Windies Test 3

I’ve been a bit off my cricket. It’s not a good sign when you miss the first day of a Test because you just hadn’t realised it had started, which is what I did with this last one. I might not have enjoyed seeing Simon Katich hole out on 99, but I could have been there and explained that Warnie did just the same thing. And even if I am a bowler’s girl, it was very poor form only half-watching Chris Gayle’s century because I was making dinner. For myself.

It picked up the last couple of days or so. So, things.

Grandstand commentators

I’ve got a certain amount of time for Justin Langer—he’s a famous cuddler—but I start to steal glances at my watch when he goes all shiny-eyed happy-clappy, which is a lot. Every ball, every state of play: an occasion to see the sunrise and live the dream, and if there’s space to fill there’s plenty of pride and joy in wearing the Baggy Green to go around.

It doesn’t stop at the boundary. Post-retirement, behold the terrifying Justin Langer “Power of One” World Tour of Duty, Passion and Self-Belief: getting his black belt, doing a marathon, the Kokoda Trail (here I muttered “Antarctica, surely” under my breath, and, close…), the North Pole. All the chestnuts of the cross.

Balance is of course offered by Terry “Backseat Driver” Alderman, whose default attitude to Australian goings-on on the field is disbelief mingled with disgust. It’s a bit like being at a school assembly where an interminable special guest address is succeeded by a lengthy harangue from the irritable deputy principal.

Unlikely lookalike #342

And speaking of poles and opposites, is it ridiculous to suggest that Doug Bollinger is the sunny half of a pair whose dark pole would be… Dwight Schrute?

Doug being the blond to Dwight’s brunette; the bogan to Dwight’s bumpkin-geek; upbeat, energetic and straightforward where Dwight is sneering and Machiavellian? But both strongly resembling root vegetables. Dougie Bollinger: another brutti ma buoni bowler from the Sunshine State. Do they export all the pretty ones to WA?

Swotto

Shane Watson, after all, “has the face of a dickhead”, according to my flatmate, although I admit this association could have been set up by me saying “dickhead” whenever Shane Watson’s face appeared on screen.

TNT!

I had just been reading up on oxytocin, the "cuddle hormone", and then I saw Adrian Barath make his century. Adorable! The leap of joy, the being swept up and spun around in Dinesh Ramdin's arms, the salute to the crowd and the team, but the clincher of his place in Cricket Love history was his lean into Ramdin's chest—it bordered on a nuzzle—to go in for a second cuddle. I was combing the interwebs for pictures of the cuddles in particular and thought I had found one, but it turns out it was Barath engaged in yet another delightful cuddle in another game entirely. He can't help himself, he's Adrian Boris "Mr Oxytocin" Barath.

Adrian Barath & Lendl Simmo, 29th January 2009 (WI vs England) (AP/AndresLeighton (c))

It was a long way from Peter Roebuck's polite (?) inquiry of Fazeer Mohammed on Day 1 as to whether Barath and Ramdin's background was middle class or, rather, perhaps, "peasant". Oh Peter. Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter. Oh Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter. What will I do with you?

A more palatable moment in Grandstand camp was when Ponting dropped Travis Dowlin off Mitchell Johnson, which yielded this clipped exchange:

Roebuck (I think): Uncharacteristic.
Maxwell: Most.

Quite!

And I was glad to see that Nathan Hauritz has not lost his flair.

A shame about, well, the rest.

Laird of the Lairs

I jumped up and down and clapped my hands and hooted when I saw Warnie leading the pack out onto the ground in the Australian Cricketers' Association XI v Australian XI T20 game last night. And hooted pretty much every time he was shown on screen—because of joy, of course, but also no small amount of hilarity.

Warnie, you are such a Lair. You are a Hilarious Lair. You are Laird of the Lairs. "Lair" is apparently an Australia-specific slang term, and I'm not surprised given people like Warnie wandering around.

