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I had all my "damp squib", "bang to a whimper" remarks lined up, but they managed to put on a show in the end. I even predicted the Australians would open their second innings with Warner and Watson and went off to make popcorn, though that gambit didn't quite pay off. I suppose English supporters might have been whimpering at stumps, but it seemed poetic justice to me: if you wanted to win, you shoulda played to win, all the way through.
I missed the "show" on Friday, a propos, and missed no show at all apparently, my friends seemed only to have seen red. Jonathan Agnew was crazy enough at the beginning of yesterday to hope - and think it possible - that England might declare, but I don't know what England he was thinking of. He'd seen Jim Maxwell propose to his lady friend the night before, so his head was obviously full of hearts and flowers and fairy dust.
I suppose there was poetry in the umpires getting the final word as well. I felt sorry for them, and a bit worried for their persons. I think a lot of the hoo-ha about the DRS in this series was more to do with poor umpiring on the field and poor understanding of the burden of proof between the on-field and third umpires. Someone somewhere has done a diagram of all the alternative universes that might have existed had all the wrongs been right. But what would we have had to talk about? Tony Hill giving Ryan Harris out lbw to an empty field must be one of cricket's most poignant images.
I mostly listened to the radio, reverting to the Fox team during the breaks. I really enjoyed Damien Martyn on the radio. For someone who had a bit of a reputation as skittish and aloof when he was playing, and who bizarrely ended his career by skipping the country in the middle of an Ashes tour, he just seems relaxed, smart, understated and easygoing. I don't know whether he is more so now than he was on television in 2009, or whether it's just easier to hear with the hypnotic effect of his face out of the way. He sounds very different to how he looks.
On the field, I really, really liked Steve Smith this series. I don't know how he conveys calm and focus when he is such a twitchy little bird, but I always felt like I was in good hands when he came out. Maybe it's that his nerdiness is reassuring. Something about his slight overbite reminds me of Judi Dench, but I'm not sure I can get many people to go along with that.
Maybe
Ashes series seem so intense because most of the audience is sleep deprived and emotional in any given game. Ashes series on the other side of the world take over my life in a way that home series don't. They're more demanding, because I'm not on the light duties of summertime, and I will sit in front of a whole "day" of the cricket at night in a way I tend not to when it's on during my day and I'm going about my business. It's great, but messy - I have to go do some cleaning.
I was dozing on the couch last night during the tea break, and BBC radio seemed to be playing an episode of Life Matters in which Mickey Arthur was "in conversation with" a Kleenex-soft interviewer about journeys, journeys, and growing the players as people.
I don't know, Mickey. I was impressed with you at the post-sacking press-conference, still with you when you said you were taking Cricket Australia to court, and I didn't think there was anything so scandalous about your interview on Tuesday. But you're kind of losing me now, Mickey, and when you realise that your loss is Shane Watson's gain, you get a sense of how big a moment that is in my own personal "journey". I think you might be a bit smitten with people being so interested in what you have to say, and the more you say, the less convinced I am about your coaching style.
Jim Maxwell muttered something about "control freakish" when TMS got back to the commentary, and that's just it with touchy-feeliness: it's as much a disciplinary regime as ice baths and laps of the oval, but a whole lot more intrusive because it keeps trying to touch you and feel you.
On your way, journey man.
P.S. Having just caught up with Darren Lehmann's latest shenanigans, I'm rather losing the love there as well. Firstly, that walking incident is so old and I can smell the sour grapes (verjuice?) from here. Secondly, it's not funny to ask people to gang up on someone, and thirdly, egging the crowd on in that way is a bit like the bloke in the band who pleads with the audience to dance - "come on, guys, get moving!" I'll do it when I feel like it and you can't make me feel it if I don't.
I went to bed about when Shane Watson came because I didn't have a very good feeling about things. There seemed to be some sort of Fibonacci thing happening where the number of runs scored since the previous wicket was half the number of runs scored since the wicket before that, and that sequence does not have a happy ending. I thought: if they don't lose any more wickets, they can manage without me, and if they do lose any more wickets, I can't help them and I can't cope with seeing it.
