decision was fair enough, and reasonable in the circumstances. But he wasn’t out in the definition of LBW because it would have missed. He was out the only place it mattered. In the scorebook.

So I wasn’t in the best of moods when, in the following over, captain Flintoff nicked his third ball to Adam Gilchrist off the bowling of Brett Lee. 79 for 5 was the cue for me to switch off the TV and go to bed.

Saturday morning dawned and I switched on the TV to see what had happened. England’s pitiful effort had ended with the innings being wrapped up for 157. Bell made 50, Geraint Jones and Ashley Giles added small contributions but that was about it. A deficit on first innings of 445 was comfortable enough, and if the Aussies were acting as to plan, they’d look to embarrass us by sticking the team in again and see if they could wrap it up within the day. For reasons best known to Ponting, he decided to bat again and set England something. He could have declared on 0 for 0 and England would have needed to set a world record run chase. The decision to bat on showed, in my view, that the defeat in Kalkota to India in 2001 still hurts the Aussies and leaves them nervous of enforcing follow-ons. In a way, it also showed that he was still a little wary of England. I have no idea why, as England showed no signs of reaching 600 in many a year against the Aussies, and that is what we would have had to do to reach a target that would test the hosts at all.

At the end of Day 3, and I’ll bet it was a day Reg will remember until he points his toes up, the Australian’s had reached 181/1. I have never seen the highlights of this day, nor do I want to. Langer finished on 88, Ponting had 51, the Australians held a lead of 636, and could declare overnight, safe in the knowledge that England would be hard pushed to make that score in two days even if they knew how to. In truth, only rain, or madness in Ponting could prevent an Australian win.

So once that abject horror was put aside, I could focus on getting ready for the trip. Sir Peter was due at around 2 pm, to pick me up and take me to his dad’s house, the venerable Viscount Brian and the lovely Auntie Pat, where we would meet Danno. Viscount Brian would drive us to Hammersmith Station, whereupon we would alight a Piccadilly Line train to Heathrow Terminal Three. The flight was at around 10 pm, so I suggested getting to the airport at around 6-6:30 as security queues were coming in at around an hour or so according to the reports. This was at the time of heightened alert caused by the so-called “coke can” plot, and as is the wont of the authorities in a response to a preposterous plot, they lost it. At that time, going to an airport was even less of a pleasurable experience.

I remember texting the beloved and other friends about my pre-match nerves, I managed to secure some tags for luggage labels of the improvised kind, and I found the locks. I had the music all packed, the books in the case, the paperwork all ready, the travel insurance documents secured, the asthma drugs and spares put where they needed to be, and I was ready. It was then I felt sad. No mum and dad to say goodbye. When Dmitri the Younger came around with the kids it was a desperate feeling. When I should have been happy, I was distraught. I had tears after they left. I look back now and know how mentally effed up I really was at that time. I’d been giving serious thought of a relationship with the beloved, but it couldn’t really be continued when I was in Australia! I was totally at sea and needed a break. If I could just get to the bloody airport.

Sir Peter, in the most expected development of the day, was running late. He’d be picking me up about half an hour later. I was pacing up and down, not knowing what to do. The time passed very slowly. When he did show there was an overwhelming feeling of relief. After a couple of false starts for things I’d forgotten, I’d loaded up the car and we were off. All the reassurances about the house were cast into the ether. I now was with one of the travelling three and as soon as we pulled out of my road, I was on holiday.

I can’t describe the waves of relief, joy, excitement and release from pressure I felt at that time. From being lonely indoors, with no-one to talk to, no-one to share things with or talk about issues face-to-face, nor even a body to keep the place occupied, I was now with a great mate and travelling companion and I felt like the problems of the world were halved. I don’t really want to go too much further into the dependency nature of my friendships at that time, but I hope this is giving you a feel for how important all the characters on this trip were going to be for me. From a wreck in the summer to the Australian tour…. I needed this holiday in the worst way. I probably needed it too much.

Dmitri Younger was on orders to text me the score so that when we landed in Singapore, in the late afternoon their time, I could switch on the phone and find out we’d lost. I said I’d ring him from Australia at an appropriate time to let him know we’d arrived. The sorts of things Mum and I agreed upon. This was me on my own. Sorry to bang on about it, but this was also the trip where bro’ did a passable impression of mum, as I’ll tell you later….

Sir Peter drove us to Viscount Brian’s pad, where I had a cup of tea and we met Danno. He seemed rather calm for his first trip abroad, but as we had become accustomed to in the Old Jos, he had methodically planned his packing, had every piece of paperwork organised meticulously and was in control of himself and his anticipation. I was a jibbering muppet, having my usual verbal jousting with Viscount Brian.

After bidding Pat farewell, and receiving a text from bro’ to say WindyBricks were 1-0 up against Robin Hood’s Wood (who were top of the league) at their ground, we wended our way by car to Hammersmith. The conversation, with me in the front, with Viscount Brian was designed to provoke a reaction. First of all, in the typical red rag to a bull moment, I started to extol the virtues of one Brian Charles Lara.

“Shit of the first order” snorted VB.

“How can you say that Brian, he’s a genius”

“He’s selfish. Rather set records than win a game for his team. That 400 cost the West Indies a test match.”

“But Brian, that pitch is a road. You couldn’t expect the West Indies to bowl us out twice. You got to admit he’s a fantastic player.”

“No, he puts himself before the team. Terrible team man, awful captain.”

I could prod Brian all day on this one, but thoughts turned to Australia as we were driven up Trinity Road towards Wandsworth. Brian was commenting, I believe, on being stationed in India (as the nearest he’d been to Australia – I don’t think he ever had a desire to go there). He remarked that the locals spoke ‘Industani. I was, at first perplexed. “Industani? What’s that Brian?” Slightly irritated Brain responded “Industani, the local language”. The penny dropped… “Industani? Do you mean Hindustani, Brian?” “Yes, of course I bloody do, boy…”

I wasn’t going to let him off…

“Hindustani, Brian. Unlike you to drop your aitches, Brian”

 “I’ll drop my fist on your bollocks if you keep on.”

 Job done. Laughter from the back. I was in pieces with this verbal jousting. Brian loves it too. The shackles had been cast away and I was on my way.

The next instalment…. The Journey…..

The Characters…

The Party After The Defeat...

Reg, Danno, Bald Eagle, DO, Sir Peter (front)

The Exile In South Australia

Tour beginnings? By the end of this piece, we still haven’t left the bloody country! Read on…

I’ve set the scene for the Ashes, now to set the scene for our trip, and in this instalment, talk about the first day of the series. In 2002 of course, Sir Peter and I were at the Woolloongabba in Brisbane for the start of that series, but now we faced watching it in the dead of a dismal London Autumn night, about as far away from the heat and humidity of Queensland’s capital. There were a few pangs of regret that I wasn’t there, and some dewy eyed memories of the great holiday rose to the surface, but the prospect of setting out in three days time was always there. Of course, at that time the hopes were up. Let the story continue….

As Day One of the Ashes series loomed, so too did the prospect of the flight out to Australia and the start of the holiday. The schedule had been agreed, sort of, and it panned out thus…

Saturday 25th November – Flight to Singapore. Meet up at Sir Peter’s house, lift to Hammersmith tube via the conveyance of the Earl of Norbury, and then on to Heathrow Terminal 3.

Sunday 26th November – 5 Hour Stop Over at Changi Airport after the first leg of the flight. A chance to spend in the shops, eat in the restaurants, and drink in the bars. Last time around we had John Edrich and Paul Allott coming out on the plane with us.

