I should have known that the tickets were jinxed when they
were kindly given to me by my brother –in – law, an avid cricket fan who had
been summoned onto a holiday in the sun, by my sister, (and his boss) who
needed heat. Wanting to do it properly, I ordered a hamper – the choice being a
traditional English one, created by Jamie Oliver, but was full of the Devil’s
vegetable, Beetroot, and a Tamarind one – a Michelin starred curry house in
London. I chose the latter, but more of that later.
The night before, my son asked what time we were leaving and
I said the normal time for work (just before 7), as I expected the traffic to
be bad. The next morning, my alarm went off, and I got up excited that I was
going to tick something else off my bucket list – a Test match at the Home of
Cricket, Lords. Half an hour later, I heard G’s alarm go off, but I had to call
him half an hour later when he still hadn’t come downstairs. He came down in T
shirt, shorts and zip-up hoody. As a typical mum, I said, “Are you going to be
warm enough? He disappeared upstairs and came down with a slightly thicker
hoody on.. He’ll learn, I thought.
Eventually, we got going, and I used the M6Toll Road to get
past the traffic I would have missed had we left half an hour earlier. We made
good time until we got to Bedford when the speed restriction signs got slower
and slower. Eventually we ground to a halt and my Traffic Jam Terrett’s kicked
in. After a delay of about 15 minutes whilst a red Astra who had stayed 2
chevrons back from a white van was removed from the carriage way, we got going
again and arrived at Stanmore at 9.45 to find the Underground car park
full. After driving around for 15
minutes to try and find anywhere to park that wasn’t time limited, I gave up
and found the next station down, Canon Park and parked up. Relieved I said to
G., “I get really stressed if I think I’m going to be late for something,” “ I
noticed,” he smiled.
Pressure was now on to get there in time to see Cook and Compton
walk out of the most famous Pavillion in the World, bats swinging like windmills as they walked to the centre where the New Zealand team waited. We got in the
ground after a bag and body search at 10.45am, I just might make it. We went to
pick up the Hamper and the queue was massive. Being a martyr I said, “You go
and sit down, this may take some time”. I hoped that G would say that he would
do it – no such luck, but luckily my dislike of the Devil’s vegetable,
meant that queue for the Tamarind Hamper was, well me, and I picked up a lovely
new cool bag rammed with excellent food, and walked round to my seat in time to
see the batsmen walk to the middle.
The cricket started slowly in the first session, ending up
at lunch at 56-1. It was nearly an hour before a ball rolled fast enough to get
to the boundary rope. The strategies of both teams seems to be containment, as
New Zealand set up a defensive field and England demonstrated their defensive
stroke play. I had to remind myself that this wasn’t McGrath and Warne, or the
fearsome West Indian attack of the 80’s, as the game continued to ground on
with each side determined to bore each other into mistakes.
I didn’t mind about that and time flew by people watching,
cloud spotting and smiling to myself as G put his hoodie up to try to stay
warm. There was an old couple in front of us, who had coats done up, flask and
a score sheet. I wondered how many they had completed over the years. They sat in quiet contentment all day. Behind us
were four public schoolboys, floppy hair, jackets and club ties, who cracked a
bottle of Bolly as the first over was bowled, followed by several English
lagers (“We don’t want any of that Aussie rubbish”.)
After lunch (56 for 1) I said to G., “We’ll see some runs
this session, it always opens up second session.” How wrong I was. Trott began
to score, but was out to a ball that carried to slip when it shouldn’t have
done, as it barely got off the ground. Out walked Bell. A player that my
brother- in law tells me a technically a very gifted batsman, but hardly a man
for a crisis. In rugby he would be classed as a flat track bully. Looks great
when the team are on top, but unable to change the course of a game. The lads
behind me discussed the merits of his style, coming to the conclusion that they
would pay 'not to watch him'. The game continued at 2 runs an over. Loads of low scoring overs when
Bell was on strike – and that was too often as he scraped a run on the 6th
ball of the over to face the bowling in the next over, and when Trott finally
got his chance, the run rate went up to between 4 and 7 an over. The lads
retired to the bar to await Bell’s wicket to fall. Unfortunately Trott’s fell
instead and the game continued slowly, with another group of cricket fans
standing up and applauding Bell when he offered a stroke, and when finally he
succumbed, cheering as thought they were from the colonies. 113 – 3. Finally, I
thought the game will open up, when the clouds darkened lights came on, and the
rain came.
Returning to the car, we started up the M1. I pointed out a
long dark grey cloud in the sky. Trying to impress my son with my geographical
knowledge I said, “Look at that Front, there will be really heavy rainfall
there” and saw the overhead gantry state that the M1 was closed at Junction
6-6A. What it didn't say is that George Michael was Careless with his Range Rover - fame at last caught up in an accident with a guy who probably wasn't Awake when he was on the Go Go. It didn't give me the Freedom to use the road. But back to the story before the puns get any worse. Why don’t they tell you before you get on the road - Do they think we've got Faith in the road to cope? I could’ve gone a different
route and avoided the jam or should that be Wham? Instead I came off at junction 5 to fail to impress
my son with my knowledge of Hertfordshire and we drove around Watford trying to
find a way to the M25 to go up the M40 home. We drove through the village on the
edge of Ricksmansworth, Croxley – a surreal experience to see a Tube Station in
the middle of a village with a flint church, and cosy pub. Eventually we got on
the M40 to drive into the weather Front that I’d impressed my son?! with. Still, the
road was relatively quiet, and the radio on BBC5 Live for the Rugby Chat show
with Brian Ashton and Stuart Lancaster to discuss the forthcoming Lions and
Argentina tours. So the obvious first question was: “What do you think about
Beckham retiring? I couldn’t see their faces but could sense their look of
incredualty as they answered. Dear media, not everyone shares your adoration of
a media created legend, who’s footballing skills barely stretched beyond a
great pass, running around like a headless chicken (commitment and leadership
according to the papers) and smiling proudly when leading the team out. For me,
Beckham generates the same sort of response as the ex-miners had recently for
the death of Margaret Thatcher. Ironically THE footballer of that generation
also retired this week. Scholes kept him and his family out of the limelight
and allowed his footballing skills to do the talking. Ferguson hung onto him
and got rid of Beckham. Says it all to me. As George Michael would say about Scholes - I'm your Man.......(although he probably fancied Beckham)
