Nice Little Urners!
There’s the chill evening pint on a warm summer’s day.
There’s the soft kiss of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey after the ten minutes’ thawing time is up.
There’s the hard smack of a green chilli crunched off the top of a true jalfrezi.
And then there’s the taste of victory. Sweet, full-bodied, crisp and consummate Victory. I say Victory. I mean, Utter Annihilation. England were more dominant than a fat lass at a finger buffet.
Apparently this is the worst Australia team ever. Really? Good. Once they’ve unpeeled themselves from the chunky soles of Team England’s DMs they can go away and deal with that. Of the blokes currently wearing the baggy green only three of them could reckon on deserving another go. Hussey, Haddin and – if only for a bit of gumption, Siddle. Let’s hope the baggies are recyclable.
'Look at us, Punter, they've done us up like skippers!'
Lord knows we’ve had some cack-handed selectors in the not-too-recent past. This lot of Australian pickers must select using the blindfold and the drawing pin.
Not since Marilyn Monroe stood on that grille have I seen owt quite so wafty as Phil Hughes. Shane Watson would be great if he didn’t get halfway up, look down, and come over all dizzy. Ponting has been honest about his form and has taken out his frustration on officials rather than the turgid lame-brains all around him. Michael Clarke has all the confidence of a baby turtle trotting through a seagull colony.
The bowlers have been average to poor, bluntly spearheaded by Mouthy Mitchell who has talked a lot but Perth aside, delivered little. Leave the sledging to the snow, Mitch, mate. Hilfenhaus must be Old German for Trundle.
You could see how desperate the selectors were getting cos of their Freudian slip of a selection policy. First, Bollinger. Then Beer. I half-expected to see a bowling attack of Neil Harvey Wallbanger, Glennlivet McGrath and Keith Miller Lite.
Nah, they weren’t up to much – and for once, England got ‘em by the throat in Tests 4and 5 and didn’t let go.
The Barmy Army were in their pomp – like the footy fans of one of them Championship sides that still somehow stagger to the FA Cup Final, there was no pricking the joy. (Just watch us cheering when Mowbray leads our boys out in May!) Obviously there wasn’t a bloke amongst them who earned under forty grand a year, but what the hell? It’s good to see the old-fashioned values of beer, sunburn and stupidity all condensed into one jolly mass of Englishness.
As for the heroic Englishmen well... it’s a wonderful achievement. It really is. And a lot of the credit goes to Flower and Strauss. We can just about expunge the memory of the 5-0 drubbing last time around. Just about.
Cook was the revelation of course. His namesake discovered Australia but even had that Cook imbibed a dozen senna pods he could not have got more runs. As it was he was closely followed by a dose of the Trott. I’m not sure I could watch Jonathan for too many days in the future. He can make Chris Tavare look a bit carefree. But he’s been like cement for the team.
Pietersen, well... he’s been Pietersen. His claim that England wouldn’t be where they are today were it not for his sacrificing himself to get rid of Peter Moores is very Marc Almond (takes a lot of swallowing). But they’ve managed to cage his ego and got him back somewhere near his best.
Ian Bell – perhaps the least engaging post-match interviewee since Alan Shearer – showed bags of style on the park (if you ignore his twatty sunglasses) and Prior flayed them like a master butcher on Day Four.
England weren’t afraid to ditch the slightly struggling stork that is Finn for the hulking menace that is Tremlett. Tremlett was the rediscovery of the tour. He must be hugely intimidating to face, like being charged at by a runaway tennis umpire’s chair.
Bristling Bresnan took up the mantle of honest Yorkie with great verve. Swanny didn’t tear them apart but didn’t half shut ‘em up. And in Jimmy Anderson England have a rival to Dale Steyn as Shit-Hot Bowler in the World.
And just to prove that the team is a team, Collingwood leads them out this morning/last night, even though by his standards he’s been pretty shite. I mean in this series he averages less than Ponting!
It’s great to see the Durham lad bow out now, mind. He’s been damned with fiant praise over the past couple of days cos he’s ‘made the most of his limited ability’. To my mind that’s the highest praise you can give.
Obviously we’d all like to be Kevin Pietersen and be able to reverse sweep a six in a blindfold, but Colly’s done more than just grind out inningses and he’s been a top one-day player, a more than useful dobbler of a bowler and the finest English fieldsman since the scurrying twitchfest that was Derek Randall.
Apart from the Western Australian aberration, where Mitchell Johnson’s arm was clearly being remotely controlled by Denis Lillee with a handheld monitor, it was a series of complete bliss.
Count 'em. An innings and 71. An innings and 157. An innings and 83. Hmmmmmmmm!
The Aussie failure is being matched in the Premier League too. Chelsea, the Abramovincibles, the Blue Meanies – a team that oozed through and over the opposition like so much West London lava – have well and truly cooled off.
Soon Ancelotti’s eyebrow will take off out of there and the rest of him will surely follow.
Meanwhile in Ipswich the prawn sandwich salesmen have come out of hiding. And back in Cheshire a pair of Irishman’s hounds are cowering in their kennels and begging not to go our for walkies.
Now can one of youse lead me back into football management?
If we needed verification, we have it. Keano is a cack manager.