Monday 27th November – Land at Adelaide Airport at around 7 am, and get through quarantine. Hire Car. Head South out of Adelaide towards the South Australia / Victoria border. Preliminary aim to set up camp in Mount Gambier.

Tuesday 28th November – Get up early and get on the Great Ocean Road, see the sights of this “legendary” coastline and then head on into Melbourne. Jet lag permitting, an evening on the ale.

Wednesday 29th November – Melbourne, including day-night Ford Ranger Cup game between Victoria and Queensland, with some beverages post game. Maybe a touch of sight-seeing if the mood took us early on.

Thursday 30th November – A day to ramble around Melbourne, or maybe drive a little further afield until our 6 pm flight to Adelaide. Once in Adelaide, meet up with Reg at hired apartment in Glenelg

Friday 1st December – Tuesday 5th December – Adelaide Test Match. All sortsof japery. Bald Eagle to show his face.

Wednesday 6th December – Flight to Perth, Hire Car. Head South. Gets a bit more hazy from here on in…

Wednesday 6th – Wednesday 13th December – Find something to do on the hoof.

Thursday 14th-Monday 18th December – Perth Test Match

Tuesday 19th December – Early hours of the morning flight out of Perth back to London via Singapore.

Everything seemed in order. Our plans were pretty much in a shape we were happy with. As we were due to land in Adelaide in the morning, around 10 a.m., we believed that we could dent 300 of the 600 miles or so to Melbourne, find somewhere to sleep and then get out to drive down the Great Ocean Road very early, arriving in Melbourne in the early evening.

All that we hoped for was that England did not embarrass themselves in the first test match, and that the Adelaide test would perhaps see us on level terms, or ahead, in this match up. How much more fun would it be if England were the dominant team, the one the Aussies had to chase rather than the dreadful mess we were four years before.

As the hype grew, I settled into my sofa late on Wednesday 22nd November to watch the opening salvo of the 2006-7 Ashes series. It seems odd now to reflect that I was on my own, laying on a sofa in the dead of night with no-one about to talk to or just be comfortable in their presence. My dear mum would have watched the opening bursts with me, and probably woken me up the following morning with the score. Mum loved cricket, because, as she said “I live in a house with men (dad, me and my brother) and it would be pointless not to get interested in what they are.” Dad would probably have gone to bed, probably telling me not to get too excited, and that England would get hammered. People wonder where my pessimism comes from, eh?

What happened next, is legendary. Even more than the long-hop Phil de Freitas bowled to Michael Slater twelve years before. Probably more legendary than Nasser Hussain bottling it at the toss four years before. Australia won the toss and decided, as most sane captains did, to bat first.

Cricinfo, in its short commentary piece, summed up the anticipation for the first ball..

Now then, it’ll be Steve Harmison bowling to Justin Langer for the first ball of the Ashes. The roar goes up – it is unbelievably loud out there – “Langer’s wearing a sweater! He’s obviously in it for the long haul,” says Andrew Miller.

Steve Harmison was ready to bowl. Although England lost the 1st test at Lord’s by a heavy margin, one of the memories (and I was fortunate enough to be there) was to watch Harmison in his pomp pound the Aussies – hitting Langer, cutting Ponting on the cheek. The Aussies had respect for his pace and bounce, they knew he could, when the moment suited, be the man that struck fear into test cricketers around the world.

This is how Cricinfo described Harmison’s first two balls of the Ashes 2005…

0.1 Harmison to Langer, no run, just short of a good length and outside the off stump, Langer watches the ball carefully and lets it go through to the wicketkeeper, and with that the Ashes are finally under way!

0.2 Harmison to Langer, no run, just short of a good length once more,
this time on the stumps, Justin Langer takes his eyes off the ball 
and cops a nasty blow on the arm, just above the elbow Langer in a 
bit of pain there. The ball hit him just above where the forearm protector 
ends. That is a painful blow.  Errol Alcott the Australian physio has 
run on. Already the first bit of action in this series Harmison 
right on the money from the word go here

Harmison rumbled up to the crease. Justin Langer, the earnest, pugnacious left hander, aka “The Poison Gnome” was, like 2005, the man at the other end. We watched as Harmison ran up. He let go of the ball….

Harmison to Langer, 1 wide, and it’s wild and woolly, a massive wide taken by first slip. Welcome back to Australia, Steve

It just doesn’t quite capture it does it. On a late, cold, November night, coffee in hand to keep me awake, the prospect of two more days in the office clearing the decks for a three and a half week absence, this was not the start I wanted to see to get the blood pumping, raise the old spirits etc….. There I was, needing England to get my hopes up with work becoming a right royal pain in the rectum, and Harmison started off like a novice county trundler unable to control a new ball. I was under the cosh before I left work with a lawyer selection challenged by an exporter of extreme moral dubiety, and I wanted to be comforted in the knowledge I would see an England team that meant business.

I seem to recall texting Sir Peter about it being a good start, or some other type of sarcasm. Australia off the mark with a wide which nestled into the hands of Flintoff at second slip. Harmison went through the release motion again as if to indicate it was just a hiccup in his wrist position. It smacked of under-preparedness and England had that suspicion lingering with them.It can always be easy in hindsight to point at one moment that summed up the series result. As this tome will, hopefully, point out, I don’t think it was this one ball that set the tone of our horrendous defeat. Brisbane was always going to be the toughest test, because of our short preparation, it is probably the ground the Aussies have most “home advantage” in (as evidenced by their stellar record there) and because the Aussies were going to come at England hard. But it is hard to get away from this ball being the talisman of the series; a harbinger of all that was to come. It showed that England weren’t ready; it was an indicator that the pace force of 2005 wasn’t in the same shape (we suspected it before this); Harmison was to so often disappoint; that Australia weren’t in need of gifts but we would be handing them out. And the image of our captain laughing it off still strikes me. He’s a professional cricketer. He needed to be ready. He wasn’t. And our captain took him off after two overs that cost 17 runs. We may have laughed at the Aussie boot camps, but England’s lack of proper preparation, their “it’ll be all right on the night” attitude was exposed in one ball. Sure, Harmison had had a side injury prior to this test, but Old Trafford apart, he’d been bowling a load of old cack since 2005, and this was the shining example.

 Richard Williams in the Guardian seemed to capture it in the way many England fans I know, felt…

“And so it came to pass that the worst fears of the nation’s cricket lovers were amply realised. Loping in off his long run under a cloudless sky, Steve Harmison sent the first ball of the 2006-07 Ashes series – the most eagerly anticipated in history, it has been said – bouncing straight into the hands of his captain, Andrew Flintoff, at second slip.

It was supposed to have been a snorter, the sort of delivery with which Harmison sent Justin Langer sprawling only two balls into the first Test at Lord’s on that morning in July last year when England threw down the gauntlet to Australia at the start of a series which finished with a champagne shower in Trafalgar Square. But instead of rubbing a bruised elbow, as he did 16 months ago, Langer could stand back and smile to himself. Harmison the spearhead had turned into Harmison the dampest of squibs, just when it mattered most. And it got worse. Langer clipped the fourth ball of the over to the boundary behind square leg and sent the fifth to the rope through the gap between third slip and gully. After one over Australia were nine for none and their supporters were not alone in wondering if they had witnessed a portent for the entire series.

The first ball, the first over, the first hour, the first morning: the significance of the opening exchanges had been talked from all sides. And here, on a day when all England’s preparation was focused on an early impact, their principal strike weapon was proving to be unfit for purpose.”

I don’t recall staying up long to watch the proceedings. England’s start deteriorated while I remained awake, and after the first over cost 9, the third over cost 8, and then Anderson was introduced, I’d had my fill and tiredness creeped in. Sir Peter and I concluded our light discourse, and so to bed….

