The greatest ever test - Edgbaston, Ashes 2005

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“I reckon England will win this series,”, said Simon Hughes, unconvincingly on TV in a panel interview. The camera zoomed out to inlclude in shot a sceptical Merv Hughes (who’d have believed he could be so expressive through such a 'tasche) looked at him distainfully asnd said “do ya really believe that?”.

The camera panned back to poor Simon. One look at his rather flushed face, and you knew he didn’t.

Helen was obsessed with seeing the Ashes, and got tickets from Ebay on the Wednesday. If the seller (who’d bought the self-same tickets two months ago for rather more than we bought them from her) got her skates on, we’d just about have them in time for Saturday.

We arrived at the ground, via a series of Brummie one way systems, to park up the road a bit (thanks for the tip Andrew Spits) just outside where the parking restictions ended. An excited looking old chap in blazer and tie who was lingering for no apparent reason by the side of the road correctly deduced from our bulging eskie that we were off to the cricket (which had already started) and hailed us across a busy road to asked us if we’d heard the score. He informed us that England had already lost 2 wickets in the frst over. 38 for 3.

At the gate, several bemused staff were metal detecting two chaps in playboy bunny outfits, complete with fishnet stockings. We were in shorts and t shirts. “You’re a bit overdressed,” we were told. We were also told that England had lost a futher wicket. 40 for 4. Blimey. We might not get a full days play.

Inside, the ground (not a big one) was very, very full. Abot 2/3rds of the crowd in our stand were in fancy dress, and mostly groups of about 8-10 blokes similarly costumed. There were knights, umpires, WG Graces, Her Majesty the Queens, mexicans, convicts (a popular choice , carrying “give us back our bread” signs. Also magistrates , and some fellows dressed as whoopie cushions

One group of about 21 chaps had gone all out and come in cream linen suits and ties with “Johnners” embroidered on the back, and cut outs of fold-fashined microphones on their lapels. To top things off they had got semi-bald wigs with straggly white comb-overs, and as a piece de resistance, had engaged two buxom local lasses for the day to get the beer in and perform other services on an “as required” basis.

By contrast, the Aussie supporters were tamely dressed as, er Aussie supporters. Or Merv Hughes.

The day started worryingly. England lost a stack of wickets for not very many runs at all.
Warne was bowling superbly, and the knowledgable crowd responded. “Where’s ya missus gone?”, the crowd chanted appreciatively. Ponting cut off boundaries, to cries of “You’re not very big”.

Gillespie took up from one end to chants of “Where’s ya caravan”, “gyppo” and “does ya husband know you’re here?”.

Enter Freddy Fintoff and last man Simon Jones. Freddy, who’d poked it around since he’d arrived, and smacked a series of big sixes into the crowd. The crowd kicked off with the perennial terraces favourite “you’re not singing anymore”

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