As good as that opening partnership looked and was, it was hard to get rid of the feeling that just one wicket would break the spell and that without the talismanic power of Warner in particular we'd be back in the desert of the real. Was there ever a glummer No. 3 than Usman Khawaja? Isn't that supposed to be where you put the best batsman? Isn't he supposed to be a reassuring presence? Why can I not put aside the depressing suspicion that they leave the better batsman down the order so that there's someone to clean up the mess after the traditional top order collapse. Or, equally depressing, to protect injuries.
Mark Waugh tipped the series before it started to be a 2-2 draw if he was betting with his heart and a 3-1 loss if he was betting with his head. It seemed sensible at the time and it would be nice to get one at least.
Chapelle's Beauty Spot
Moving right along, what about the set of GEM's cricket anchors? I expect Chenille from the Institut de Beauté and House of Hair Removal to be along any moment. Perhaps she will materialise out of the alien life-form on Skype in the background. Just what kind of show is this?
The picture above is from last night, but the night before the two Ians actually colour-coordinated their ties with the decor, thus reinforcing the overall womb-like pink glow.
Perhaps it's to create a supportive environment for when the Australian viewer feels the urge to adopt the foetal position.
I wish I was young enough to know instinctively how to make a gif loop, but this will have to do. Pissing off Kevin Pietersen to this extent is surely a close second to retaining the Ashes. It is also a sign of my age that part of me was relieved when it rained so I could get a proper night's sleep.
Thoughts, briefly, as I am SO behind with my homework.
Geoffrey Boycott raised more philosophical issues than Socratsy during the Third Test, to wit:
- "There's no such thing as ifs, buts, thoughts..." and
- "How can you get rain wrong?"
Discuss.
Why is Jim Maxwell's the only voice you can hear at the back of the box when the other commentators are on? Is he unusually heedless of interrupting the broadcast or is it an unusually stentorian voice? You'd think the latter.
This season's ads:
Usually there's just relentless blokiness, but I noticed a lot of "girl car" ads in the first couple of Tests, eg. zippy Mitsubishis for girls nights out. My couch companion suggested that it was so menfolk watching the cricket could recommend cars to their girlfriend, but that seems poor thinking to me. Because after we both watched an ad for hot pink Asics runners, I turned to him and said "I covet those", and he said "What?"
At the other end of the spectrum, however, are the Schick Hydro ads, that once again show what lengths must be gone to avoid certain implications when selling grooming products to men. Lest you have concerns about a shaver with a moisturising bar, its effect is helpfully illustrated by a computer animated boxing match where a punch lands as a slo-mo blast of water. Why, it's like a FIST of WATER in your FACE. Like being GLASSED with HYDRATION. Like an EXPLOSION OF MOISTURE SHRAPNEL. Mrs Marsh, eat your heart out.
I don't want to say it was the duck that did it, but it certainly did it for me. As fine a dish as was finally served up by our top order, and as delectable as Khawaja's dismissal was unpalatable. I just thought you'd want to have a look.
Well, all the second test did was go where the first test would have gone but for the grace of God. They are a bit sad in the end, miracles, because every time your team is in the shit, you say to yourself, "well, you never know..." and cross your fingers that something against the odds will happen. Then it actually does happen and rather than justifying your "you never know" attitude, it just seems to underline how unlikely it was that it was ever going to happen. Because it's fantastic in direct proportion to how unlikely it is. The more fun you're having seeing the miracle, the more you're pointing to the fact that this is probably not going to happen again in a long, long, time.
That long time began with the second test, and this is where it put us:
This was an SMH poll the day after the last test finished (still 90% yes by the time the poll closed, though I don't supposed many people voted after the first day it was up). It was the day the "you never know" died. "You never know" is always a bit of a bluff, but it's part of the game and we vote with our hearts. Hearts officially broken!
In the great tradition of soothing the soul with the senses, I will be girding my loins for tonight with confit duck thigh, red cabbage and turnips. I am advised by a learned colleague that Shane Watson should gird his loins with the below:
