History Repeating Itself

So anyway, yesterday I sat watched virtually all of the final day of the Ashes series right down to the wire. And, it was ruddy marvellous in my sight. Yet somehow I still conspired to see not a single one of the first eight Australian wickets to go down. I did, at least, have a good reason for missing the first two - I was on my way back from the railway station after seeing Mama Telly Topping off on her holiday. I then watched the action for the rest of the morning but, after lunch I flicked over briefly to BBC1 to catch the end of the Spanish Grand Prix and, when I turned back over to the cricket, it was two hundred and twenty something for four and I'd missed the two run-outs.

Then, I - just for the briefest of brief seconds - changed channel to Sky Sports 2 to see how the football was going and arrived back at the cricket just in time to see Marcus North stomping off towards the dressing room like a bear with a sore arse after getting stumped by Matty Prior. Then there was that lengthy stand between Fussy Hussey and Haddin Havin' a Badd'un and, for twenty minutes or so, I decided to pop over to BBC2 to watch the (very exciting) 4x400 metres relay in the World Athletics Championship. Having celebrated Britain's unexpected silver medel in that, wouldn't you know it, when I came back, two more wickets had gone. And then, to cap it all, having had a delightful late lunch myself, I went off to the lavvy to have a, rather necessary if very satisfying, dump and was startled to come back just as the England were celebrating Siddle getting diddled by Harmy and Fred.

Luckily, I did catch the last two wickets go down live, as it were. Otherwise, I might've believed it the whole thing never even happened.

So, it wasn't quite the mad-bonkers over-the-top euphoria of 2005 (how could it be? That was a one-in-a-lifetime thing for the entire country, it seemed) but, I thoughtly enjoyed the test and, indeed, the series (getting thrashed at Headingley notwithstanding). And I must say, also, that the delicious irony of watching Sour Faced, Fat-Lipped Mr Punter getting his sorry ass run out so comprehensively by Lord Freddie Flinthazen was, quite possibly, the single funniest thing I have ever seen in all my life. Bar none. Well, at least since Gary Pratt done him up like a kipper, Tommy Nutters, four years ago in the same fashion, anyway. Seriously. I laughed and I laughed and I laughed until I stopped. And then I laughed some more.

Couldn't possibly happen to a nicer chap.