Here’s how a restless sleeper like me does it (without alcohol). I have a TV in my bedroom and in the middle of the night, without the glasses with which I can see, I peer through the gloom to see what is happening. In the old days this used to be a lot more fun. By old days, I mean the days when the score wasn’t permanently stationed in the top/bottom corner of the screen and you had to work out who was batting. In the really olden days it was switching on the portable radio, putting on the headphones and listening to Radio 3. Before that, it was a wake the parents up putting on of the radio in the living room and hoping mum wasn’t too mad that I woke her up. My brother could sleep through a hurricane, he wasn’t a problem.

So back to the TV. I don’t know how many times I got up to see what had happened, because, frankly, I didn’t want to know. I think I saw the 1 by the wicket column just before lunch, so at least we weren’t going to be totally embarrassed. I think I woke up later when they were three down, and then I woke at 7ish to see they were still three down and that play was wrapping up. I hoped upon hope that we would not see a repeat of that fateful day four years ago when the day finished at 364/2. As I caustically remarked at the time, when play finished at 346/3, we’d got a few runs less expensive and been able to take one more wicket – that was four years of progress.

Unlike 2002, we hadn’t had our best bowler on the day injured. However, we’d seen our main strike bowler bowl like he was on strike. He’d bowled 12 overs all day, been taken off after the 45th over and never returned. That was our main man. Rendered useless by a combination of ineffectiveness and insufficient preparation. England’s spearhead blunted.

Ponting, as he did in 2002, nabbed himself a first day ton. Unlike 2002, when batting like it was the easiest thing in the world, he did not give it away and remained undefeated at the end of the day’s play on 137. I suppose we’d got Hayden out earlier than 2002, but in such crumbs of comfort there is little else to find.

The strange thing was that I didn’t really care that much, an experience I have since encountered more often with my other sporting passions. The build up, the getting excited for an occasion now seems to mean more than the thing itself. In the intervening period between my two Ashes tours, another of my major sporting loves, the Boston Red Sox, had come from three games down to win a best of seven series against the Yankees. That had been pure sporting theatre. The 2005 Ashes was likewise, because in both those amazing contests, the evolution of the competition had made it so alluring. You can’t just paste excitement on the walls, it has to evolve. You can’t breathlessly tell me a sporting occasion is going to be great before it happens. Greatness is foisted upon it after it has evolved. For all the hype about Ashes 2006/7, the score was 0-0 and several facts had to be placed before the sporting public in advance.

Pro-England winning –

Ashes win in 205

Against England winning –

Lost away test series in Pakistan, did not win in India, drew at home to Sri Lanka

Australia had won all but one of their tests since.

Australia had not lost a test series at home since the early 1990s.

The only teams to draw series in the past 10 years had much of the series ruined by rain (New Zealand) or faced a weakened Australia without McGrath and Warne (India)

Not one of the England batting line-up had a test ton in Australia to their name.

Key cogs in the 2005 Ashes line-up were not there. Michael Vaughan, Marcus Trescothick and Simon Jones were replaced by Paul Collingwood, Alastair Cook and Jimmy Anderson. That is not an upgrade.

Key injuries, as always, afflicted England (Jones, Vaughan, Giles) rather than Australia (Watson).

I saw no evidence, even now sitting in hindsight, to suggest that that we would win. Rather there was slightly more hope. The suspicion, since proved with bells and whistles on, was that 2005 was the zenith of that team’s powers, the summit they felt they needed to reach, and that they could not haul themselves back up to those heights again.

Again, I might be saying this now, after I’ve written the briefest of pieces on day one of the Ashes, but it was as if the fears and dreads I had in my head had all come out on one day of the match. In truth this team looked like 2002’s more than 2005’s and all real evidence pointed to that. I remember sitting in my Brisbane lodgings in 2002 on the eve of the series and the late David Hookes saying “England can’t win a test because I can’t see them taking 20 Australian wickets”. After a day toiling in Brisbane, that was the thought here.

Enough of the misery, I’ve dredged up a few e-mails from the old archives from the day before and the early knockings in the test….

Sir Peter, in his Churchillian manner, sounded the bugles…

“Think of Compton in 1947 – a glorious summer!
Botham in 1981
JOD live at the Conq 2006
No quarter in Brisbane – bring on the beer wh**es”

An amazing load of old cobblers. I’ve no idea why he got Compton six years early and us English have lived off Botham for years. No comment on JOD. No Lino neither.

Dmitri invoked the spirit of the New Jersey legends so loved by Sir Peter..

“May you be half way there. May we be living on a prayer. May you take my hand. We’ll Make It. I swear…… or at least POD will…..”

This did not elicit a written response.

Reg, of course, was in the advance party, and his report back on day 1 was subdued.

“Not a good day today guys- Harmison’s first delivery will be talked about for years!
 
Good seats in the shade all day – no rucksacks allowed although my camera was okay (I didn’t bother with the camcorder)
 
still, onwards and upwards – there’s always tomorrow/Adelaide/Perth etc etc”

Even the rallying cry seemed hollow. He’s certainly correct about the first delivery though. I’m sure Harmison has never really recovered from it, because this gave the real first vision of the prima donna who didn’t like to tour, and the man who could not rely on talent alone. He also seemed to capture Brisbane in a nutshell – the ground sounded like it had been policed by the Gestapo. More on this later on.

Having just purchased a small rucksack (due to new limited hand baggage rules enforced due to terrorist threats) I wondered how you carried into the ground those essentials needed for a day of test cricket in the blazing heat…

“No rucksacks?

So where do you keep the sun cream, hat, bottled water etc?”

Reg returned in forthright style…

“sun cream on your skin, hat on your head & the rest in a carrier bag
 
but we’re in the shade so haven’t bothered with any slip slap slop – although by the performance of some of our boys I’d quite like to “slip slap slop” them around a bit
 
Here’s to rain
 
and drinking with bow-legged women”

Ah yes, the rain. Rule One in Australia. Brisbane 1994 apart, if you need it to rain in Australia, it won’t. Their forecasting from the “Bureau of Meteorology” is atrocious. They hire a witch doctor or a water diviner to do it, I swear. I don’t pretend to understand the last bit. Perhaps Reg could let us know what he meant.

This brought the later party another day nearer the tour, with just the prospect of watching Day 2 through a drunken haze, and Day 3 through a nervous pre-travelling frenzy. Day 4 would be played while we were in the air from Heathrow to Singapore, and Day 5 would start just as we would be in our hire car on the way out of Adelaide.

I beg the forbearance of my loyal limited readership as I’m going to jump a bit now to the trip itself. Enough of this pre-match warm-up stuff. I will return to these items in due course, but I have heard comments from some of my readers who want some “action” and not all this sentimental guff and “band of brothers” pap. That’ll follow for those who want it in the full version which I’ll stick on a PDF/Word file sometime in the future.

So we jump forward a little in time, and the intention was that I’d kick off with Day 1. The Journey. Which becomes Day 2 and Day 3 due to losing time and dates on the flight over….

Only I won’t because to put the whole thing into proper context, we need step back a couple of days to the start of the Ashes series. In fact to put it into its real proper context we need to look at the Ashes announcements but as I say, I’ll deal with that in the full version. Instead I’ll settle on a potted history of how England approached the upcoming test series.

