Fuck me do I love Test cricket.

Waking up more than a little bleary eyed from the Barmy Army pre-Test party (try saying that ten times after a few pints) I was unsure if I was feeling sick because of over-imbibing or because the England cricket team have to, need to, win this test. As the day went on, I am fairly confident that it was more of the latter (or the hair of the dog pints in the Gabba were working their magic.)

And what a day/day night it was. I bloody love test cricket. I’m no sports writer (or much of a writer at all for that matter) so I shan’t attempt to provide an over by over analysis of what unfolded in Brisbane yesterday. Plus Barney Ronay is doing a perfectly good job of writing up this team and this series as it is. Al I’ll say is that my God- it was special. Another one of those ‘I was there’ days. A century for Root. England flapping at 5-2. A beautiful close from Archer. Utter stupidity from Brook.

This is the second time this trip I have experienced a day of ‘I was there’ cricket. Last time, it ended with me suggesting, in a non-libellous manner, that the England batting line up swung their bats like they were coked up and doing bumps on their way out to the crease.

This time… well let’s hope it goes the other way. That is to say our way.

The Gabba is a truly gorgeous stadium and this time around, with thanks to the geniuses at Tiketek (who make Ticketmaster look like a supporter-oriented guardian of accessibility to big events), Dad and I will be sitting in different spots throughout this Test. We are in amongst the Aussies and other English supporters. Yesterday we were sat with a young-ish Aussie couple to our left, two binocular sporting Englishman to our right, English, Aussies, and a decidedly vocal Kiwi (‘Anyone but Australia’ apparently) in front, and hoards of Australians kitted out in there green and gold. Being in the Barmy Army was special back in Perth but yesterday was exactly the kind of experience that makes me love cricket. The friendly ribbing that borders on out-and-out abuse. The eye-rolling. The hand waving dismissals of one another’s wants and needs. The gallows humour. Demanding that the Aussies stand up to applaud Roooooooooooooooooot as he ticked past his 100 not out. (They didn’t.) The booing of Aussie gamesmanship. Australian cries of ‘BAZBALL’ with each cheaply given up English wicket.

I must make a particular reference to the dozen or so folks in yellow shirts with green lettering: Dud Root, Great Head. Muppets.

We were sat in the sun all day but I don’t think I came close to sweating nearly as much as when Starc once again took up the ball with Joe Root on 97. My jersey was sodden by the end of the day. Noting that we had been successful on the first day in Perth when I was wearing said jersey, and that it had all gone to shit the next day when I was without, and being of a superstitious disposition, my evening ended with a few more beers and my washing said shirt ready for today. None stop glamour this end.

We’ve been in Brisbane about a week now and it is a very different city, and heat, to Perth. It’s humid as Hell. But there’s lots more going on whether it be the variety of the West End (where we are staying), the brutalist beauty that is the theatre. On Tuesday night, on something of a whim, we went and saw a stage production of Aaron Sorkin’s ‘A Few Good Men.’ I am trying to find a less cynical version of myself as part of this protracted mid-life crisis but my God does that man write exclusively in ham. It was good fun. Brilliantly staged with some top notch acting. I’d be very curious to know how much the architecture and theatre design is modelled on the National in London because the similarities, inside and out, were striking.

I’ve been pounding the pavement in order to try and keep at least some of the beer off my gut and it’s been a great way of seeing and getting to know the city. The city beach is also a great spot to try and cool off and to quickly dispel any suggestion that my face is that red because I’m the sort of Pom who doesn’t put adequate sun cream on. I’m just unfit.

On Sunday, Dad and I visited my cousin Rebecca and her family for a nice long lunch, dip in the pool, and then a wander up to their local creek [insert up shit’s creek joke here]. It was lovely to catch up as it has been years since we’ve seen them. My shoulder recovery has been somewhat buggered by my lack of sure-footedness on said creek wander but no bother- at least the photos are good. Not as if I’m heading for a long weekend in Newcastle to go surfing which will require the use of my left arm… Sigh.

We’ve also been perusing the museums that Brisbane has to offer, exhibitions of which hit my perfect Venn diagram: gay stuff, trade union stuff, and the last surviving World War One tank.

I’ve also managed to take something of a dent out of my travelling library by devouring Aussie classic ‘Wake in Fright’ by Kenneth Cook, and ‘The Judas Window’ by Carter Dickson. Both brilliant and completing the last two parts of my the aforementioned personal Venn diagram: the former a novel about the perils of alcohol abuse , the latter a 1930s murder mystery.

I’m getting better at this relaxing lark. Here’s hoping the England team do their bit in reducing my stress levels.

If I am to ‘find myself’, I could do with our attacking line up finding the Aussie’s stumps.