Let me count the ways. I think he's been dyeing his eyelashes for a while, but is it possible a little eyebrow-waxing has entered the picture? On top of the blonde-tipping, yeah-yeahing, teeth-whitening, sun-bedding (would Warnie go the fake tan or the full carcinogen-rich approach? I suspect the latter—it could after all be a full-body nicotine stain…) and my flatmate read that striking shiny smoothness as assisted by the botulinum toxin: hardly unlikely.

I mock not, of course. I delight in.

Other things from the night:

Generation X Captain Warnie's recurring "Noice…" vs Generation Y Captain Clarke's recurring "Awesome…"

Healy on Lee Carseldine's tremendous 6 at the beginning of over 14: "Look at the contact, look at the carry, look at the camerawork…"

And who was that hollow-eyed young man from a Flannery O'Connor novel that bowled the last over? Nathan Rimmington, taking Movember's mission to raise awareness of male depression and wasting diseases to a whole new level.

Getty Images (c) 2009

Panna cotta-shaped

They had to express the Spirit of Christmas in two courses, and I’m not sure why Katich’s collapsed panna cotta—whose overall effect was, in his own words, “Depressing. And disappointing.”—didn’t count as a rather astute and modern interpretation of the theme.

But it didn’t, so Katich is the first Celebrity Masterchef semi-finalist to go, but not without leaving us with an appropriate analogy the next time a batting order goes disastrously wobbly.

Katich Krêpe King

I had an inkling Mr Katich would take out his Masterchef heat, because there's been a trend of the quartz-precision athletic types doing well. It wasn't too noisy a show in the end, partly because I was sitting under the quiet pall of sheepishness that comes from scarfing down a McValue meal. There was praise in our loungeroom for his plating and his running, and in the end my flatmate gave the best verdict: "He's very Straight, isn't he?" It was after an especially wooden piece-to-camera, and we reflected that most blokes, whatever their actual predilections, can still work a tiny admixture of camp into their manner, an little swing, an element of, well, style. Most blokes. Not Simon. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I gather (I am no judge) his technique at the crease is also largely untouched by gainliness. But whatever works, right?

The showing was low on the violence front. There was a small yelp of "Don't stab it!" when he was attempting, a little roughly I thought, to unmould his crêpe cake with the aid of a knife. And though he watched his salmon "like a hawk" (his words), he still managed to overcook it: stabbing may have been the better diagnostic move in this case. His face was mostly set in an expression of bemusement, with the exception of one break-out moment when first confronted with the crêpe layer cake:

And since there's a history of shutter-sequence analysis of Katich's reactions here, this was actually a 1-2-1 sequence of:

1. Appalledness at the cake;

2. Look to the judges to confirm reality of situation;

3. Back to cake with heightened appalledness.

I can feel a Simon Katich Memorial Lemon Curd Crêpe Layer Cake coming on, because that's exactly the kind of dish I go in for. I gather Simon has also been playing some cricket. Must look into that.

Give us This Day in Shane Warne

I got so excited last week at the preview snippets of Simon Katich in the Masterchef kitchen that I almost crushed the cat (no pun… or rude new slang expression… intended). Great Squealing tomorrow night, no doubt.

And may I mention the shades of Warney in the delightfully zaftig George Calombaris? Last entry I referred to the “Balkan Haut” type allegedly embodied by Katich, and George has elements of a type I invented for Warney called “Buddha Warrior”.

It combines on the one hand a bodyfat-rich bonhomie that smiles and shines like the sun, the golden “virtue that bestows”, as Nietzsche’s Zarathustra describes it,* radiant and magnetic in its radiance. And on the other hand the fire in the belly: a boundless roaring competitive flame, the instinct to fight, win and kill, snakey patience and foxy wiliness... “Buddha Warrior” is where these attributes intersect and are the same thing.

George’s palate is no doubt broader than Warney’s. The palate of the average 6 year-old is broader than Warney’s. But within his category he has still come up with some Warney-like goods. Last week’s “Honestly, it looks like spew”, obviously. He has also confessed to a love of ham and pineapple, and in the original season when faced with steak tartare, he offered: “I have to say, raw meat FREAKS ME RIGHT OUT”.

And without wanting to get all Wagyu about it, that body fat – Warne’s, George's – really is marvellous. Nothing excessive about it. It’s seal-like: sleek, firm and functional. Strong, plump hands... Got it? Okay then.

It may have become apparent why I need something like “This Day in Shane Warne” to keep me in order. I don’t expect it is a thrilling read, but the process of putting it together is a pleasingly mundane devotional ritual. I can relive the innings that I didn’t see or don’t remember, or did see and do remember, and turn up the odd treasure, like the poignant “You dickhead, what are you doing? What have you done?”

When I lived in a Vietnamese neighbourhood in Melbourne, you’d see little Buddha shrines in the shops with tins of Pringles and cans of Coke for the Buddha’s enjoyment. Let’s just say This Day in Shane Warne is a bit like my tin of Pringles and can of Coke. Or can of spaghetti and packet of Benson and Hedges.

As 18^th century French novelist Claude Prosper Jolyot de Crébillon always says, “On s’ennuie quand on aime mediocrement.” Or: “Obsession: it’s just more fun!”

* “Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is uncommon,
and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always bestoweth itself […]
Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels, because your virtue is
insatiable in desiring to bestow. Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and
into you, so that they shall flow back again out of your fountain as the gifts of 
your love.” Honestly, I find Thus Spake Zarathustra pretty much unreadable, but
I have always liked the image of the “virtue that bestows.”

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?

O Captain! My Captain!

(Ricky from the Useful Box archives, but obviously fitting now.)

A couple of days ago Terry Jenner called for Ricky’s head and waxed lyrical about Michael Clarke’s foreman material: “I was in England a month”, he said, (and) “Every press conference Michael Clarke did was superb.” “He’s never tired, never drained, never fatigued.”

Terry, you old fool. This is like being taken in by the preternatural resilience and sphericality of a pair of fake boobs. Look, good on Clarke for being such an enthusiastic study of Media Grooming 101 and thus relieving the rest of the team from what must be a very tedious chore for them, but his press performances are so bland and cliché-spacked he simply shifts the burden of tedium onto the rest of us.

I’m a Romantic: I have a soft spot for a flaw, even the odd wreck, and Ricky cemented his place in my heart when he disgraced himself at the Bourbon & Beefsteak in January ‘99 during my very first Summer of Cricket. That black eye was perfect, cartoon-like, and Ricky in general was — is — such a Ginger Meggs/Dennis the Menace-style figure, all scraped knees and pugnaciousness, that frowny look on his face at the crease like he might be busted any moment for stealing apples or breaking windows. Batting and bowling, his movements were all free, loose and boyish, I loved watching him. His fielding is still all boy but I think his batting body has matured and tightened up: the last time I saw him live he put me in mind of a little flamenco dancer the way he held his torso still and erect in a pose after a stroke.

Which brings us to Ricky's "smouldering" line in Cricket Love that I mentioned a couple of posts back. It’s already visible in the picture of Cricket Sad above, but this is more particularly what I had in mind:

I'm guessing this was taken during some after-match presentations, and there's nothing that's not wonderful here. A balm for the soul in these troubled times.

PS. So I guess I'm saying why I'll always love Ricky, sentimental old fool that I am, though not the same kind of old fool as TJ, and that I won't go out for Pup when I have Pig-Dog at home.

Fiddly while Rome burns

Or: When the going gets tough... the tough make complicated French biscuits.


For all the zen talk, I was thoroughly gloomed Saturday night and badly needed to split focus. Enter the macaron, a meringue biscuit with cult-like status, whose preparation attracts so much earnest discussion that in my mind it is now known as "palaver" biscuit. I am a sucker for insanely fiddly food items at the best of times, and these were the worst.

It wasn't enough alas to see me through the night. By tea on Saturday I was back on the couch, only instead of therapy I was having poison poured into my ear, à la King Hamlet. Reader, it broke me. I had to abandon play at 2am, bitterly conceding that the English had not only beaten Australia - that was ages ago - but me. It was a shell of a woman who yesterday sandwiched wee pink bikkies together with chocolate ganache.

Say die

It got very quiet on the couch last night. 10-and-a-half-year old cricket fan is not only at a sensitive age, but is still getting used to this "failure" part of the game. Ouchy. It seemed important to see it through, so see it through I did, and it did feel a bit like a long lesson in pain and all its varieties and stages.

Mostly it felt like homesickness. There came a point where I had to abandon the radio commentary - there were just too many English voices humming with satisfaction (entirely understandably) and Phil Tufnell's bedtime stories were no longer soothing but lonely-making. I badly wanted the company of "my" team: where's Kerry? Where's Flemo and Roey and Henry? I want my mum! Mike Holding was a blessed focal point of deadpan rectitude, he wasn't having a bar of anything and this was a great source of comfort.

When we took to the field again I pulled back and only half watched for a while because I couldn't bear being party to any hustle-bustle "positive" body language. Not just because of emotional weariness, but... well actually yes, emotional weariness, but of a more general kind, from the cumulative effect of too many "just gotta back ourselves"/"never say die" lines trotted out in the last 12 months. In my mind's eye it is Clarke who says this and to his credit Ponting has seemed to be evolving past it.

A few years ago New Zealand had a really good tour here and I thought they made great use of the freedom and invulnerability that comes from accepting the possibility - likelihood even - of loss. It's a virtue born of necessity of course, but Australia has suffered, and lost, from the lack of it, and I think the best Australia can do here is to make that peace and psyche out the English with their zen calm. That was and is the course I took/am taking in any case.

And bless Katich. By the end of the day/night I was chuckling out loud at his "fast bowler" face and tongue-poking stuck on top of his left-arm Chinamen.

Test 5 Day 1 Expectoration

I have a miserable sneezy cold so I peered at the first day of this Test through a cloud of tissues and puffy eyes.

Drop dead diva

I have found in my heart a seam of viciousness wishing ill on Freddie's last test. I don't know, I'm just over it: it's not all about you, Mr F.

Having arranged myself on the sofa under a granny blanket with my eyes closed and the soothing voice of Phil Tufnell in the radio ear piece, I dozed through Matt Prior's entire innings, but rallied to see Flintoff speared by Johnson. It was spooky: I opened my eyes, turned my head to face the teev and Flintoff swished and was caught. Extremely satisfying for me, but he was absolutely, sputteringly livid – the rage (and the shot?) of a man who has fatally come to believe his own hype. It seems the problem may not be that he is a Flintoff impostor but that au contraire he believes rather too much that he is Andrew Flintoff.

Warney and me: hope after all?

My fantasies of conversing with Warney never quite surmount the hurdle of realism and so tend to be extremely awkward, but I do now detect some common ground in our love of a lookalike. I thought his get of Vince Vaughn for Jonathan Trott was good work, though his specification of Vince Vaughn "as Jeremy Grey in the film the Wedding Crashers" made me feel a bit sad for how much hotel cable television he has watched in his life.

Vince Vaughn is certainly a better get than my own hazy (sneezy) thoughts of Trott as a vague morph between Simon Taufel and Jacques Kallis. The latter was probably only because Trott was having a go at his fingernails the likes of which I haven't seen since high school and Jacques Kallis is practically interchangeable in my mind with Jaws from Moonraker.

Watson: why?

My only really topical mutter over the past 10 days has been "like I care" to some further article about oh, something about Shane Watson's experience of batting I didn't get more than a couple of sentences into because the man can't seem to think without moving his lips.

All well and good with the batting, but so incredible did it seem that Ponting would call upon him to bowl towards the end of yesterday that when he was quite visibly warming up on the field Christopher Martin-Jenkins expressly discounted the connection between him "doing some violent exercises" and the obvious interpretation, explaining them as "just for the pleasure of giving his body a stretch".

Oh, were it the case. Can anyone match him for momentum-busting? Has any greater gift to the opposing side ever been wheeled out? He is all Trojan Horse with no Greeks. I have scribbled down from the commentators' remarks once his spell commenced: "his contribution with the ball has been generous", "cheap runs", "Trott looks more composed, is growing in confidence", and a shot from Broad – Broad – was so dismissive it was described as "just Go Away". Oh, again, were it the case.

My brain was at breaking point when Ponting persisted with him after the new ball became available. If he'd kept it up for one more over I don't think I would have been able to look at RP for some time and it was damn lucky Siddle redeemed things somewhat. A learned colleague of mine has described Ponting's failing as a captain as a lack of a sense of rhythm, which is clear enough from his acting, but this is insane. Was it the "over rate" thing again? Is Watson going out with his sister? Does he have a sister?

Ricky, please: Socrates also had a snub nose, it does not mean you have to be obtuse.

Get your leather on*

* As spake in Yeah Yeah Yeah's "Zero" which SBS has started playing during the cricket, an improvement on the previous dire anthems.

So much Cricket Love, so little time.

When a Short Batsman Loves a Tall Bowler

At the end of the Headingley test, Simon "Robocop" Katich showed he's not above a cuddle after all and Mitchell Johnson that he was worth the climb.

Katich is in fact only 7cm shorter than Johnson (1.82 m to Johnson's 1.89), but the scene reminded me of this one from the Cricket Love Archive between the 1.78 m Ricky Ponting and the 1.95 m Glenn McGrath (probably from the last Ashes in England, no later than August 2005 in any case).

Ricky actually does an excellent line in a more smouldering form of cricket love apart from the happy puppy style here, but that will have to be for another time.

And just to show that natura non facit saltus but that Katich most certainly does, here's a segue from the archive between the two scenes:

Happy day!

They call me naughty Lola

(Action Images 21/12/2008)

So, the win was good, though I think we certainly were spoilt with that first innings and second innings start, because when we didn't get the next 5 wickets in, say, half an hour, it was all pouting in the loungeroom, like, OMG are you serious? Borring! Helloo?

A highlight for me was the after-match presentations when the predictable sniggers at Billy "Chicken Man" Bowden gave way to shrieks of delight as Asad Rauf sidled up to the podium. The only way I can describe the look is to stress that he was wearing not sunnies but shades and that his clothes were, I strongly suspect, threads.

It was a mere formality to confirm that he hailed from the land of Imran Khan and this may simply be another case where I am late to the party as I have since found a reference where he is summed up as "just one cool motherf****r".

I am pleased of course to find that he holds his own in the cricket love stakes, and in fact seems a bit of a softie (see eg. here and here). But then who wouldn't melt in the capable arms of the Hon. Steve Bucknor, OJ, seen here on his last day of duties?

(Hamish Blair/Getty Images 22/03/09)

Business End

Dammit, I keep meaning to elaborate my theory about English wilty-ness, which I had to curtail last time because work beckoned and it's staring me down again like a pet watching me eat.

Ironically, one of my current work colleagues is a Frenchman who has been asking me for cricket updates ever since I explained to him a couple of weeks ago why I was up so late. Our cultures are united in their traditional disdain for the English of course and his response to my last bulletin was: "Bravo pour la leçon de cricket donnée aux Anglais", which I think is fairly transparent.

Test 4 second verse: same as the first

Well I take everything back about self-administered haircuts, because Mitchell Johnson's once-over with the clippers on the No. 2 setting seems to have worked a treat (a reverse Samsonism that indeed was always a favoured explanation of Warney's success with the ball once he lost the mullet).

And I very much enjoyed the starlet-on-the-red-carpet-back-over-the-shoulder-look he threw Collingwood after he bounced him: très femme fatale. A varation actually on the steaminess he created with Stuart Broad on Day 4 at Edgbaston.

Not that I saw this live. Another of my favourite books when I was little was Marion Holland's A Big Ball of String. A boy collects pieces of string into a Big Ball and then, when he is confined to bed with a cold, sets himself up so he can basically run the world from his bed by pulling on bits of string:
It probably says a lot about me that as an idea of a Good Time—or Dream Lifestyle—this still strikes me as just about unbeatable.