The hype surrounding this series got to ridiculous lengths. It was previewed to excess by a copy hungry media who couldn’t get enough of the England team and much comment was expended on who should or should not play. With no Michael Vaughan to lead the team, England took the risky option of making Andrew Flintoff captain despite Andrew Strauss’s impressive series win as captain over Pakistan. With Simon Jones of that Ashes winning team still unavailable, the bowling line-up would probably have Mahmood or Anderson slotted in his stead. Trescothick was also a big hope to open the innings having had his troubles on the previous winter’s tours. This would probably mean Ian Bell, Alastair Cook or Paul Collingwood making way for the returning Flintoff. The issue pre-tour was whether Fletcher would go for Ashley Giles or media darling, and Reg’s KP, Monty Panesar.

I could delve into the selection process until I am blue in the face, but these have been well documented in many biographies, hack jobs and media disseminations of the subsequent events. It started to unravel mightily when Trescothick broke down in Sydney and immediately returned home. There are many articles detailing why he did so – and I have Tres’s book to look at for his take on what happened – but perhaps the Mail’s article deals with it factually enough. http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/cricket/article-416353/Trescothick-Ashes.html.

You cannot underestimate how much of a blow this was to England. Marcus Trescothick may not have scored a century in the 2005 series, but he played several decent knocks, was excellent at first slip, and exuded authority at the top of the order. England may have felt slipping Alastair Cook into the opening slot was a decent replacement but my fear was that Cook may struggle on the tour as his first exposure to the Ashes heat would take over. It is a world of difference batting in India, or at home against Pakistan and Sri Lanka, than going Down Under when the fury is on. Cook also worried me at the time because he may have scored a couple of tons, but they weren’t biggies.

So with Trescothick on the way home, the England team pretty much picked itself but for the two places mentioned earlier. Strauss would open with Cook. Bell would come in at three, Collingwood at four, Pietersen at five, Flintoff at six and Jones at seven. Then the bowling would be Harmison and Hoggard with one spinner and one other seamer.

Australia, meanwhile, were looking pretty settled but for the lingering issue over who would bat at number six. After the Ashes defeat it seemed the Aussies were obsessing over an all-rounder at six in the Flintoff mould. This seemed odd to me, as they already had a Flintoff-mould all-rounder in Adam Gilchrist, who should have been batting at six anyway. In any case, whereas our spinner would likely be a stock bowler, they had a bloke who could bowl 30/35 overs a day and be a permanent threat, so why an extra seamer who could hold a bat? The number six incumbent, ludicrous as it sounds now, was Shane Watson, who would have been picked over Michael Clarke.

The rest of the batting line-up looked its usual dreadfully weak team. Opening we had Justin “The Poison Gnome” Langer and Matthew “The Bully” Hayden. At number three we had Ricky “Thumped By A Tranny” Ponting, and at number 4 we had Damien “Not Worthy Of A Nickname” Martyn. At number 5 we had Mike Hussey, now known as the Incredible Shrinking Average, but then known as “why didn’t you pick him earlier?”. At number 6 was due to be Shane Watson, laughably tagged as an all-rounder, but better known for having hamstrings made of frayed elastic. At number seven we had Adam “Hypocrite With Big Ears” Gilchrist, who may have been on the wane as a batsman but was still considerably better than any other wicket keeper batsman. Then the bowling. Glenn “5-0 again” McGrath was on his last legs, and retirement rumours swirled around. He would open with Brett “no, he definitely doesn’t throw it” Lee in a reasonable opening attack with the threat of Stuart Clark, new to the test scene so not worthy of a byeline yet to follow them up. Finally, in this bowling line-up, was Drug Cheat. I can’t write his name.

Australia went into the series in prime form, having won all but one of their test matches since the Ashes defeat. England had been handily beaten in Pakistan, got a credible drawn when injury hit in India, and then drawn a series at home to Sri Lanka before a decent series win against Pakistan which could be 2-0, 3-0 or hell, just make it 2-1, and give the Oval Test to the visitors because they’d have won if they hadn’t thrown their toys out of the cot.

England did what they do better than anyone else in world cricket. They talked a great game, with positive PMA (Positive Mental Attitude as we recall as youngsters) on all fronts. But the talk never resonated with me. I remember well saying it was more likely we would lose 5-0 than we would win 2-1. I also remember saying that I hadn’t seen enough from England to justify any claims we could win a series where no-one else had in 12 or so years. Some of the things that worried me was that in 2005 we were able to limit Australia to three centuries in the entire series, only one of which went past 150, and that was a match saver, rather than a winner. Since then we had shown we were unable to get out good players like Inzamam in Pakistan, or Yousuf anywhere in the world. A couple of test matches really said a lot – our collapse in Multan when chasing a modest total under pressure; and the draw at home to Sri Lanka at Lord’s when the visitors batted the best part of 2 and a half days to draw a match they should have lost. You can always drop a test to Sri Lanka if Murali gets a pitch to his liking, but to not win that first test when totally in control was concerning. England had coughed up an enormous partnership at Headingley to Younis Khan and Mohammed Yousuf, which, although England won the match, showed how on good pitches England had lost the knack of breaking a team. I know that sounds daft about a test we won, but you felt that Yousuf had to give his wicket away and we never really had a plan.

I’ve probably not explained those fears clearly enough, and I will tidy them up at a later date if I think it is worth it.

England travelled to Australia having been dispatched early from the Champions Trophy. The Ashes obsession meant that although warning signs could have been gleaned from our lamentable display there, no-one was really paying any attention. Australia made a little mistake in 2005 when underestimating the attitude England would take in the 20/20 international game at the Rose Bowl that preceded the one day series, and saw how intense England’s desire was. England went to the Champions Trophy as if they couldn’t get out India quickly enough. It was a “Mickey Mouse” tournament. No-one would remember our defeat if we retained the Ashes.

England arrived in Australia in early November, and promptly stunk the place out in the first tour game in Canberra. It may have been a one-dayer, but the Prime Minister’s XI were largely familiar faces, and Phil Jaques made a century to stake his claim as the heir apparent to the opener’s slot. Mahmood’s nine overs for 97 could not be overlooked as truly shocking, and no-one really dodged the carnage. Chasing a mighty 348 to win in 50 overs, England capitulated to 181 all out with Strauss the only player to pass 50. The contrast with our buffet opening of a tour at some stately home or other, with a couple of old wrinklies in the team to help the sponsors could not be more of a contrast. The Aussies attack now from the start. They were all in it together. 2005 would be a footnote once they had finished with the English, and from Day 1 the idea would be to make it uncomfortable. England left Canberra with a horrific loss, with all the hallmarks of a team not ready for the fight. Hindsight it may be now, but that defeat should have served as an alarm call.

England then played a three day tour game against a New South Wales XI. This was one of these 14-a-side knockabouts with all sorts of things rendering it an improper game of cricket, and making it “practice” in only name. The media, and old-timers, hated it. Fletcher would defend it staunchly. The portents here were a bit better. Jaques made another ton in an innings for the NSW XI of 355. Harmison was expensive, going for nearly five an over, while Mahmood did not bowl in that innings, although selected in the 14. England got a ton through KP and replied with 349. This was against Australia’s test bowling attack off McGrath, Lee and Clark, so could have instilled confidence. Trescothick and Bell made failures, but Strauss, Cook, Flintoff and of course KP, got past 50. NSW XI made sure England did not get another bat, and Michael Clarke played his way into the test team with his second half century (replacing Watson and his broken elastic) and Mahmood did not get a bowl. It pointed very much towards Anderson for Brisbane.

England’s final warm-up was a nondescript effort in Adelaide against South Australia. Darren Lehmann rolled back the years for a 99; Bell made 132 in the reply, and England made over 400, before South Australia batted out time. England had completed a warm up consisting of a one day hammering, a 14-a-side knockabout against NSW, and a three day bore against South Australia. The media were concerned this was not enough, but we are told these days that the players think tours go on too long, and that this was sufficient to hone our instincts for the battles ahead.

