The Gabba Test - a report for Julian.

DAY TWO.

(Note:- the picture is from something called a Nokia, I preferred my Nikon, so will have to save for another one, if you look carefully at the bottom left corner, you'll see Mitch's dad being interviewed!)

Since Ken and Donna live about 75 yards from the gate in Vulture Street that happens to be next to the members which happens to be where we get our seats every year, it seemed civilised to stay at their place overnight.

Besides, Ken makes a nice cup of coffee.

The day dawned with clear blue skies, but by the early start, it was cloudy again.

Jiminy and the White Wiggle resumed where they'd left on the penultimate over the day before. Every now and then one of them'd accidentally snick one and feel obliged to change ends.

The poor bugger who was twelfth man was running out to the Wiggle about every fifteen seconds, he's going to have to get a mascara that doesn't run so often or no-one'll be twelfth man.

I think there were about three runs scored in the first session, but a bunch of blokes (maybe 50 or so) in yellow shirts and sombreros had somehow managed to circumvent the fun police and were sitting together en mass. To counter this the riot police (No I'm not kidding) were assembling in the concourse behind. While sombreros haven't officially been banned, I'm sure there must be something about them in the fine print, and in any case, they are tantamount to a racial taunt and anyone wearing one in future will be arrested I'm sure.

The kids in the next bay who do the kanga cricket thing were getting a bit testy, so started a wave-like thing. Clearly it wasn't a Mexican Wave, because they would have been arrested, and that would have ruined the half time entertainment. I suspected they'd sussed it, and pulled a Birkdale Wave out of the hat to get around the rules.

It didn't work, they were all turfed out after lunch.

I went for a walk to see what life was like among the yellow shirts, and to count the Boonie Mo's, but I only saw one and it was Nikko'd on, so it was probably left over from last year.

By lunch, Mitchell Johnson (Mitch to his mates) had been interviewed about seven hundred times, and his girlfriend wasn't looking any less attractive. He'd done no wrong at that point, not having actually been on to the paddock, so was really earning his place as the darling of the press.

Luckily for me I'd just come back from England, 'cause when I went down to buy a pie and it was $6.50 I could do a quick calculation and say to myself, "Not bad, that's not even three quid".

Sometime during the day, Jiminy seemed to get a bit bored with just standing there watching the Wiggle talking to the twelfth man, because he sort of just started to play like he was fairdinkum. The Wiggle thought he'd lose his spot if he didn't play the same game, so he arranged for the 12th man to come out every second over for a bit, and started actually playing cricket for a bit too.

Not surprisingly the scoreboard blokes had to wake up, and before you could say "Mr Cricket" they'd both made hundreds. On the Teev they said the pitch had dried out and that made it easier, but I'm not so sure.

I had my money on Jiminy to be 180 not out, so was sad when he got tired and left. When Krusty came in, we were getting worried that he'd had the pads on for so long that his leg muscles'd atrophy, but he wandered on and made the other two look like dills.

Krusty got his 50 the next over, but by then Punter was getting tired of hanging round indoors and called the boys in. This is where it got really interesting, 'cause the Wiggle unselfishly wanted his 150 by hook or by crook. The twelfth man came on every ball for the last three overs, in which the Wiggle failed to score the six runs he needed, before Punter finally put his foot down.

That was it.

I went for another walk to see how things were going down in yellow shirt territory, and their stock of beach balls seemed to be diminishing rapidly, but the floor was STICKY down there and I didn't like it, so I returned to my seat.

That's when the best bit happened.

I was sitting very near Mitch's dad, and when he walked on to the paddock in that fresh green cap, the old man just about burst. Then when he was handed the ball for that first time, the old man's grin just about joined up at the back of his head. It was truly wonderful.

Made me think of my old man, and how the biggest disappointment in his life was that I couldn't play cricket to save myself.

It would have been special to have made him grin just like that.

Cola

So there we were in Barcelona, Graham and I sitting in a comfortable bar while the girls pottered in some shops nearby.

A lovely young lady approached our table and although we couldn't understand a bar of what she was saying, it was pretty clear that it was something like: "Can I get you blokes anything to drink?"

"Dos Coca Cola gracias" replied I, calling apon my entire Spanish repertoire and doing not a bad job of it either if I do say so myself.

Quizzical Stare.

"Coke?" says I hopefully.

Even more quizzical stare.

"Cola?" I tried.

By now the quizzical stare was morphing into a sympathetic frown.

"Coca-cola?" I was desperate.

She was becoming no less desperate to assist.

"Help me here Graham" I asked, looking in his direction.

"OH! She exclaimed, you speak English!! Please ask me in English!!"

"OH, sorry, of course: Could I have two Coca Cola's please?"

"Sure, would you like ice and lemon in your glass?"


And that my friends has been reported verbatum!

The Two Pound Picture

It's a nice photo, and so it should be, it cost two quid.

There we were, minding our business, which at the time was simply breathing the scenery in central Wales, with Julian driving and me in the back seat not giving him a chance to make up his own mind about anything related to exactly how the car should be piloted.

We rolled down the hill, across the bridge and as the "A" road did a sharp left immediately over the bridge, I yelled "Carpark! Turn right now!"

Of course only having a few years' experience as a son-in-law, Julian complied without hesitation or question.

We'd locked the car and were walking out of the otherwise empty carpark when the gatekeeper found us and put out his hand for the two quid.

There we were at Cenarth Falls, on the River Teifi noted for its Salmon Leap among other things, although we didn't know that at the time. We took a couple of photographs including this one, and set out to see what secrets the village held that could possibly justify two quid for a carparking space.

Probably not coincidentally, this village houses the National Coracle Centre, so we thought a visit to the Coracle museum might be a start.

"Museum closed, all enquiries at the Mill" said the sign.

So we went to the Mill, but it too was quite devoid of any sign of life.

Further up the hill we walked to the Smithy, with its bright red door decorated with the amputated feet of several unidentified creatures, but of course it was a closed door, and the sign above it proclaiming a "first class establishment for lease" hinted to us, that we may not be successful were we to attempt to gain entry on that day.

We walked across the road, through the cemetery where Thomas Thomas lay in peace, past the church to the highest point of the village. On our way back, a kindly soul poked his head through the window of his cottage next to the Smithy and inquired of us as to whether the church was open. When we advised him that it was indeed in the same state of open as every other establishment in town, to which he helpfully offered that we could let ourselves in if we liked.

"The chap at the Coracle Centre has the key."

Pigeon Pie

There are lots of reasons why pigeons are unpopular creatures in cities, and over the years there have been lots of methods employed in attempts to limit their population, or at least to keep them at bay. Most of these have been banned through the untiring efforts of various animal liberation groups, apparently oblivious to the fact that not all humans welcome the consequences of the unchecked lofts.

The current trend in avian disuasion seems to involve covering every square inch of horizontal surface with a sort of continuous stainless steel barbecue fork, which is apparently intended to deter all but the most determined fakir among the flock.

I am not sure that they the solution doesn't have a more deleterious visual impact on some buildings than the patina created by the remnants of a thousand pigeon's breakfasts.

Perhaps some would call it art, whatever the case, the pigeons seem to have a work-around.

Surely the problem could be solved with some clever marketing of that old favourite of the gastronomes, the Pigeon Pie.

Just tell the punters that pigeons taste like Cat.

Ink or Swim (a stolen witty headline from the internet!)

A 45-foot-long polystyrene sculpture called The Swimmer ended a weeklong stay in London's St Mary's Gate, Greenwich Park last week, and was shipped off to Chiswick. The piece had been exhibited in Greenwich Park to draw attention to, or promote if you like, the WOW reality series London Ink, which follows the adventures in the skin trade of Louis Malloy, the inker who put "the world's most famous tattoo" on David Beckham's back, and his team of artists. London Ink airs Sundays at 10PM on Discovery Real Time in the UK.

And we just happened to stumble across this thing on its first day in the park, blissfully unaware of its intended transience.

I struggled to see the promotional value of the piece I must admit. In itself it was mildly amusing, and very well executed although it needed around the clock attention from two security guards, who set up camp in their car for the duration. This fact in itself speaks volumes for its durability as a piece of public art, or perhaps it speaks volumes of the target audience for the programme.

If it hadn't had a plaque explaining its purpose, we would never have known of its apparent significance in the world, but there again we don't actually recall ever seeing David Beckham's back either.

David Beckham's back.

We didn't even know he'd been away.

Leaping Salmon

Julian mentioned the little village of Llwwddfyrddin in his blog the other day, and while he may well have deliberately miss-spelled the name in the interests of protecting the innocent, he may also have hinted at what a hotbed of interesting, if somewhat trivial information we found the place to be. Information that seemed irrelevant, but only in the sense that at the time we had little use for the so many solutions to the mysteries of life which presented themselves to us in one night and a rather short morning.

While we did wonder at the enthusiasm displayed by the lady who was an expert in curing cats of their ills using nought but fresh cut flowers, and the young American cow doctor who had come to study holistic bovine treatments in the backblocks of Wales, my imagination was captured entirely by the certain knowledge that 'they' have found a gene (or was it a hormone?) in Salmon leaping up waterfalls, which is apparently identical to one found in breast-feeding humans.

This remarkable slice of information positioned yet another piece on the board that is the jigsaw of my life. At last I have an explanation for the head-sized holes in the ceiling, and all the banging that occurred in the shower recess of our home for a few weeks after the birth of each of our children.

It's not as though my evening was ruined by the thought of Richard Attenborough talking to camera just out of sight, in front of a fibreglass shower recess with a brood of lactating mothers taking turns in leaping over the shower rose, far from it, but none of us ordered dessert.

His first trip to the beach!

We were in Barcelona concentrating on having our camera and passports stolen on his first birthday, so we weren't going to miss his first day at the beach for anything!

He didn't disappoint. From the minute he saw the surf he stood on the beach squealing with excitement, walked with us all through some of the deeper pools, and eventually found a small puddle just big enough to sit in, and would still be there there splashing and scraping in the sand if we hadn't taken him home.

More pics (as well as a couple of birthday shots) as usual at flickr, just click the links.