Thank Poms for the Cricket

What would we do without the cricket? The sounds of the Australian summer would be incomplete. Even for the person that cannot stand the game they have to admit it goes hand in hand with the sound of a lawnmower on a still Saturday morning and the smells of a barbeque and cut grass that evening. Summer would be nothing without this ludicrous sport of men patting eachother on the bum, while pretending that they are less camp than they really are. I am surprised Thorpie hasn't joined the Australian cricket team. He likes pearl necklaces.

I must admit I love the game, and I can guarantee that no one would watch it if the Australian cricket team didn't have its mandatory wanker or two. I also have to admit that the commentators are just as important as the game and the players. I remember listening to the cricket on the ABC one time on the way back from a road trip with a mate (remember this Tozzy?) We were enjoying the banter and the informative, yet amusing, commentary. I decided, near Lake George, that I would have a bit of a go at finding a frequency kenneth with better reception.

Somehow something magical happened...

The dulcet tones of Bill Lawry and Richie Benaud crackled into range. We had hit the jackpot. Channel Nine commentators on the radio, on the way back from Byron Bay, ready to get home and have a cold beer and a shower after 3 weeks of completely un-civilised behavior.

Life could not have been better. We listened for a while:

Bill Lawry: What a wonderful evening for a special match like this, the Australians are batting magnificently
Richie Benaud: Yes, yes they are

How wonderful was that sound? How resplendent were we feeling at the time? How quickly did I change the channel when one of the Chappells entered the box? (Unfortunately his dad entered a box a few times before as well)

Yes the cricket, with its wankers, its yellow noses and white lips that make one think of an aborted Picasso, its scantily clad chicks in the crowd and the beery fuzz you feel at stumps. If you hate the sport you can't escape it. It will always be on and turned up loud enough for dad to hear it from the shitter.

It transcends the Australian summer as gracefully as a swan rooting. It is as much a part of our lives as sunburnt British backpackers, thongs, tinnies of Vitamin B and calling your mate a 'dickhead' and a dickhead 'mate'. We cannot live without it. Our wives cannot live with it.

I might end on a positive with this quote from the maestro of fumbles; Mr. Bill Lawry: "[Ricky Ponting] is the best puller around - if not the best hooker."

I am going to go and cook some meat and drink a beer.

Jum