I was never a major cricket fan. Hell, I’ve had marriages that have lasted less time than a Test match. It seemed like Wagner, with wickets. Sport’s version of tantric sex.
But that was all before the Aussies started thrashing the Poms at this year’s Ashes. I became an overnight cricket convert. No Aussie in Britain could resist a little light gloating. It’s so rare that we get to feel superior to the locals. In truth, many Poms see Australians as a recessive gene. I’ve looked up so many noses since moving here – even people shorter than me. Upper-class Brits have a condescension chromosome when it comes to antipodeans. A book critic even once explained to me that “condescension” means “talking down to”.
So, when Australia were winning, it proved irresistible not to swan off to Lord’s to, well, Lord it over the Poms. I bumped into Shane Warne and we gloated in stereo. We were feeling as effervescent as the bubbles in our celebratory champagne. I even had a fun flirtation with Aggers during the teatime chat, in which I explained that we Aussies were so far above Cloud Nine we had to look down to see it.
And then, suddenly, from nowhere, we got Broadsided. Literally. Bowled out in 94 minutes before lunch. It was the shortest first innings of a Test match in history. “Pomicide!” wailed the Sydney papers.
Clearly a catastrophic spelling error had sent our croquet team on to the pitch by mistake, we surmised. How could this happen?
In Australia, sport is a religion, while the British are only world class at queuing, quipping and whipping. As a nation, our reality cheque bounced. If we were on a plane, oxygen masks would be dropping from the overhead luggage lockers. National mourning set in.
Australians in England tried to give an impression of a duck’s back, but have now stopped going out to avoid the constant ribbing. But even then our phones are bombarded with exultant texts revelling in our team’s humiliating demolition. “Why did the Aussie break his leg throwing the ball? He forgot it was chained to his foot” etc.
When I do venture outside, I’ll be giving myself a vowel transplant to avoid teasing. My lips will lose weight the amount of vowel rounding I’ll be doing. Or I may just pretend to be a Kiwi, until the crisis passes.
But the question not even Einstein could answer is – what the bloody hell went wrong? Some blame the changeable weather – I love the British summer, it’s my favourite day of the year. But I suspect a doping scandal. Clearly the British team has laced Valium into the Aussies’ Vegemite sandwiches. Or perhaps Clarkie and the boys should revert to traditional training techniques … and simply spend more time down the pub.
But they’d better fly home in their shinpads and testicular guards, because they’re going to get lbw-ed at Mascot – lacerated, bashed and walloped. Or arrested for impersonating a cricket team. But you Brits shouldn’t get too cocky. Do you know why our national symbol is the kangaroo? Because we’re good at bouncing back. So, see next year, you gloating bastards!
Kathy Lette’s latest novel, Courting Trouble, is published by Black Swan
