If the corpse of Englaish cricket is improbably still twitching after being famously cremated over a hundred years ago, then there are 101 reasons to take your carpet-beaters, golf-clubs and sodomy to the corpse as the Ashes are here to remind us that aside from the WWII heros, writers, James Bond and the blokes who make Doctor Who all poms are complete pricks. It's official - the poms are winning the series. Not in the actual terms of the game, of course, but rather in the fact that they managed to make the match a draw which they consider to be exactly the same thing.
Unexpectedly the villain of the piece wasn't Kevin Pietersen, the cocky Saaaaarth-Effriken batsman, nor Paul Collingwood, the rodent-faced gentleman of stunted growth who lacks the imagination to actually hit the ball, and not even Graeme "Fucking" Swann, the roguish, unwashed alleged spin-bowler who, if nothing else, deserves to have a run in with the poor horse whose teeth he stole. No, the villain of the piece was the English physiotherapist who made several unwelcome trips to the field to deliberately slow the game down, and this was exacerbated due to the fact the fellow in question had gigantic man-boobs to rival those of Meat Loaf in Fight Club. Please pretend I didn't say that if it turns out he is actually a former testicular cancer patient, naturally. But even if that's the case, he's still a prick. Or at least, the shadowy figure sending him constantly onto the pitch with no reason at all was...
Okay, which one was it?
That said, Australia weren't quite blameless. This will mean nothing to people who don't really give half a metric toss for the game, but the new ball had to go to Siddle. Or, to rephrase that, if the new ball had to go to any one man, it needed to be one named Siddle. A ginger-headed Victorian named Peter had the most convincing claimant to spherical play equipment possession. And, if you will allow me to vent AAARGHFUCKITPONTINGGIVEHIMTHEBALLAAAARGHYOUFUCK! - an exact quote from myself circa 3 a.m this morning.
Mitchell Johnson was instead elected to bowl, but seemed to be simply throwing the ball in the direction of girls in the crowd he found hot ignoring the pitch entirely. Sadly, nobody got Eve Myles to shuffle across into a squarer position.
Oh, yes, my friends that was the amazing thing about this match - it was the first ever Ashes test match to be played in CARDIFF. Now, at first glance there didn't actually seem to be any particular Rift activity besmirching the day's play, but when you looked closely at the crowd there were a few signs of odd behaviour, a bit like the Wizards trying-to-look-like Muggles scenes in Harry Potter, except these weren't in a poorly-thought-out kid's book so made less sense via context.
It is just possible that is an odd parochial piece of behaviour, as the Aussies in the crowd were dressed sensibly, in full-body banana costumes and the like, with my favourite being a morbidly obese man's T-shirt bearing the legend "I ATE ALL THE PIES", reminiscent of Serena Williams new victory T-shirt "ARE YOU CHECKING OUT MY TITLES?". Some of the outfits seen in the crowd defy explanation..
* First, there's the sensible. A quartet of men in orange jumpsuits with flashlight hardhats, even with some quaint fake-soot rubbed over the face. It's in Wales, that makes sense.
* Secondly, two very butch looking men, one in a bride outfit, the other dressed as Vicki Pollard (that's the name, isn't it?) from Little Britain. Two vague-ish explanations - an insult to Catherine Tait, by comparing her to Matt Lucas' most famous character, or the guy got confused and forgot that Daffyd is the Welsh character. Or the costume shop was just out of Daffyds...
* As one of the last note on the reasonable camp, we have several men wearing styrofoam hats designed to resemble dragons. I presume, at any rate.
* A bloke in a Fred Flinstone outfit. This made no sense at all until I realised, via the Barmy Army's regimental trumpeteer in the crowd playing the Flinstone theme every time that Andrew "Freddy" Flintoff bowled, that he had been nicknamed after everyone's favourite Neathanderal man. The man in a giant Sylvester the Cat outfit sitting next to him made considerably less sense.
* A man in drag as the Queen. Funny how the girls don't seem to get in on this lark.
* Plenty of men in hawaiin shirts with leys - not sure if these were actual costumes or just people making the most of those lovely 16 degree English Summer days.
* What was possibly a giant squirrel outfit, but just seeing it caused my father and I to exclaim "What the fuck is that?"
* Four Spidermen, travelling in groups around the back of the crowd. It was if a commando raid was being planned.
* Similarly, four Wheres Wallys, complete with canes. Unfortunately no sign of Wilma, Wizard Whitebeard or Odlaw...
* Finally, what appeared to be a severely depressed fifty-year old banker and his son in matching clown outfits. (No makeup) Dad suggests that he may have lost a bet, which is quite a sensible suggestion...
As a final note, in the resultant euphoria and migration of fair-weather fans to the side of Nathan Hauritz, I want to say that I supported the little fellow back when everyone said he was the worst player on the side. Unfortunately I never put it in writing so I'll simply look like one of their ranks. OH THE SEARING HOT IRONY!!!!
Incidentally, the fact that this can be considered a blog sickens me. Are there so few of us who set out to write more than seven sentences on a subject? Sigh.