Help is required for Photos. Probably my built in computer protection devices. I'm not going to have a go at them as they may prevent horrible hackers desperate trying to improve the standard of my writing. The Barmies were in full song on the Monday of the Brisbane Test. 293-5. The word is that it will be over by lunchtime. We'd listened to Kerry O' Keefe last night at our Tour Dinner. He was funny. We also listened to Derek Pringle. I can't take to Pringles, though I know many do.
A lady in the coffee queue gave me her radio. She's not going to Adelaide. I bought her a coffee. I should have waited. She asked for a flat one. By the time the froth from my cup of chino was off my face Pieterson was out without scoring caught Martyn bowled Lee. The stadium seems empty. Just us Brits. 'We are going to win 4-1', sing the Barmies. The questions were getting quite heavy to K O'K and DP so I told them that being the only bloke who had been able to smuggle in a pair of binoculars past the garotting ground authorities, was I the only one to see Michael Atherton filling the cracks in the pitch with dust from his pockets through his trousers to the accompaniment of the Great Escape tune sung by the Barmy Army. While many in the hall stared in disbelief. K O' K said 'You're my sort of bloke.'
I read somewhere, or heard somewhere 'If you ever have a chance to meet Derek Pringle, ask him about.....' Exasperatingly I can't remember what it was. I want to say it came from Ian Chappel, or was it Freddie Trueman? Somebody knows. Please tell us. The newspapers were full off the miserable attitude of the gangrenous Ground Authorities. It must have had some sort of effect as they must have handed out fun passes to the Barmy Army who were now together and in top form. Hence a wide from Brett Lee is loudly but not widely cheered. I checked with the caretaker of the school next to the Gabba this morning. He said that The GABBA let the school have their annual Sports event in the stadium, but that's all. He was loyal though. He resisted my attempts at seeing whether the Ground Authorities were brought in to help any children who had communication difficulties. It turned out to be the reverse. He said that the GABBA had given the school a lot of money.
I'd bought an umbrella today to influence the weather. The Barmies were waving theirs and singing 'Singing in the Rain' to influence the umpires. There were no fanatics. 'You're supposed to be at home. Shall we sing for you?' the BA sang. There's a partnership of 22. Gile has 4. Jones' middle stump goes. 326-7. The Barmies mimic Lee's exercises. The lady who gave me the radio said she had been staying in was it the the Stanhope Hotel? 'Gee' said an Aussie 'That's Posh'. 'Yes', she went on to say, 'That's where the Press are staying'.
'Get your shit stars off our flag' and 'God save YOUR gracious Queen' reigned over us. At last the TV lot worked out where the real entertainment was. Monty's face appeared on the big screen as the Musical Military chanted his name. I'm sure I saw Fletcher's red face behind him. The missus said later that the Barmies were constantly being showed. My 'Gravesend CC' flag wasn't shown. We've made drinks. Just! Gilo is out 346-8. 'Same old Aussies always cheating' they sang. 'Warney Warney send us a text.' The 350 comes up. I changed my sunglasses for my ordinary ones, as it's cloudy but the only drops are tears. Clark gets Hoggart. Almost curtains. I stayed for the aftermath. Zoe and Dave from EGCC? were hugging. Photos will be available one day. They are very much in love. The Barmies are still singing, though the music over the tannoy sounds quite good. I wish I could name it. Dave and Zoe will be able to tell you. I't will be 'their song'for ever and a day.
I couldn't get my missus to fly to Australia. I'll work harder for New Zealand 2008. What we need is a National Trust place to stop off at in Hong Kong to break the journey like we used to with the kids.We never used to stop at Motorway service stations to eat. Strictly diesel. She would always find a Stately Home to stop at with a garden to picnic in, a sort of Aire with Graces. One of her favourites is Killerton Gardens near Exeter in Devon. When the traffic is bad on the M5 we call in. We always call in. We’ve been round the house too. It didn’t cost us anything as we are members of The National Trust. It didn’t cost me anything either each and every day during the three terms I lived there in my first year at St Luke’s College. What a saving I would have made. If only I was aware of it at the time. I only used the garden for an occasional leak after my meat and one veg on a Sunday, or was it Tuesday?
Sir Richard Acland and his missus lived there and ran the place. He was also a lecturer at the college, probably to add a bit of class. He used to be a Labour MP at Gravesend, so there were a few connections. At dinner, Lady Anne used to talk about the evacuees from the East End that she put up and by the sound of it put up with during World War II. She said that all they wanted to eat was fish and chips. There’s the connection. I wasn’t meaning class; I lived next door to a Fish and Chip shop in Cornwall. Sir Richard had the graveyard slot of lecturing to the whole year group on three consecutive Saturday mornings giving a religious slant to the theory of Evolution. The least he could have expected was a decent Christian burial. The College had imposed a three line whip. Too many of the previous sex education semenars had been missed. A lot of the women had been late. Some of the boyos had come early. Some of the mature students who were always there didn’t come at all. The place was packed. Most of us couldn’t say three words of Latin let alone write three lines. Yes, the place did have pretensions, not to mention delusions of grandeur.
I took my son to look round the place a few years back. Exeter University was one of his choices for Sports Science. So the College did become grandeur. The various technical supports failed. The team had to do a power pointless off the cuff presentation. In other words they were pretending. So it still seems tin-pot. But like my cricket club I like tin-pot. My son wasn’t deluding himself though. He went to Canterbury. It must have been the cricket. I’d like to say that Sir Richard got a standing ovulation at the end of the first lecture but that would be to demean the man, but everyone did stand and it lasted for a full three minutes. ‘You just can’t help yourself!’ said the missus. We played a lot of sport at Killerton Hall. That was handy as you couldn’t get in the 10th team at the College as everyone was so good. The football pitch was near to the house. You had to clear the cows off the field first. No problem for Sir Richard. He would drive down to the far reaches of the estate and blow his trombone. The whole herd stampeded towards him to low for an encore.
He caught me unawares once. I was white washing the penalty spot as near as I could to the correct place, which wasn’t easy to locate because of all the cow pats in the area. This must have been where penalty shoot-outs were invented going by all the evidence of nervous exhaustion in the same spot. Anyway I had just put the odd hand print on the odd inquisitive cow like the aforementioned Ten Bears used to do on his horse and I was on my mate’s shoulders helping to put up the net when the trombone sounded. I know I’ve mentioned before about not mixing the species but the cows set off like Pavlov’s dogs. They were only beaten to the mark by my mate whose shoulders used to be below me. I hung on to that cross bar like nobody’s business. It was somebody’s business that I fell into however and this time it didn’t emanate from any cow. For once I could have done with those GABBa Ground Authorities!
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