Anyway, I mention it because as the English prepared for their 2nd innings I hauled the smaller TV into the bedroom and set myself up in bed with extra pillows, laptop, weekend newspaper, pen and notebook and… fell asleep almost immediately. Lizard brain prodded me awake to see Mitchell Johnson being an aeroplane and England on 5/78. Well, now you're just spoiling me.

I greet the haunted look of the crumbly English cricketer like an old friend of course. As mentioned in relation to Captain Nasser, there's something about loss—especially of the gasp-makingly embarassing sort—that suits the English like a comfy pair of corduroy slippers and a smelly old dressing-gown they really ought to chuck into the fireplace but can't quite let go of.

Personally, I feel "Burn the smelly dressing gown" represents an improvement on the desperately vague homilies the English were getting from other sources:

Bowling coach Ottis Gibson: "Stand up as Men."
Everyone's coach Greg Matthews:
1. "Stand up."
2. "Have a look at the badge on your shirts."
3. "Get into it."

(I do love it though when Greg puts on his glasses, a thought Stuart MacGill echoed last night: he is transformed in the most unlikely fashion from haggard old ocker into the local pastor or headmaster.)

Test 4 overture

Oh I like this game. What's this game called? Much better than the other one, please don't bring me that one again. And who's this fella Clark? New is he? Just became available? Worth holding onto perhaps?

In response to egg-wearing Anonymous who predicted Shane Watson's dismal failure, it occurred to me last night that Watson does approach the "Queensland gladiator" model of opener demonstrated by Hayden. But I still find it hard to feel convinced in my waters by someone who reminds me of one of those over-pumped strawberries and I can't see any cuddles any time soon with the man Greg Matthews last night called "Australia's hard man", ie Katich. He also appears to be under threat from Phil Hughes over on the grassy knoll: someone needs to teach that man how to compose his face in less murderous arrangements.

Things from the rest of Test #3

So, Michael Clarke's new nickname in my loungeroom is "Rasputin", so many sure-death blows did he uncannily survive on his way to 100. Not able to catch him on a legal delivery or persuade his stumps to dislodge, the English eventually tried to "bore" him out, a strategy that became so tedious that when he hit a ball two-thirds of the way to the boundary rope on 96 I half expected the English fielder running after it to give it a good kick along and get it over with.

***

Earlier on Day 5, Shane Warne was captaining the English bowlers from the commentary box: just be patient, be patient, don't try and force it, don't get ahead of yourself, let it come, it'll all come, it'll come in a hurry, relax…










Sorry, where were we?

I'd heard of the "fog" that Warney was able to create in batsmen's minds, but as much as I love Warney—and I love Warney—I hadn't really extrapolated this to other areas, crediting him with more enthusiasm than sensitivity in such domains… until now. I've said enough. Too much. Area Shane!

Conspiracy theory 1

Not only does Nathan Hauritz's haircut appear to be a DIY job but Brett Lee's blonde is also an unpleasant urine-like shade suggestive of self-administered treatment. Have the English, recalling that Warney only started taking serious wickets once he lost the mullet, set up a secret Julio Embargo blocking professional hairdressers from approaching the Australian team? (Whereas Hilfenhaus appeared to get a proper haircut between the 1st and 2nd Tests, presumably before the embargo set in, and his fitness has—THUS—been preserved.)

Conspiracy theory 2

SBS's music selections have taken a confusing turn. They usually play snatches of uptempo songs from hip young Australian bands, eg. Temper Trap's "Science of Fear", which I haven't read too much into since I've just thought it was SBS being modern and Australian and uptempo—until NOW: these lyrics are the world's worst vote of confidence/terrifyingly prescient/might have a lot to answer for. They seem to describe the experience of a car crash happening in slow motion. Hmmm.