Ipswich could do worse than bring in Andy Flower.
There’s the soft kiss of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey after the ten minutes’ thawing time is up.
There’s the hard smack of a green chilli crunched off the top of a true jalfrezi.
And then there’s the taste of victory. Sweet, full-bodied, crisp and consummate Victory. I say Victory. I mean, Utter Annihilation. England were more dominant than a fat lass at a finger buffet.
Apparently this is the worst Australia team ever. Really? Good. Once they’ve unpeeled themselves from the chunky soles of Team England’s DMs they can go away and deal with that. Of the blokes currently wearing the baggy green only three of them could reckon on deserving another go. Hussey, Haddin and – if only for a bit of gumption, Siddle. Let’s hope the baggies are recyclable.
'Look at us, Punter, they've done us up like skippers!' Lord knows we’ve had some cack-handed selectors in the not-too-recent past. This lot of Australian pickers must select using the blindfold and the drawing pin.
Not since Marilyn Monroe stood on that grille have I seen owt quite so wafty as Phil Hughes. Shane Watson would be great if he didn’t get halfway up, look down, and come over all dizzy. Ponting has been honest about his form and has taken out his frustration on officials rather than the turgid lame-brains all around him. Michael Clarke has all the confidence of a baby turtle trotting through a seagull colony.
The bowlers have been average to poor, bluntly spearheaded by Mouthy Mitchell who has talked a lot but Perth aside, delivered little. Leave the sledging to the snow, Mitch, mate. Hilfenhaus must be Old German for Trundle.
You could see how desperate the selectors were getting cos of their Freudian slip of a selection policy. First, Bollinger. Then Beer. I half-expected to see a bowling attack of Neil Harvey Wallbanger, Glennlivet McGrath and Keith Miller Lite.
Nah, they weren’t up to much – and for once, England got ‘em by the throat in Tests 4and 5 and didn’t let go.
The Barmy Army were in their pomp – like the footy fans of one of them Championship sides that still somehow stagger to the FA Cup Final, there was no pricking the joy. (Just watch us cheering when Mowbray leads our boys out in May!) Obviously there wasn’t a bloke amongst them who earned under forty grand a year, but what the hell? It’s good to see the old-fashioned values of beer, sunburn and stupidity all condensed into one jolly mass of Englishness.
As for the heroic Englishmen well... it’s a wonderful achievement. It really is. And a lot of the credit goes to Flower and Strauss. We can just about expunge the memory of the 5-0 drubbing last time around. Just about.
Cook was the revelation of course. His namesake discovered Australia but even had that Cook imbibed a dozen senna pods he could not have got more runs. As it was he was closely followed by a dose of the Trott. I’m not sure I could watch Jonathan for too many days in the future. He can make Chris Tavare look a bit carefree. But he’s been like cement for the team.
Pietersen, well... he’s been Pietersen. His claim that England wouldn’t be where they are today were it not for his sacrificing himself to get rid of Peter Moores is very Marc Almond (takes a lot of swallowing). But they’ve managed to cage his ego and got him back somewhere near his best.
Ian Bell – perhaps the least engaging post-match interviewee since Alan Shearer – showed bags of style on the park (if you ignore his twatty sunglasses) and Prior flayed them like a master butcher on Day Four.
England weren’t afraid to ditch the slightly struggling stork that is Finn for the hulking menace that is Tremlett. Tremlett was the rediscovery of the tour. He must be hugely intimidating to face, like being charged at by a runaway tennis umpire’s chair.
Bristling Bresnan took up the mantle of honest Yorkie with great verve. Swanny didn’t tear them apart but didn’t half shut ‘em up. And in Jimmy Anderson England have a rival to Dale Steyn as Shit-Hot Bowler in the World.
And just to prove that the team is a team, Collingwood leads them out this morning/last night, even though by his standards he’s been pretty shite. I mean in this series he averages less than Ponting!
It’s great to see the Durham lad bow out now, mind. He’s been damned with fiant praise over the past couple of days cos he’s ‘made the most of his limited ability’. To my mind that’s the highest praise you can give.
Obviously we’d all like to be Kevin Pietersen and be able to reverse sweep a six in a blindfold, but Colly’s done more than just grind out inningses and he’s been a top one-day player, a more than useful dobbler of a bowler and the finest English fieldsman since the scurrying twitchfest that was Derek Randall.
Apart from the Western Australian aberration, where Mitchell Johnson’s arm was clearly being remotely controlled by Denis Lillee with a handheld monitor, it was a series of complete bliss.
Count 'em. An innings and 71. An innings and 157. An innings and 83. Hmmmmmmmm!
The Aussie failure is being matched in the Premier League too. Chelsea, the Abramovincibles, the Blue Meanies – a team that oozed through and over the opposition like so much West London lava – have well and truly cooled off.
Soon Ancelotti’s eyebrow will take off out of there and the rest of him will surely follow.
Meanwhile in Ipswich the prawn sandwich salesmen have come out of hiding. And back in Cheshire a pair of Irishman’s hounds are cowering in their kennels and begging not to go our for walkies.
Now can one of youse lead me back into football management? If we needed verification, we have it. Keano is a cack manager.
Ipswich could do worse than bring in Andy Flower.
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