There are people to whom you could not say insulting things. They give you a feeling that the world would be destroyed, would actually be destroyed before your eyes, if you said certain things.
- Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises
We all wanted to muzzle M P Vaughan in the end but it seems our erstwhile captain will be pontificating away all summer. He may have retired but he has not lost his ghastly habit of speaking about himself in the third person or refrained from disseminating his supposedly helpful advice to incumbent captains through that old favourite vehicle of his, the media. Needless to say the comparisons between Vaughany and Brocket have been unfavourable so far to say the least. Our Lord has come under severe criticism not just from our dear friends dahn under but from former England captains turned commentators for his so-called desperate tactics in that mythical final over hour at Swalec amongst other things. An endless list of failures has been proffered, from unimaginative field placings and bowling changes to the fragility of his own batting. There seems to be a consensus that Strauss is a little "too nice" and middle class to captain his nation successfully. One paper interviewed Brocket's "uni mates" on the eve of the series who were happy to ratify such claims; these heathens suggested that Andrew was certainly not captaincy material whilst studying at Durham since he was rather directionless and far too laidback. The implication being that he was not born to do the job a la Atherton. With friends like these...
The Phoenix and The Singing Spinner were on hand to test these claims on Monday when Our Leader and some of his comrades appeared at the 'Adidas Performance Store' on Oxford Street alongside some of the Aussies. The players were ostensibly on show to sign merchandise (there was not an embargo on Adidas only produce - a surprise) and pose for photographs but we wanted to try and delve further. We hoped to read their body-language and decipher The Truth. I must confess, I didn't hold Brocket in high esteem at this point but I went in with an open-mind. The Singing Spinner and I were also eager to observe the egos on show; if reports were to be believed, we wouldn't need a magnifying glass to detect any signs of rivens in the team. The queue was awash with rumour. Strauss, Self appointed Adonis and Chef were certain to show. The Pup too. And then whispers of Westlife's imminent arrival swirled round, much to the delight of the teeny-boppers standing behind us. They unleashed their cameras, chattering excitedly about photos they had had taken with Alesha Dixon and some homogenous girlbands. "Some people must do this for a living," dead-panned the Spinner... "Where is Freddie?," I lamented.
We stood in line calmly for two hours - watching cricket imbues many gifts and amongst the finest is patience. But, I reached my limit and became delirious as the wait continued. "Look, there's Kevin," I exclaimed. My myopia had run wild. It was an Adidas employee. I hadn't been parry to a meet-and-greet queue for some years and had forgotten how to behave. The problem with queuing for such an event is the knowledge that once the allotted arrival time has passed, in this case 15.30, you cannot move for fear that all your hours toil would be in vain. Leaving the queue would be inauspicious in the extreme. Once your chosen Godot has arrived, all morality is forgotten. If I was to depart, I might not get a chance to join in the stampede and meet Our Heroes. Remaining resolute was no longer effortless. Pins and needles had paralysed one of my legs and I was bursting for the toilet. TV crews swarmed around us eager to find out exactly which Man had us waiting under some considerable sufferance. Luckily, the Spinner was on hand to induce calm. Or so I thought... My nerves had infected him and he muttered that the last time he had felt like this was when he was about to go on stage at school. This was a portentous, indeed.
Suddenly, the Aussie troupe arrived in the window and The Wait was over. Having just realised that we had no idea what we would say to the players, our moment on the sapphire pavement of the sky was here, at last. Four members of the Enemy bore down upon us. We quickly spotted The Prodigy, Gilchrist II and the Kat posing in their unfortunately hued kit, more than a little abashed, but the fourth member remained an enigma. In my excitement, I temporarily forgot the identity of the Hussler. It seemed an impostor had been summoned to make up the numbers. A die-hard Barmy fan shouted a role-call to the swarming hoards and I stood corrected. A most forgivable faux-pas, given Hussey's paltry innings of 3 at Cardiff. My next two err moments were not quite as forgivable...
