Which one will die?

There was a sharp intake of breath in the loungeroom last week on reading that Simon Katich will be a contestant on Celebrity Masterchef. Oh stop it. Stop that right now. How much can a koala bear?

I’ve had a bit of a thing for Mr Katich ("S. M. Katich", as K. J. O’Keeffe would say) for a while, which Thing was cemented by his pleasing display of hirsuteness as Mr February in the McGrath Foundation "I Only Buy It for the Charity" Men Of Cricket Calendar, which Hirsuteness (yes, I can keep this up all day) was also clearly appreciated by the ladies in attendance at this year’s Allan Border Medal, who voted him best in the calendar show, pipping even Mr Dimples Mitch Johnson to the post.

But his on-field persona is about as far from the domestic sphere as you can get, if "trained assassin" is as far from the domestic sphere as you can get. In another one of those vox pops they had on SBS during the (snif) Ashes, the players were asked what was the funniest thing they had ever read about themselves, and Katich referred to a piece that described the way he watched the ball when batting: instead of going for the usual "like a hawk", it said "like he wants to stab it".

Not just balls, either: on at least a couple of occasions, Greg Matthews, doing run-downs on Australian "body-language" in the field, summed up Katich’s presence as "just wants to kill ya". "Look up and there's the Kat at silly point, looking like he wants to kill ya."

Then there was that off-field throttle incident... My cricket friend Sue says Katich has something called "Balkan Haut" (Sp? She pronounced it "hort", and I’ve interpreted it as the French haut = "high", but given the lack of evidence on the interwebs I’m starting to wonder if she actually said "Balkan Hawk"...). When she heard about the Katich-Clarke altercation, she was all "well, of course, it’s the Balkan Haut", which is apparently a cultural trait that manifests itself as a sort of imperious... stabbiness.

So how would that translate in Celebrity Masterchef terms? Virtuoso knife skills? Razor-shaved garlic à la Goodfellas? Stupendous pressed "pork"-belly dish that is then revealed to be fillet o' George Calombaris?

On top of it all, I read today in the Herald’s food section that Simon Katich has no sense of smell! Curiouser and curiouser. What an unexpected bundle of properties this man is turning out to be. It just shows that you can't tell everything about a person from staring at them for days and days while they play cricket. Who knew?

It says on the Celebrity Masterchef site that Katich is in Heat 4 with Wendy Harmer and Alex Perry. Turn it up, I say! Also whenever you try to click on or message Katich on the site you are directed to Eamon Sullivan. My money is on Eamon or Alex to be the first to "go"...

Winners but still losers. OK?

For a while there last night I thought the season had come full circle and I was going to have to suffer another Cardiff, i.e. long-running spate of prime English hopelessness expunged by late rally pulled out of collective arse (there’s a headline for you). Which would have set a tone for the future that… oooh, how would you describe it, ah yes, thank you very much James Anderson, "flattered" the winners.

But a couple of good wobbles in England's chase were a sufficiently convincing imitation of themselves to serve as a cautionary note to would-be amnesiacs.

I am getting a little concerned that meringue-based Continental biscuits are causing problems rather than solving - or salving - them. Nevertheless, I give you the James Hopes Memorial Brutti Ma Buoni biscuits:

(One of those wee figures on the screen is indeed Hopes)

Yes, it was pretty civilised here last night. Or that's my story as long as teapot mike is turned down.

Brief Cricket Love

Did you see Dorian Gray presenting the man-of the match award to Ricky Ponting this morning (Sydney time)?

He was described as a "NatWest private customer", presumably the winner of a competition or just the beneficiary of a bit of nepotism. To give an idea of the look, he might have been Stuart Broad's sister. Excellent contrast with hatful-o'-puppy-dog-tails Ponting.

Yes, but where's the biscuit?

I am not at all above one-day cricket, one of my most treasured possessions is my videotape of the whole 2nd innings of the second semi-final of Australia vs. South Africa in the 1999 World Cup, with which I have lured more than one unsuspecting (or suspecting, I suspect) male into my salon, and inflicted it on several nonplussed friends as I walked and talked them through the many highlights — Warney’s Gattingesque ball to Herschelle and hyperventilation after 3 quick wickets to bring Australia back into the game and himself back to cricket, the hair-raising last few overs with Reiffel piffing a boundary catch over the rope for a terrible 6, several near-run outs and of course Fleming’s dry-mouth last over and ten-pin underarm strike while Klusener and Donald’s brains exploded like fireworks and Hansie loomed in the back of the South African viewing area like Darth Vader.

What a night THAT was... but this week, Life got in the way of seeing any of the first match on Friday and Work has been pressing ever since, though the latter did mean I was up to see all of the second match out of the corner of my eye.

It’s true there now seems something a bit ungainly about the one-day form: neither the slow-down-your-biorythms-we’re-in-for-the-long-haul commitment of the Test nor the fasten-your-seat-belts-it's-going-to-be-a-bumpy-night hoo-ha of 20/20, it’s not “just right” à la Goldilocks but rather... oh, I don’t know, à la Hamlet. I won’t write it off just yet. I hate doing what everyone else is doing and everything cricket is obviously clouded by post-Ashes loss ennui.

I missed the old SBS panel and seeing the commentators at the ground, and I couldn’t pick the voice of the Australian in the box... a little bit Taylorish, but not.* I loved watching Johnson bat and I am waiting for Hopes to do something splendid so I can pronounce him brutti ma buoni and whip up a batch of the Italian biscuits of the same name. May as well continue a theme.

* It's Nostril Boy Mark Waugh, isn't it?