A hot sun was bearing down upon the Gabbatoir, a place of so much slaughter and pain for the English over many moons. A brutal day, the third in combat this side of the cityscape, saw England with little hope. It had been brutal. But perhaps there was a glimmer of something- if not hope, than an inkling that it could break our way. Australia were only leading by 40 odd runs with just their tail enders to be dealt with. Maybe… just maybe…

And then- maybe not. Three hours later, precisely, and the Aussie lead had grown to 132 with no signs of being crushed any time soon. The Evil Empire (England just to be clear) was absolutely fucked.

The Empire struck back. The Death Star (England’s bowling attack? This metaphor is getting proper stretched now) had been destroyed by a plucky young rebel- Mitch Starcwalker (okay- that’s enough) but at tea, England went into the break without loss. Maybe… just maybe…

And then- definitely not. 6 wickets later and the Jedi (the aforementioned Mitch) had well and truly returned (seriously- that’s it now.) The first wicket you could forgive- the ball kept low and snuck under the bat. It happens. But Christ on a bike is this a team that is the manifestation of that well worn definition of insanity- doing the exact same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Let’s keep driving this ball on the up and see what happens. Infuriating.

On a personal note, I’m having a fantastic time despite the best efforts of the England team. With one exception, the Aussies have been a great laugh if somewhat perplexed by the English approach to gallows humour. Guess they have less need for it than we do. Their fancy dress game is second to none. Hundred of them were dressed in Stormtrooper gear (as in Star Wars, not ICE. Hence the stretched metaphor and the opening picture…) Or the hundreds who dressed up on day two as Highland Scots on the grounds that, quote, ‘The Scottish are the only ones who hate the English more than we do.’

I had gone out of my way to wind up the locals when England had begun chipping away at the daunting total Australia had set. ‘This is the turning point lads’ I crowed ‘THIS IS IT. THE COMEBACK IS ON.’

Fast forward to the evening and every wicket, every appeal, was met with a cascade of ‘IS THIS THE TURNING POINT MATE?! IS THIS IT?! ERE MATE. MATE?!’

As with the Bazballers, I had it coming.

Dad is fuming. I’m trying to laugh it all off. Elliot, the lad we met in Perth, is trying to figure out why he bought tickets to days 3 and 4 in Adelaide .

In about 3 and a half hours we shall pop back to the Gabba. Probably back out of there and in the pub 5 hours from now. If we’re lucky. Then it’s back to the pub. Judging by my hangover this morning whilst sorrows might not have been drowned, they took a bit of a soaking.

Oh well. It’s only a game.

One we aren’t very good at.