The English have their super Fred. Yesterday, the Aussies had a super team.
It was as if Marvel Comics had written a brand new edition where all their greatest heroes banded together to demolish any hopes the evil, odorous enemy had of conquering the good guys.
And who would you pick as your champion of the people? The always reliable Mr Cricket (who left us feeling Huss Huss Huss!)? The chirpy little Pup (whose blistering innings was a little over-shadowed, I fear)? Or the man we call Super Gil?
With, I suspect, a capital G shaved into his chest hair, Super Gil thrust caution to the wind and danced down the pitch to send Monty's toxic kryptonite rocketing into the areas housing those sneaky English fans, more than once.
But poor old Matty Hayden. He must be feeing left out of the centurion club at the moment. He played so well to get to the nervous nineties, only to wobble like a jelly fish.
Sure, Punter only entered the half-centurion club for the match. But 75 is hardly a poor score!
Must say thank you to our magnificent trumpeter for the day! Andrea, take a bow! The national anthem brought tears to our eyes. You and the magnificent Billy (at least one Englishman on the Ashes tour has some talent!) should do a duet.
Even the Barmy boys sitting in the Fanatics stand (obviously trying to adopt Aussie values for their citizenship applications) got their little hooligan voices all choked up when she played Swing Low Sweet Chariot for them.
And I thought I saw some tears, but that could have just been sweat pouring from their little hooligan heads.
Tip! With your fair skin, why waste money on red face paint when you could just not wear sun screen? Or better yet, sweat out the short wait for the Aussies to bring that little urn back Down Under, and you will surely be red faced!
Troy
Alarming Trend.
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