Bear with me dear readers, my conversational cackhandedness is well worth reading. The English Chosen Ones were as predicted - the five rhyming 'Amigo's : Straussy, Cooky, Ravi, Stuy and KP, and my focus was clear. Obtain a photo with Kevin whether we are told that no more photos are allowed or not. Just before we reached the players, we were duly informed that photography was now prohibited. This seemed outrageous. The Spinner had arrived in the queue just after 13.00; we were far from last minute lackeys. "Just ignore them," I whispered. The Singing Spinner, not wanting to be ejected from the shop, thought it best if we asked permission. But there wasn't time and we approached the players hoping to act out our plan in as seamless a way as possible. As soon as I was faced with the captain, I realised that scripting the event might have been wise. What had we been talking about in the queue for all those hours? How could we have reached the threshold without words. My default conversational stance in moments of awkwardness is to talk too much, too quickly and it set in. Before I knew what I was saying, I shoved my hat in front of the Lord and said "It used to be Vaughany's and it's now yours...". Trailing off, I recognised my foolishness. Disaster! I had addressed the taboo of this cricketing age - the captaincy. And Lord and Adonis were sitting next to each other. What a fool! Lord B interrupted me and said "yes, thanks" but it was too late. I had been overheard by Kevin, sitting at the right hand side of the Lord. I changed tack with Brocket - "You must be exhausted after yesterday..." - and he replied cheerfully and calmly. He was in his element. I was thoroughly impressed with his joviality when faced with such an awed supporter but I couldn't dwell on this. I had Kevin to come. How would he respond after my verbal diarrhoea exploded in his face?
Eager to compensate for my indecency, I greeted KP with the words "It's such an honour to meet you" but the damage had been done. He looked towards me but through me. Impassive. I tried again. "I'm really excited about this series". He responded in cold, curt monotone - "I'm enjoying it too". Largely unflustered, I asked him one final, tentative question - "Would it be OK if I had my picture taken with you?". At last, he smiled - "Of course". FIGJAM was back in focus and back in the room, his ego massaged at last. The Singing Spinner, on hand with camera, then managed to commit his own irremediable sin of the afternoon. His camera wouldn't work. Straussy and KP, adjoined at last posing with me, held their smiles for what seemed like hours. "This one isn't any good under pressure," chuckled Brocket. Fuming, The Spinner tapped and tapped away on the digital demon but it wouldn't budge. Reluctantly, in grave embarrassment, we gave up. The captain and his predecessor, seemingly undeterred, carried on signing and greeting fans as we scuttled away into the Lion's Den aka the Aussie layer via Broad. I decided not to speak to Boyband in fear that I would make yet another mistake. Ravi and Cooky had been dismissed downstairs for interview which may have been a good thing. The Spinner and I were making quite an exhibition of ourselves...
Our time with the Baggy Greens didn't quite go to plan either. The Spinner thrust an England shirt at them and was told, in no uncertain terms, that no England garments were to be touched let alone signed by the Aussie players. Hoping to make amends, I presented them with my mini cricket bat and unleashed a classic opening gambit. "You lot are a bit neglected over here, aren't you?", I said to The Prodigy. He looked up at me, unsure whether I had insulted him or made a joke. I laughed lightly to indicated that I hadn't just slated him in his face. Young Phil looked up at me nervously and simply replied "Yes". English humour obviously doesn't translate...
Having observed the players in such close proximity - first, jostling in the shop window and then, vying for attention at the signing, it's clear that the murmurs of discomfort from Team England are real but not wholesale. The pretty boys looked like good mates and Bopara acted laconic when faced with the spotlight. In the end, we had been reassured. Our search for Brocko was over. Who is Strauss, our England captain? Being a firm believer in solipsism, I wouldn't ever lay claim to knowledge but the skipper has certainly been misconstrued in most quarters. The impenetrable Brocket comes with both a smile and a sharp-tongue. He may act the "all round good bloke" but there is iron beyond those eyes. Perhaps this shouldn't have come as a surprise. Brocko has been victorious in the battle of Wills with former skippers Freddie and KP. The stars of 05 fell from grace in pursuit of greatness as captains as Our Lord repeaed reward, silent but present, standing tall to inherit the posioned chalice. Our hunt for The Ashes is in good hands.
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