There is tons of copy relating to the warm up I’ve not had time to look through, and will do so for future reference. Steve Harmison had not bowled in the Adelaide game as he had a side strain, so would be underprepared going into the test itself. This test match would start four days after the South Australia game on 23 November; a Thursday in Australia, but a Wednesday night in England. The advance Reg party had departed already, with Sir Peter, Danno and Dmitri Old to leave British airspace on the 25 November having seen what had happened in the first three days.

The Tour Party’s run-up to departure, the Brisbane test match and the journey…. The next instalment of this adventure, to follow soon…

It had been a pretty lively Wednesday night on tour. Sharing a room with an Australian in Henley-on-Thames had been a laugh for me as childish little reminders of our Ashes triumph had been left around the place by people unknown (!). The trauma of the previous few months had been momentarily forgotten as a great bunch of lads I’ve known for many years temporarily took my mind off what life had turned out to be (more of this later). But now after a drink or two, the mind wandered to what would happen on the other side of the world. 31 May 2006 would turn into 1 June 2006 and the scare stories we’d heard about the swamping of telephone lines, the demand for tickets, the excitement this tour would generate left me feeling helpless. The fate of my holiday, Sir Peter’s holiday, Reg’s holiday and Danno’s holiday was now in the hands of others.

I slept as I do with alcohol coursing through the body. Like a hippo, but with double the decibels no doubt. I had the phone on silent. In my room in Henley I went to sleep and awaited the news. I woke up to see I had text messages and it had come from Adelaide Exile. I don’t have the text message to refer to, but I do recall seeing the first word. “Sorry”.

Oh dear. Yes, that’s exactly what I said. Pretty selfishly, with Greg sleeping in the other single bed in our room, I dialled Adelaide Exile. The individual concerned may have his recall of the phone call, and may correct me, but it went something like this..

“Hello [AE]”

“All right mate”

“So what happened?”

“It has been unbelievable here mate. I was on the phone for hours and had no luck getting through. Everywhere was engaged. I tried Perth’s numbers and got nothing. I have your ticket for Adelaide but just couldn’t get anything else yesterday. Sydney sold out in minutes.”

“OK.”

I was shocked. It was definitely at the worst end of my fears. Not only were we struggling to get tickets from a man based in Adelaide, but Perth was almost certainly out.

At the time I had only really spoken to AE briefly, but it was what he said next that entrenched him as a mate for life.

“I’m so sorry mate. I feel I’ve let you down. With all you’ve been through you really deserve those tickets. I’m really sorry. I’ll do what I can when we find out what’s left.”

AE, if he’d met me in person, had only met me once – I seriously can’t remember when I first met him outside the pub near my favourite team’s ground – and he’d said this. I was really touched by his concern.

AE was referring to what had happened between setting up the trip and the ticket day, and to which I briefly referred to in my previous chapters. My mum had died in 2005 and left me with my ageing father who was showing signs of problems with his health. Added on top of the grief he was going through from losing his wife of nearly 40 years, which my own selfish loss couldn’t compete with, if you can call it that, and I had a recipe for real hard times. Ploughing through my own grief, and looking after someone who had his own demons to conquer was tough, but rewarding. Since mum’s death we undoubtedly got closer. Then, in January, Dad went to the doctors. I phoned him up afterwards. “How did it go, Dad?” “Not so well, they think I’ve got Parkinson’s”. At the time it was yet another hammer blow to my head. How was I going to cope with this? Who on earth was going to help me? Why was this all coming at me in one hit? It turned out that if it had been Parkinson’s, well…

A hospital referral was made, and a mystery appointment which we thought was for Parkinson’s turned out to be a test for throat cancer. He didn’t have that, but the doctor, as they do, was blunt with my brother and I. “If I were you I’d make sure he sees a geriatrician. There’s definitely something going on up there.” We had no idea. When he went to see the Parkinson’s specialist a few weeks later, he was in superb form. Reminded me of the bit in Only Fools and Horses where Albert was supposed to be crippled with back pain for a market selling spiel, and instead of recovering slowly, did a dance!

At the end of March I went away for a weekend, and Paul rang me to say that the doctor’s letter had come from the hospital and “it wasn’t good”. He told me that the specialist had said that he almost certainly had “Progressive Supra-nuclear Palsy”. I had no idea what on earth this was, but Dad had been taking some pills for Parkinson’s and there had been no real change in his demeanour. Paul said he didn’t know either. What we found out horrified us. It is a form of Parkinson’s (bracketed under Parkinson’s Plus) that doesn’t respond to drugs. You become housebound as your brain effectively dies. I’m sure medical people can describe it much better than I. First you get the living death sentence, then you get the real thing.

This was a heartbreaker. I didn’t want to tell my dad what this was, but what can you do? You hope the doctor is wrong, but you know deep down that they are not. Then thoughts turn selfishly to yourself. How am I going to cope? How am I going to deal with a Dad dying before my eyes, but unlike mum’s with cancer, it being a living death where the father you respected remains in an old frail weathered body, but his brain had died long ago. I had no thoughts of Australia, no thoughts of a future. It was about Dad.

But Dad knew. And Dad wanted out. He wanted to be with his wife, I knew it, and I think everyone knew it. As much as I wanted my dad to be around, I knew he would hate being a burden. He would never be that to me, but I am always a realist – maybe too realistic – and told him that times would be tough, but that I would always do my best. When my Dad complained of back pains, I never gave it a moment’s thought that this was the beginning of the end. The doctors prescribed him anti-inflammatory drugs, and when I told the locum he had PSP, the doc had to look it up. That was concerning. We went back the following week when Dad had trouble sleeping and woke me up constantly. We had an appointment with the PSP nurse that week and we hung out our hopes on that. When Dad got steadily worse, the PSP nurse came round to see him. He was admitted to hospital that night. There he got worse. A minor infection turned into pneumonia. Over the Easter weekend his condition deteriorated. On Wednesday 19 April 2006 at 11 a.m., he died.

That AE had felt the need to apologise for not getting tickets really touched me, and I can’t say enough about what that, and what other friends did for me at that time. AE had no need to do anything. He was a mate doing me a favour and I said as much. He had taken time out for something I could not do. I’d no sooner blame him for not getting me tickets as I would a weatherman for a thunderstorm. He had tried his utmost and not got anywhere. I resented the Aussie authorities a lot more than you could imagine. For AE, there was nothing but gratitude.

I thanked AE for his help, and rang Sir Peter up to tell him the bad news. Now all hopes rested on Reg and his contacts. I had got up early so didn’t really want to interrupt him or disturb him if he was asleep. I got dressed and met Sir Peter for breakfast in the Catherine Wheel. We bumped into Reg with the newspaper tucked under his arm (I remember that bit). As he stood at the bar, I asked “any news.”

In his furtive, discreet way he just uttered two words “Not bad.” Dying to ask what constituted “not bad” he said he just had to pop out but would let us know when he got back.

What in heaven’s did “not bad” mean?

What seemed like ages passed before Reg returned. Sir Peter was a phlegmatic as always, convinced we would still secure tickets. I was the usual ray of pessimism – well jesus, life had given me plenty of reasons to look up, hadn’t it? – and was convinced we’d be recreating an Old Jos version of Last of the Summer Wine in Glenelg that winter.

So Reg said what he had. “We’ve got the first four days at Perth, and the last three days at Adelaide.”

That constituted “not bad” in the eyes of Reg. In my eyes that constituted “fucking amazing”. Apologies for the language.