On Day 4 they started playing U2's "I Will Follow" – a little confusing, my brain started projecting follow-on situations that didn't exist and didn't really fit the song anyway. But this was nothing compared to Day 5's WTF multi-trumpet instrumental of "Frère Jacques".

Phil Jaques, obviously, but why? And why trumpets? I've heard the ACB can be less than direct when communicating with players, but... ? Theories welcome.

Look, what's that over there?

Test 3 Day 2 too painful to talk about. God, aghast at handiwork, has sent rain, without quite grasping the mathematics of possible outcomes from a 5-match series (omniscience? could try harder).

So, distractions it is. Curios from the Useful Box:

Curio 1

(NB. clicking on the image makes it bigger)

This is a piece by Ben Dorries from the Daily Telegraph the day after The Day the Music Died, ie 22 December 2006. I thought it wasn't at all a bad stab given how perilous this kind of thing can be (Marcus North was also named as a squad member in a side-bar). The accompanying article, discussing spinner options, suggests "Nathan Hauritz won't rate a mention", but who can blame him since he barely rates a mention now, doomed to be beige in the eyes of his beholders.

So, what did happen to Rogers, Jaques, Casson...? I ought to know, but I have an atrocious attention/memory span when it comes to the wider talent pool and rely on the kindness of strangers to tell me.

Nb. This was a much funner curio before the series sank into its current phase of gloomed oh-what-might-have-been-ness.

Curio 2

This is completely irrelevant (so much the better!), but is a personal Cricket Love favourite from the Daily Telegraph of 11 February 2003 (picture: Phil Hillyard):


I just adore the menswear-catalogue or even knitting-pattern-cover bonhomie here.

Shoaib: Ah-HO-ho-ho
Brett: Ah-HA-ha-ha
Shoaib: What am I laughing at Brett, ah-ho-ho-HO
Brett: It's a menswear thing Shoaib, you wouldn't understand... ah-ha-ha-HA
Shoaib: But it's definitely something over there, right? Ah-HO-HO-Ha!
Brett: As mine is over there. You're actually quite the natural at this. Ah-HA-ho-ha!
Shoaib: Ah-ho-HO-ho-ho ho! But of course. I am Shoaib Akhtar.

There is something to be said here about the tinkle-tinkle of gay laughter vs. the tinkle-tinkle of rain, or perhaps rainbow-like smiling-through-the-tears... damned if I know what it is though.

Test 3 Day 1 Mumble

I stayed up until 3.30 am watching the play after it finally started and then it seemed that they were doing well enough to manage on their own so I went to bed (plus it was THREE THIRTY). Kudos to the groundspeople, that outfield was whippet-like.

God is clearly trying to steer me back to a more charitable course when it comes to Shane Watson by making him an opener in this test. Because whatever I think in the abstract about the selection decision, and however Bizarro World Shane Watson and Simon Katich are as a couple, in the real world of sitting and watching him at the crease in this game, I can't want him to get out, I can't but want him to do well, I... I wish him well.

It was interesting viewing actually. Shane Watson looked like he was having the time of his life, and, well, if opening for Australia in an Ashes series in a must-win game isn't the "moment in time" he wanted I don't know what would be, so well should he wear a permanent grin.

And in the light of his public comments about Flintoff being his idol after 2005 I was intrigued to watch their... relationship? on the pitch. Basically it was Freddie on the one side looking florid and cranky and Shane on the other looking cheeky and troublesome - and being cheeky and troublesome I think, I caught the end of a replay where it looked like he had accidentally-on-purpose tripped Flintoff up a bit. A little bit Oedipal? I think it would be weird playing someone you've declared to be your idol, maybe even weirder to play someone who has declared you to be their idol, but then when I was growing up once you decided you liked someone that was the cue to avoid them at all costs and you would rather die than have them know so I might not be the best judge here.

I was going to take advantage of the rain to share a few of the wonders I found in my cricket Useful Box when searching for a picture of Freddie. I'll just leave it at the discovery of the first letter of Katich's 2005 dismissal "roar", which allows us to start a Sesame Street style word composition: