A Grand Day Out
Apologies for being more than a little quiet on the blog lately. June and July have been mad months, what with work and other stuff, so I thought that I'd just concentrate on what needed to be done rather than affecting the planets climate by contribute more needless electrons to the Internet Blogosphere. Or something.
Anyway yesterday was spent at one of the great sporting occasions, an Ashes Test. Day Four of the Third Ashes Test at Edgbaston to be precise. I had kind of lucked into a ticket at short notice and given the fact that I just hadn't stopped for the best part of a couple of months, a day of sitting in the sun, drinking beer seemed like a good idea. This would be my second experience of the Ashes, as previously I was lucky enough to get into the final day at Old Trafford in 2005 for one of the most enjoyable days cricket I had seen for a long time.
The thing that makes going to a Test match, especially, an Ashes Test is that the atmosphere is quite unlike any other. It started on the train from Stockport - 8.30 in the morning and the thing is absolutely rammed with cricket fans - a swift upgrade to First Class sorted out a seat (bargain at a tenner). Once at New Street for just gone 10am, it was more like a Friday afternoon rush that a leisurely Sunday morning as fans piled into taxis and shuttle buses to the ground. Many were in fancy dress, as is traditional for Test matches and at various points during the day I was surrounded by Mario, an entire platoon of convicts, cowboys and Dalmatians. When I stopped at the station for a quick slash, I was surrounded by blokes in red dresses and blonde wigs. For some reason, going as a woman is very popular. To the point that it might seem to say something about latent tendencies, and I'm not sure what.
Into the ground comparatively quickly once you do the sensible thing that 99% of people don't do, which is ignore the first turnstile you get to and go to another one. Unfortunately, there was a bag search. This annoys me, as it quite clearly is not for OMGTerrorizm! purposes, but simply to relieve you of any drinks you might have brought in. I lost two cans of Coke, but a bottle of water was fine. I repeat: two cans of Coke. Not beer. Coke.
Bah.
A packed ground, getting increasingly raucous as the day goes and the copious beer consumption begins to take effect. We were in the Eric Hollies Stand, where all the noise was being generated. A group of about 50 Aussies, known as the fanatics, were sat down the front in their green and gold shirts. This is like entering the lion’s den, except the lions were sponsored by Carlsberg. Our seats were pretty good, next to an exit ("Good news! The bar is behind us! Bad news! The bar is behind us!") and near enough to serenade a bunch of Star wars Storm troopers with "Where's your Vader gone?". He turned up later, clearly having been for a Jedi Piss.
Funniest was a steward who bore a striking resemblance to Stevie Wonder, especially when he popped his shades on. So about 50 people started singing "I Just Called To Say I Love You".
An hours delay to let the pitch dry out and play resumed for the day. The odd thing is that you can't actually see the crucial parts of the game. The subtleties of swing and bounce that take place in the middle are too far away to see, so you are left with a big screen that shows the odd replay and the soothing tones of Test Match Special on an earpiece. The radio sellers do a brisk trade at a tenner a pop, though seeing as England are sponsored by Vodafone, all of their customers are entitled to a free radio. Ker-ching! TMS is wonderful, a rhythmic lilt of interchangeable voices, half-describing the action, the rest meandering around subjects as diverse as pigeons, beards and the different types of ball used across the cricketing world. The reverie is only occasionally broken by (Sir) Geoffrey Boycott, wandering into the commentary box in search of a fight. The man has opinions that he will stick to with the same bloody-mindedness that characterised his cricket. "I'm right, you're wrong, and I'll expound at great length about it." Sometimes it is amusing, especially as the rest of the TMS crew gently wind him up without him realising it, sometimes it is just annoying, a ten minute Yorkshire Whinge.
England were batting, beer was drunk, boundaries cheered loudly. As the day wore on, England began to take control of the game, the lower order letting loose with some marvellous shots. Central as always was Andrew Flintoff, who even on one very dodgy knee was in an imperious mood. There is no sight quite like seeing a bowler letting the ball go at 80mph+, only for Flintoff to deliberately, yet casually, smash it back over his head for four. For a couple of hours, the Aussie bowling was getting despatched to all ends of the ground, and even though Flintoff went to an unlucky dismissal and Matt Prior was unfortunate not to get his 50, Stuart Broad gained one last massive cheer as he reached his half century.
The crowd loved it. The Fanatics were getting a generally friendly barracking. "Convicts" and royalty were frequent targets for humour, including a ditty "Your next Queen is Camilla Parker Bowles, Camilla Parker Bowles, Camilla Parker Bowles" to the tune of "Yellow Submarine". It was noisy and fun - occasionally threatening to spill over slightly as it is wont to do when alcohol and barracking get together, but the stewarding and policing was tight. A little too tight, as Vader and his Storm troopers led a conga, only to be surrounded by yellow jacketed fun killers. Although we were treated to the impressive sight of a heroically drunk Darth Vader trying to hold back the hordes with his light sabre.
A last wander before the Aussies came in for their second innings. One of the things about cricket is that the players mingle freely with the crowd. As we headed into the crowd, injured fast bowler Brett Lee walked past us. Aussie legend Merv Hughes, a man so Australian he bleeds Castlemaine XXXX and vomits Fosters was deep in conversation with a fan. Another fan tried to take a photo on Hughes on his mobile, to which the prickly ex-fast bowler, knocked the phone and yelled "Ask first!" I decided that this was not the time to be asking for a photo with him.
Just before we left, we saw and heard the wickets of Katich and pantomime villain Ricky Ponting fall - booed on his walk out to the crease, which I thought was unfair. But he seems to be one of those people who controversy deliberate seeks out. He can't help it, trouble finds him somehow. As he walked back to the pavilion, we hopped onto the shuttle bus, dashed onto the train and arrived home within a couple of hours to end a thoroughly pleasant day.
"Sith Slash", shurely?
*applauds*
Well played, sir!
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