And You, and you. [Ed. And YOU]
What should have been Day 4 of the Fourth Test was instead the first day that we hold The Ashes no more. [Ed. Don’t forget we only hold them figuratively. They never left England even when we “held” them for 16 years straight.]
Coach2.0 was so upset with the team after the “Omnishambles of Trent Bridge”(TM), he decided that he didn’t want to see us today. At all. A rest day was declared, but not announced – the media are circling us like a hungry shark chasing after a champion surfer in front of a 60 Minutes camera crew, so we’re not letting them know we’re resting. I’m sure they’d think it was a crime.
So there we were, sitting in the foyer of the England team’s hotel, disguised as the Team England Dietitians. I’m not sure how The Prof organised it, but he can do anything when he puts his mind to it, and besides, it was the last place the ghoulish Australian journalists would be looking for us. There were certainly no English press to be seen – they’d filed their copy well before tea time yesterday and gone off on one hell of a bender. Unlike Chef, they hadn’t invited the “opposition” for drinks.
We were surfing the web using the expensive hotel wifi on our opponent’s account, when we watched Coach2.0’s day go from bad to worse as he had a little misadventure on Twitter.
“Does the Coach like soccer? I mean football?” I said.
“He’s just asked if anyone on twitter could help him with a few tickets to Stoke V Liverpool tonight.”
“I think that might have been a bad idea,” said The Prof, looking up from his iPad. I think he was streaming season 4 of Game of Thrones in high def.
We watched as the responses flooded in. Here’s a few:
Coach2.0 then had a whinge at the trolls, and then it went from bad to worse. Although he did get his tickets.
“I think we’d better turn this off,” said The Prof. “He’s clearly nowhere near Sarah (Head of Marketing) and her sage advice. It could get ugly.”
We were interrupted by the ever attentive waiter. “Would sirs be having another wheat grass tonic?”
I looked at my watch in a rather exaggerated way. The Prof nodded and put on his best plummy accent.
“Perhaps not. Would you be so kind as to find us a bottle of your finest bubbles and perhaps arrange a little platter with some caviar to accompany?”
“Certainly, sir,” he said with a nod, and left us and our tingling taste buds.
“What exactly are we celebrating? I mean, apart from scamming a few hundred quid on the England team account?”
“Hope your white are clean, boyo. Next stop Northants!”