My day with the Aussie fans
The editor is trying to kill me. There can be no other explanation. He’s trying to kill me with every single one of these challenges. Firstly, he sent a man of my girth and general unfitness for a race with Kevin Pietersen; then he got me in the nets to face Freddie Flintoff bowling full pelt; but this time, he’s really done it: I open up my latest challenge to find I’ve been instructed to get dressed up in as much England paraphernalia as I can find and go and cheer on England against Australia in the Nat West Series final in a Walkabout pub, in London’s antipodean centre, Shepherd’s Bush. In my deerstalker. Oh crumbs…
I turn up at the venue fashionably late and understandably apprehensive. As I gingerly push open the doors, fully expecting a volley of Fosters to greet me. I’m instead struck by just how quiet everything seems. True, the pub has been open since 8.30am for the Lion’s latest surrender against New Zealand but surely those legendary Aussie boozers haven’t slumped before midday?
Then I notice the TV sets dotted all around the cavernous pub: Australia slumped at 93 for 5! So, this is the reason this strange hybrid of Sherlock Holmes/football hooligan is allowed to walk around unchallenged. Perhaps the Australians really do only sing when they’re winning.
Aside from a gruff-looking woman who responds to McGrath’s wicket falling by aiming a kick in my direction as I saunter by, it’s a rather tame first innings. My attempt at winding up the few Baggy Green fans I spot lead to nothing (“Looks like your boys are at last in for a hiding this summer…”; “Mate, as long as it’s good cricket, I don’t mind who wins.” Gah!) One chap even puts on his reading spectacles to see the scorecard on TV!
In fact, the Aussies seems rather happy to have me here. There are quite a few copies of SPIN around the pub and one bloke comes up with a copy of the mag open at my page and puts my photo byline right up next to my face. “Yep, it’s definitely him. I told you,” he tells his mate. I’m left wondering exactly how many deerstalkered men they’re used to getting in here.
During the interval, I walk around cheerily swapping banter over the sound of the Live8 concert the pub has now started playing, the Aussie fans seemingly loathe to listen to any pro-England commentary. Kemp is in fine voice, however, the atrophy of the Australian fans having buoyed my confidence and I’m being really rather rowdy. But things are soon to take a downward turn…
As soon as the wickets start tumbling, frighteningly early, in England’s reply, huge be-goatedy Australians, draped in the Southern Cross come out of the dark recesses of the pub. “Ooh-ah Glenn McGrath!” they sing. Where have they been all this time?
As England stumble, pathetically to 19-4, the Australians around me are cock-a-hoop. I am getting that old Stewart/Hussain here-we-go again feeling.
My celebrity status doesn’t seem to cutting much ice now either – a belligerent Kiwi (what’s it got to do with HIM?) comes up to me with a copy of SPIN open at Challenge Kemp and, just as I’m about to waft him away with a “Yes, yes, it is me,” he pours, from a great height, his whole pint of lager on my picture. I’m left stunned, but the Aussies seem to find it an absolute hoot.
The afternoon is going terribly for me now. Every time I open my notebook, the whole pub bellows the score at me (“19-4 mate!” “33-5!”) Even the meek chap in the reading specs comes up and nudges me in the ribs: “By the way mate, how’s it going for you now?” he says, grinning and clearly not having any trouble reading the scorecard any longer.
My cheering a streaky single seems to unite the whole Walkabout in mirth and I’m reminded several times of my earlier remarks that we had nothing to fear from Glenn McGrath; he’s way past his his best now. “Mate, we could have Merv Hughes out there and we’d still beat you lot,” says one. This prompts a debate between the Australians as to what Big Merv is up to nowadays. One says he’s married to the most beautiful model you could imagine, just at the exact moment that Merv, watching the game in the stands, is shown up on the screens, sitting next to someone who may or may not be his aunty. “Is that what passes for a model in Australia?” I chortle. This unwise remark sees me spending the next two overs watching the game from the headlock of a chap in an Aussie Rules football shirt.
But what’s this? An England come back? While the whole pub seems intent on telling me that Geraint Jones is actually one of theirs, I couldn’t care. I tell a Bermuda-shorted Australian that, when we win I’m going to plant my St George’s Flag somewhere symbolic and say I’ve conquered the Walkabout. “Mate, if you win you can stick that flag up my backside,” he says. He even shakes hand on the offer.
On the other screens, Madonna is getting funky at Live8 in Hyde Park and, improbably, Ashley Giles is doing the same at Lord’s.
My squeaky English voice is starting to dominate the air.
When we get to the final ball, the tension is unbearable. With three needed off the last ball, all of us, Aussie , Pom, even the Kiwi, are grouped in a huddle, arms round each other’s shoulders, ready to spring in the air in jubilation.
McGrath bowls, Giles swings, Lee fumbles, the game ends…and we’re still waiting there, all ready to spring in the air. Who’s won? We stare at each other, bemused. It takes an age for it to dawn that we’ve seen a tie. An historic game, but we all feel rather flat. After all that and no-one has the bragging rights.
I say my farewells. Even though I’ve been needling them all day, the fellas give me a hug and a slap on the back. I leave thinking they were a great bunch to watch the game with. I must come back when we’ve won the Ashes. They’d like that.