“Well I have tickets for one, possibly two people, for all five days at Adelaide” I said, so that means, laughably, we had spares for the last three. “And my contact had no joy last night, but believes that there will be more going on sale to local residents at the ground in a couple of weeks in Adelaide, so we may get some more then.”

When we found out that they weren’t selling 5th day tickets at Perth, we had probably secured 80% of all the seats we would need. I am wondering at what point Reg would have said it was “bad”. And yes, I do know he had to get tickets for all legs of the tour, and Sydney aside, I think he had immediate success.

The next part of the story will deal with the outsiders looking in, as this part concentrates on securing the tickets for the test match. Hence I’ll jump about chronologically if you don’t mind.

By hook or by crook tickets for the remainder of the Adelaide test had to be secured. If I ever get the desktop to work, I’ll recount those stories in the next part as well.

I hope this tides you over. It has been in the drafting for quite a while (and there will still be countless errors in it!)

No people, I’ve not forgotten.

I shall be returning to this very shortly…..

“Remember that Australian Cricket Family thing Cricket Australia set up to ensure local fans had some chance of getting Ashes tickets ahead of English rivals? Well it’s still going. As if to make it seem like the ACF was something they were thinking about for a long time and not just an over-zealous strike at the free market, Cricket Australia has kept the Family alive, to serve what purpose few people seem to be aware. Family members, and Mad Monday is of course one, albeit a red-headed stepchild, received our email update last week advising how we can ensure we get good seats for next summer’s program featuring touring sides Sri Lanka, India and New Zealand. The best bet apparently is to turn up at the gate at one minute to match time, or at any stage later in the day. Tickets for the international summer actually go on sale this week. No, seriously.” Sydney Morning Herald – 2007

As you could discern from my previous remarks, Reg in particular was concerned that the ticketing arrangements could be difficult. With a full tour to secure, Reg was obviously a lot more perturbed than I was, and certainly more than Sir Peter who regularly asserted that we would get tickets without actually telling us how. It wasn’t as if we were looking for one or two – we needed four per day, any which way. As easy as it had been in 2002, it looked to be more tricky in 2006.

Australian authorities noted the fervent English support in 2005 and wanted some part of it. Not the English support, more the fervent nature of home rooting! Now I dearly like my Aussie friends, but when it comes to getting behind their team their support consists of swearing profusely at the opposition players – one at the Gabba in 2002 did nothing all day but constantly shout at Hoggard that he was a “Pommie Bastard”, and he was one of the more witty ones. The other support consists of a lamentable rendition of their turgid national anthem (our’s is turgid, but at least it is short), or the full on Aussie, Aussie, Aussie which does seem a bit Boy Scoutish. Other than that it would be sitting back in your chair waiting for things to happen as their team inevitably steamrollered the opposition, and the Aussie supporters then telling us what we were doing wrong. They don’t mean to patronise, they were just good at it.

But 2005 had shaken them up. Now they had a rival that needed to be taught a lesson. An England team backed by a nation, winning the close games, coming out on top in the key moments – that was what the Aussies wanted in their own backyard. But the one thing they did not want was a repeat of the Rugby World Cup Final in Sydney, where England fans secured tickets at the expense of the home nation, turning Stadium Australia into a neutral venue rather than a home one for Australia. Given the English were world champions at securing tickets, this would provide the Aussies with quite a task. Get their support in the grounds, and keep the Barmy Army quiet.

On February 9, and I have The Guardian article after a search on the net, the Australian authorities had hatched their plan and unleashed it for the world….

Australia’s supporters will get a head start over England fans in the race to secure tickets for this winter’s Ashes series. Cricket Australia yesterday announced plans for an online registration system designed to prevent locals from being outnumbered by England’s visiting hordes.

The system will give priority to members of the “Australian cricket family” – those who register in advance, members of cricket clubs, junior development programmes and sponsors – and is almost certain to leave some of the 40,000 expected travelling England fans without tickets. There are fears that the move will result in an extensive black market, but the authorities have promised a crackdown on the activities of ticket touts.

“This is going to be the biggest summer of cricket that we’ve ever seen and we want to make sure that Australian cricket fans are there and make up the majority of the crowd,” said James Sutherland, chief executive of Cricket Australia. “At the same time, we’re wanting to welcome as many English fans as possible to Australia.”

Tickets will first go on sale for the Tests, one-day international series and Twenty20 match from June 1. Any of the 1.2m left over will go on sale to the rest of the Australian public and overseas customers from June 19. To become a member of the “cricket family”, fans will have to register with an Australian address and postcode. More than 20,000 had already registered last night. It is expected many English people will get relatives or friends in Australia to obtain tickets on their behalf.

Peter Young, a spokesman for Cricket Australia, said: “We had 10,000 UK people per day in the crowd last time and the feeling is we will have more this time – but we will always have more Australians than people from the UK. We are more worried about touts ripping people off with exorbitant prices. One person will be able to purchase enough tickets for their families or their friends, therefore, but not enough to set up a ticketing business.”

Paul Burnham, an organiser for the Barmy Army, said: “It’s their party. They can invite who they want to. It seems quite a positive development. I hope it means they intend a certain number to go to overseas supporters and hope there are measures to ensure tickets go to true cricket fans rather than random people who plan to sell them on to pommies.”

Attempts to secure a batch of 500 together for the Barmy Army at each venue have so far been unsuccessful. Official English tour operators have been given allocations, however, including 10,000 a day at the MCG – which on day one is hoping to break its cricket-crowd record of 90,800 set in 1961 – and 5,500 for the SCG.

There wasn’t so much as a rat to smell, as a stitch up of huge proportions. While Paul Burnham was right in saying it was their party, the thing is that if the states had such membership as UK cricket clubs, and they wanted tickets, then they could get the priority booking that we get in England. I have to get to the back of the queue with everyone else for Edgbaston, for Headingley, for Old Trafford. It is only The Oval that I get a head start, and I pay £150 per annum for the pleasure. For my increased subscription to Surrey CCC I have seen my allocation diminish from 10 per day to 4 per day, and now they are even threatening to take tests away from us.

For what was going on here was a snidey little attack by Cricket Australia in response to a perceived sleight from the UK authorities, but still managing to look fair by offering England supporters a chance to be at games so long as they were with a tour party who would have no shortage of tickets. Those tour parties, as you may well know, are a licence to print money. They charge appalling rates for hotels and flights, make you follow the leader and generally cost you an arm and a leg. What we want to do, and many others, is to fly out when we want, free-lance on apartments where we can do our own living at our own expense at much cheaper rates (try getting a good hotel at A$ 70 per night per person) and going off on our own. Then there is the mark up on the tickets which they’ve had no bother in securing, in a profit sharing scam with the cricket authorities. Of course you’d want to feather your own nest if you were Cricket Australia.

In the run-up to the key June 1 date for tickets the stories started to come out from Australia. The Cricket Family would only be open to Australian residents. Being in “The Family” would permit these residents to buy up to 10 tickets each for each day at each venue. The tickets would all go on sale at once, for all five tests. If any remained there would be a general sale on 19 June. The aim would be for the Aussies to corner all the tickets before the English. Fair enough, but when so many of the free-lancers wanted to get the cheapest deals on flights, to announce the ticket dates and the methodology after that was out of order.

Ashes tickets for next summer’s five-Test series will go on sale to the Australian ‘Cricket Family’ on June 1, but fans not registered with the country’s board will have to wait more than two weeks to secure seats. The plan announced today encourages local fans to get in ahead of England threats such as the Barmy Army by expressing interest on Cricket Australia’s website.

With estimates of 40,000 overseas supporters arriving for the series starting in November, local cricket authorities and the players are concerned England followers could dominate the Test venues. The WACA has already capped its membership after receiving numerous requests from supporters based in the United Kingdom. A board spokesman said tickets would be available to the general public and overseas customers from June 19.

