I Don't Like Cricket... I Love It!

GROWING up we didn't have much in the way of stability. Dad's job in the army meant we moved around a bit: so much so that the school I finished up at was my eighth such institution (five primary and three secondary for the curious/nosey).
In that time we went from Townsville to Canberra to Brisbane to Toowoomba to Queanbeyan to Caboolture to Brisbane before I kicked on at boarding school in Toowoomba. They're all very different cities with very different climates.
But the more things changed the more they stayed the same.
Up until 1997 Dad's parents lived in the same place in Mildura; we always had a pet of some description (generally a dog); and weekends in summer would always see the same scene repeating itself in the lounge room. Dad would be sprawled out on the couch and simultaneously reading a book, listening to the radio and watching the cricket with the volume turned down. Often while asleep. Alter this finely-tuned balance and Dad would pipe up that he was watching/listening/reading that.
Just quietly, from the research I've done it seems this scene was repeated throughout the country.
All this is a long-winded way of saying that from a young age I've been indoctrinated with cricket. Where most would have been upset at the "bloody cricket" being on the tv yet again, my main concern was that I couldn't hear the commentators because the radio was on.
I couldn't hear the commentators last Friday either, but not because a close relative had turned on the radio to stop me from hearing what those esteemed gentlemen had to say about Ireland getting walloped by Australia. Indeed, I didn't have a radio to listen to.
Reason for this was that I watching a game of cricket at Lord's, the home of cricket.
This had been a goal for me since I began travelling to this side of the world two years ago, and while it wasn't the Ashes Test I was hoping for at the time (courtesy of a media officer not approving my application for a press pass), the MCC (Marylebone Cricket Club) against county champions Sussex would do nicely.
I arrived just after the first over of the season, which contained the first wicket of the season when James Kirtley forced Nick Compton to edge to slips. All this is worthy of nothing other than the fact that I was sitting in the Denis Compton stands (Nick is the grandson of the late England great).
There was still room for the surreal though: early on I was reading an article by Times cricket writer Christopher Martin-Jenkins about the start of the English season while son Robin Martin-Jenkins fielded in front of me at deep fine leg.
There were around 50 people in the stand I was in, scattered around like someone had thrown a handful of dice. Behind me a group of Sussex lads cheered on their mate Chris Nash, applauding his every dive, throw and stretch with a gusto only long-time mates can do without embarassment.
There was probably another 100 or so in the stand to my right, while the MCC members took up their seats in front of the pavilion. Some MCC players - who included Steve Harmison and Matthew Hoggard in the numbers - sprawled out on the home team's verandah while up in the media centre a handful of journalists enjoyed an Alistair Cook century on an otherwise uneventful day.
Actually, that's not true. The MCC lost three wickets in the last session, but by that stage I was gone; off to listen to people bitch about the fact they were seated in the front row of a comedy show (three even walked out after the first act).
But that's another story for another time...

For an alternative view on the first day check out this BBC report.

Up And Down And Back Again...

TOWNSVILLE, the town I was born in, is about 1335km away by road from Brisbane. It is 2214km to Mildura in north-western Victoria.
Impressive figures, and only noteworthy because Brisbane and Mildura are where Mum and Dad's families resided at the time. Certainly a long way to travel just to catch up with my parent's nearest and dearest.
Given that cheap flights at the start of the 1980's generally cost an arm and a leg (and possibly an ear as well), it's not surprising that we did a lot of travelling by car, especially as the family increased in size and Dad's job took us along the Eastern Seaboard.
Obviously you can't do these trips without some form of entertainment - screaming children not really classifying as entertainment unless you're into getting your hand caught in a chainsaw on a regular basis. Sometimes we'd (generally Matt and I) would sing Australian folk songs, but for the other 15-odd hours of the trip we got the best of Mum and Dad's cassette tapes. Aaron, Phil, Leith - you now know who to blame for the Elton John/Paul Simon/Jimmy Barnes et al that I'm so strangely fond of blasting your eardrums with.
To me there was something so compelling about travelling through the countryside with the music to keep us company. When old favourites came on (Hotel California for Mum, Crocodile Rock for Dad), we'd crank the music up and sing along before going back to the bickering that accompanies all large families on long road trips.
This in turn set me up for my current job as a tour guide, where large stretches of the journey are watching the world go by while listening to music.
Mention you're a tour guide and people will generally describe it as a dream job. To be fair it does have its perks - you meet a truckload of people, get to travel an area extensively (in my case Europe), and generally help people enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
There are downsides to everything though.
Talk to Dad and I'm sure he'll tell you he doesn't regret his time in the military: yet that same time also took him away from his young family for long periods of time, leaving Mum to deal with four constantly bickering sons.
Likewise, as Mum is very fond of telling people (while I'm standing next to her no less), if she had her time over again she wouldn't have married and had children so young (19 and 20 respectively). Even though I'm the child she had at 20 I can see her point: getting settled down so young meant there was very little time for exploring the world.
For me, while many think tour guides (especially male ones) are Hugh Hefner wannabes on wheeled Playboy mansions, if you're not close to your driver you really can be on your own when the faecal matter hits the revolving blades. I was lucky that I had a few friends among the passengers I was ferrying around when that happened to me last year.
It's even impacted me in the time I've been in London. I can think of at least three times in the last 12 months where I've been questioned (interrogated would be closer to it) by females about my plans post-touring. Tell them you're not sure (visa issues and the need to pay at least a fleeting visit back home) and that's pretty much where the conversation stops. Which, again, is fair enough - who wants a six-month long-distance relationship with someone who's in a job that's traditionally about as compatible with monogamy as George W. Bush at an al-Qaeda meeting?
But them's the breaks. On balance, I'm more than happy doing what I do during the northern summer. Just don't be surprised though when I give a little wry grin when someone tells me I have the best job in the world.