‘In establishing this offer we will be aiming to reward Australian fans who register as members of the Cricket Family while also ensuring as many Australians as possible have access to next summer’s matches,’ James Sutherland, the Cricket Australia chief executive, said. ‘If you’re an Australian and want to support the team in the forthcoming Test Series, register online now and give yourself the best chance of being there.’

Sutherland said hotel bookings in Melbourne for the December 26 Test were ‘already significant’ and he expected the previous MCG Test match crowd attendance record of 90,800 to be broken. ‘We’ve announced the tour program six months ahead of what we normally would and that’s just [because of] the sheer demand and public interest that’s out there right now,’ he said.

Pricing details will be released when the tickets go on sale. The first Test starts in Brisbane on November 23.

This from cricinfo – note the very friendly use of the term “England Threats”. The fact our cricket team had not scared them over the years as much as the support England took abroad was amusing. We’d filled their stadiums when they were sat back on their haunches and told everyone how good they were, but now they faced, on paper, a test, they were telling us to “eff off”. It may have been their party to organise, but you don’t do it by telling the blokes who funded you to take a hike.

I know, I’m biased, and with nearly a thousand quid of flights I was reconciling myself to watching some of the game on TV in an Aussie hostelry, or maybe staying in Melbourne a bit longer… I’d been to Adelaide so it really wouldn’t be that much of a hindrance if I’d travelled all the way around the world to watch it in a bar. How were we going to secure tickets?

In short we had a few hopes, some I’ve mentioned already.

For Adelaide we had my friend Adelaide Exile. He’d sort of promised me one ticket for each of the days, and possibly another for a day or two, and that he’d do his best to get us the rest for the Adelaide test and see what he could do for Perth. Failing that, he thought that some might still go on general sale afterwards and he’d queue up for us at the ground if we thought that would help.

For all the tests we had Reg’s mate in Australia to get what he could. This mate was not known to any of the others but this bloke turned out to be the angel we were looking for. A saviour.

There were other possible outlets. Some were more plausible than others. A WindyBricks mate had good sources in Perth and might get us the odd ticket if needs be. Another friend’s parents lived in Perth and might be able to do something but that avenue never manifested itself. I knew a former Queensland player from a work game, but that was a blind alley that never came to anything. In essence, we were in AE and the Mystery’s hands.

The panic was on.

I have little in the way of records from March to May because life had just taken a terrible turn. My father passed away in April that year via a combination of a particularly nasty neurological disease in its early stages, pneumonia and medical incompetence. A wonderful man had been lost to a system that failed to take care of him in anything resembling dignity. I can’t forgive nor forget what the system did to him, and it shook me to the core. Now I was on my own. The fear of living life with just myself to keep in check filled me with dread and horror. The holiday in November took on massive proportions now as a light at the end of the tunnel. Up to the departure I hit troughs I never knew existed, feared that I might not get through it, and at times was on the edge of collapse. The holiday kept me going, the kindness of people kept me going, and knowing we had the tickets for our trip kept me going. It was that important to me.

(At this point I would like to point out that I will take any comments from the boys who were with me at this game and include them in any final version of this piece of work – feel free chaps).

Before the stress and strain of 1 June, I’ll leave you with the sickening piece of propaganda from Ricky Ponting. Sir Peter describes the ticketing process as a “A racist policy inspired by Goebbels”, and Ricky was certainly playing along with it….

“Ricky Ponting has urged Australian supporters to provide a “sea of green and gold” for the summer’s Ashes series. Tickets for the 2006-07 international matches go on sale to the Australian Cricket Family on Thursday morning and Cricket Australia is determined that the grounds will not be over-run by England supporters.

“The Australian team can’t wait for this Ashes series to start and having a sea of green and gold supporters in the stand will give us a massive boost,” Ponting said. “Make sure you get in early on June 1 and we’ll see you during the biggest summer of Australian cricket.”

The 128,500 members who registered on the organistation’s website can buy tickets from 9am eastern standard time on Thursday until June 15. Seats will go on general release for overseas supporters and those not in the “family” on June 19. Cricket Australia has predicted all Test grounds will be sold out for the first day and there are hopes of a world-record crowd for Boxing Day at the MCG.

A Cricket Australia spokesman said family members must be Australian residents and provide an Australian postal address to buy tickets. “If these conditions are not met, tickets shall be cancelled,” he said. The first Test starts at Brisbane on November 23.”

You reckoned without one thing the English are world champions at, Ricky old son. Securing tickets when you don’t want us to.

Back to the planning of our trip in 2006. So far we’d got up to booking the flights and trying to sort out itineraries, and we also had the warning of the potential ticket scams that could be introduced on England supporters to stop them attending tests and maximising the support for the Australians.

First of all, a correction to the previous accounts, and if I ever collate these together, I’ll have to amend it. My memory fails me, and as a researcher, I am a little slow on the uptake, but in rummaging through old e-mails I came across this one from Sir Peter on 11 January 2006.

“I don’t believe it!

Danno has just asked me for our flight details and the dates we’re going…believe it when I see him in duty free!”

So Danno did not come on board at the outset, but a week or so later. His confirmation made the itinerary requirements change, so we needed to be looking for two bedroom places rather than doubles, and of course, we had to secure an additional ticket for each day. However, Danno is a domesticated sort and his preparation and punctiliousness would also come in dead handy – although his “go with the flow” attitude when you had two more free spirits and certainly, in my case, opinionated spirit would cause some issues. Little did we know, or I know, how little I knew Reg, if you know what I mean, you know…

One e-mail from me to Sir Peter (Danno was not then, and is still not, on line) put out how we would consider the first leg of our trip from Adelaide to Melbourne..

“Monday 27th – Thursday 30th – return car that evening or following morning before Test match. If we have tickets.

Intend driving it to Melbourne and testing out whether it is amphibious or not. Danno will be driving and seeing if he can fail to navigate to international standards. Big car. Need Danno’s luggage. How about a camper van so we can be real pikeys.”

Things need to be explained here, and from the outset I mean no offence to anyone or anything in this piece. Danno is a truly great bloke, one of the world’s true nice guys. However he is legendary among Old Josephians for about three or four things. There is no player ever at our club that bruises better than Danno. There are colours on his bruises I’ve never seen before. Second, he has all the equipment under the sun – he is Old Jos “Q”. If you need bat tape, inners, a grip, the funny thing you use to put a grip on, studs, heat spray, cold spray, the lot. He is the ultimate club man, and we could imagine what he would take away with him to help us through any scrapes. Third, he is the world’s worst navigator. I once remember him driving straight past a cricket ground near Morden, with me on the side of the road waving at him, and he was not seen again that day. These were pre-mobile phone, pre GPS days (hence the reference to luggage amounts and navigation skills. I apologise for the use of the word pikey.

We started looking for accommodation in East Perth, near the WACA, and one of the best was this link provided by Sir Peter, under the headline “Nice Fridge”…

http://www.holidaycity.com/mountway-perth/index.htm

My comment was unusually dismissive

“Excellent.

Reminded me of the Ferrier Estate.”

Anyone wondering what the Ferrier Estate is…

http://www.bbc.co.uk/london/content/image_galleries/greenwich_kidbrooke_gallery.shtml

Uncanny….

Anyway, back to planning, and the ticket concerns seemed to take a back seat in January as we figured out an itinerary and accommodation needs around the test matches – we figured the likes of Margaret River and Melbourne would be relatively easy using the wotif site, so these were the key focuses. I was still mindful that in 2002 Adelaide had sold out the first three days, and although the ground had more capacity, demand was much larger, and Perth is the smallest test venue and rumours were that tickets might be hard to come by. With the latter in mind, I spoke to Tangering Jim who was also “on the case”…

“Message from Jim, my WindyBricks mate, who is applying left right and centre for tickets as a back-up! Good to have keen people working for you.

We should still, of course, work with the Greg angle. Jim knows about the extra ticket so we’ll see what we get.

I have spoken to 2 other people who live in Perth, so I have 3 lots of applications going in for tickets. also have a friend in sydney going to apply for WACA tickets as well.

Fingers crossed!”

This was quite relieving as I already had Adelaide Exile on the case for tickets in his home venue and surely we’d snaffle enough between us. Surely….

Anyway, thoughts turned to travel again and Sir Peter and I, taking up Danno’s request to go with the flow of anything we decided, looked at other methods of transport…

“Adelaide to Perth in a sleeper is £400, while in a seat is around £140.

http://www.gsr.com.au/our-trains/indian-pacific/red-kangaroo-service.php
http://www.gsr.com.au/pdf/fares-timetables/Fares&TT_IP.pdf

Leaves on a Thursday evening (giving the Wednesday post test to go to Barossa for Danno), gets into Perth on a Saturday morning.

What do you think? Take into account not paying two nights accommodation, it works out at about £80 each over normal expenses in my view if we take the seats. Get a 3 hour stop in Kalgoorlie (http://www.kalgoorlietourism.com/visitkalgoorlie.asp) and a stop in a place called Cook (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cook,_South_Australia).

Thoughts?”

I was actually really keen on this, and in hindsight I wished I’d done it, because I thought we wasted a couple of days in Margaret River doing not a lot. However Sir Peter did not want to miss a night out on the pull, whatever that meant….

However, one important deadline had passed, and that was Cricket Australia’s ticket announcement, which was due on 10 January. They had postponed it and on a Barmy Army newsletter, the warning signs should have been obvious…

TICKETS

We are hoping that Cricket Australia will make an announcement around 6th February after the postponement of the 10th January deadline. We have requested an allocation for the independent travelers but will not know whether we have been successful until this announcement is made. More information when we know it will be posted on the website.

The alarm bells should have been ringing as the rumour mill started to gain momentum. What were the Aussie’s planning?

Back to planning journeys, and Reg had not, as yet, been involved. When he did, maybe there was a reason why we were ignoring him given this piece of old tosh…

If it was $460 each then it wouldn’t be too bad but not $1,000 each………shame though

I’ll probably go ahead and book my internals tomorrow night & let you know what one I’m on if you fancy joining me – I’ll probably see Danno tonight. If you’re looking at flights check Virgin Blue & Qantas (a bit 50/50 as to who’s cheaper)

Before I do though, one other option is to get a camper van and drive it? Just looked on www.campertravel.com.au and you can get a 6 berth (3xdoubles so we’ll all have to take turns in “bunking down” ) for $2,400 for 8 days – leaving Adelaide on the 6^th Dec and arriving in Perth on the 13^th……………..could probably do it in fewer days but it’s be a good way of seeing the country? Works out to about £250 each excluding petrol (but including insurances) & taking into account that includes your accommodation as well?

This is what it looks like

http://www.campertravel.com.au/vehicle_details2.asp?code=6BM

Another website has calculated that it would take approx 31 hours, so I reckon 5 days (or shorter if you’re ok travelling longer distances?). Straight up to the Barossa Valley, couple of cases of plonk and away we go. If it gets a bit cramped on the sleeping front we can always grab a quick B&B on the way?

A Camper Van? Dmitri Old made his feelings abundantly clear…

Sharing a camper van? F for Freddie off.

There is virtually nothing between Adelaide and Perth. This is not London to Manchester.

I’m flying to the Whitsundays – you lot can drive if you want….

Such a tart at times, eh? Dmitri believed it was time to put his foot down…

“Its time to put feet down and decide what we want to do.

No-one really fancies the train for 36 hours if we had to spend it in a train seat. No-one wants to pay £400 for the pleasure of a bunk bed.

I believe there are a couple of options.

First thing after the test, we fly somewhere and have a three/four day R n R somewhere nice. Whitsundays, Byron Bay, Port Douglas, Kangaroo Island.

Then off to Perth and three/four days around Margaret River

OR – fly straight to Perth and sort something out while we are over there.

Camper van? good god.”

Sir Peter, I his own downbeat way, responded as if dealing with a spoiled child, which, in fact, I am…

“I think the train would be fine if we had more than 3 weeks, but yes the RnR is what it’s all about…let’s agree with Danno and book.”

But in the words of Freddie Mercury “Don’t Stop Me Now”

“No, let me rant.

The thought of a week with three of you, and you three with me more’s the case, in a f*rt capsule fills me with unbridled dread. We’d find some Rutger Hauer clone and get stuck in the Outback with no-one around. Before you’d know it we’d be his main course for dinner that night. Provided we don’t find a B and B of course.

All in all, I think I would prefer a folk dancing festival.”

So there!

TICKETS….

Sir Peter, Reg and I were in discussions…on the run-up to the 10th January deadline. The earlier announcement from the Barmy Army on the run-up to the date was worrying…

“I said to Sir Peter that I’m going to try and get my tickets through the Barmy Army, but the latest correspondence from them was this:

“Cricket Australia is announcing the Ashes ticket news on January 10th. We are not producing any more packages until these details have been published as new packages will include tickets. All enquiries are being filed and we will be in touch after this date.

With regard to ticket only enquiries, we are not taking pre-registrations and we would encourage individuals to use any Australian contacts they already have. Once more info is known after Jan 10th we will send a email newsletter, so if you’re not already registered for membership, sign up now!”

I had some info through about the organised tours and they are very VERY expensive…………I’ve also heard a rumour that the ACB are going to try and charge £250 per test as they did in the Windies last year to take advantage of the huge travelling support.

Would your mate be willing to buy the tickets on our behalf if we can’t get them through the BA or official channels? Maybe it’ll be best to hang on for the 10th Jan?”

I said that given the size of Melbourne, he shouldn’t be too worried about that, but Reg was very prescient…

“They’re only giving England 2,000 tickets per day – and they will only be available to those on official tours – can’t find a reference to it anywhere but heard it on News24 just now

Time to start calling those aussie friends!!

I’m going to ask my mate if he can buy 3 tickets per day per test and I’ll transfer the money to him – if you guys want to do the same I’m sure we’ll be able to sell the spares.”

And more concerns…

“And I know it’s early to be panicking BUT I AM!!!! The BBC estimate that 40,000 people are going to go to Oz next Christmas so I think you’ve done well getting your flights in

An 80,000 seater in Melbourne & they’re giving us 2,000??? It’s a disgrace!!!”

Reg was partly right, of course. Their Ashes series had been maintained with English support for the last couple of tours, and their local economies must have benefitted enormously from the influx of tourists. To constrain these tourists to the official packages was a total disgrace, because these people are fleecers. I’d rather sell my soul than take up one of their packages. The only travel people I used were Traiflinders for the flights – the rest was under our steam and our risk. We would not be staying in over-priced hotels, with over-priced tour gear from our over-priced tour guides. Oh wow, you get an ex-pro who’ll get pissed up with you when not with his mates. What a bargain. That’s not how we, and many others, do things. Free-lancing was Sir Peter and my style and the authorities once again wanted to rob people blind.

The bad news we were all expecting came on 9 February, as relayed by this article in The Guardian.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/2006/feb/09/cricket.gdnsport3

Next Instalment, I promise, I will be ranting on about the Australian Cricket Family, and probably organised tours too!