The Ashes Down Under.

 The Ashes - Down Under.

We knew it was going to be pretty tasty and spicy and indeed it was. This is the battle royale, the ultimate confrontation, the fiercest rivalry, the biggest sporting grudge match of them all. And if we didn't know it before we certainly do now. Because the fuse has been lit, the fires of antagonism are burning brightly and wouldn't you know it, it's here again, back in the sporting spotlight, the greatest meeting of them all where personal hatred takes centre stage, all bets are off and this means business, no holds barred. You better believe it.

Yes folks it's the Ashes, that legendary cricketing contest between England in the red, white and blue corner against the yellow of Australia. For decades and centuries, England against Australia has become one of the most spiteful, vindictive, combustible, incendiary and explosive of all matches. It does what it says on the tin. It can often be bloodthirsty, vengeful, villainous, almost borderline barbaric- well not quite but you know where we're coming from. 

For as long as any of us can remember, Australia and England have been sworn enemies both off the field and quite literally in the pavilion. The great John Arlott, one of the wisest and most erudite of all cricket commentators, must have thought it was his birthday. There were so many metaphors, adjectives and similes that he could have used about the Ashes that at times he must have felt quite spoilt for riches. 

Back in the 1930s, there was that defining Ashes tour that became known as Bodyline Tour when murderous bouncers were bowled by England and the Aussies did nothing but complain and quite often feared for their lives. This has not made for pleasant viewing and the repercussions can still be felt 100 years later when you thought the dust may have settled. But cricket always lent itself to Arlott's poetry and this was one match where the pigeons at mid wicket always took cover and the Barmy Army, England's most loyal fans abroad, would always make their boisterous voices heard.

Just after the Second World War one Australian gentleman stood head and shoulders above the rest. Sir Don Bradman, as he rightly became known, was the most princely, regal, imperious and graceful batsman who ever existed. Bradman was born to play cricket, a man blessed with nature's finest gifts, pulling nobly on the back and front foot, hooking for fun, blasting all comers into submission and just wiping the floor with England's most fearsome bowlers. Bradman has now been ordained into cricket's Hall of Fame and even now England can still hear his mighty shots echoing across the ages. 

But in more recent times the Ashes has always been about certain individuals. In 1981, one Sir Ian Botham or Beefy, as he was affectionately known, singlehandedly transformed an Ashes series when it looked for all the world as if Australia were just coasting home to victory and the Ashes was going back to Brisbane, Perth and Adelaide. So it was that Botham came charging in to bowl at Headingley and within a couple of days completely turned the game on its head. 

The former Somerset quickie and terrifyingly fast bowler skittled out the Australian attack when it seemed as though the Aussies were far too complacent for their own good. So what happened next? England, with Mike Brearley as captain, studied the opposition, as Brearley always did, with an almost effortless air and, accompanied by the unforgettable Bob Willis at the other end, looked danger in the eye. Now England just became defiant, stubborn, cavalier and flamboyant in a way that none of us could have expected. England regained the Ashes after what must have seemed a lifetime. 

And so we find ourselves back in Perth for the first test between England and Australia at the Waca where England have always found themselves on the end of a hiding over the years. In fact this has never been a successful hunting ground for English cricket because they invariably lose and that must stick in the craw and hurt. This time it really does feel spine tingling, ferociously competitive, an Ashes to remember that may never be forgotten. But then it always was and always will be. 

Yesterday the captains Steve Smith of Australia and Ben Stokes of England, stood in the warm sunshine of an Australian winter or maybe summer depending on which side of the world you happen to be living. In between them was the much coveted Ashes urn, quite the most improbable reward for a victorious sporting team and then finally glanced at each other, shook hands politely if perhaps reluctantly and rolled up their sleeves for the humourists, may feel like war but we know as sport's most metaphorical of sporting punch ups. 

At the moment it feels as though there is nothing between Australia and England. Yesterday, Steve Smith's hungry, marauding, almost carnivorous of bowling attacks, roared into the lion's den and sliced open England's helpless batsmen. By the time both lunch and tea had been taken, England were like wounded animals, bowled out for a meagre and pitiful 172. For a while it felt like 1981 all over again. But then England knew this was never going to be a picnic so they forgot their hamper and were promptly devoured by Aussie fast bowler Mitchell Starc. Starc quite literally looked like a man possessed, flaring at the nostrils and creating havoc every time the arm and hands unfolded and the lethal ball was released.  

Now the Waca almost exploded with joy and licked their lips with a kind of sadistic air about them. If Australian cricket hadn't experienced this same scenario a thousand times, they'd have savoured the moment time after time. Soon England were reeling and rocking, wobbling and then toppling over like a thousand set of dominoes. The castle had been broken into and the Australians were looting, plundering and ransacking the England batsmen like men who just love to laugh at the misfortune of those they can barely stand or abide. 

Sport can often be ruthless, cruel and heartless at times. Australia were probably looking forward to an early victory in the Ashes and just putting the contest to bed as quickly as possible. Joe Root had been out for a duck, Harry Brook had offered a briefly promising 52 and captain fantastic Ben Stokes could only manage a tearful six. Oh how much worse could this one get. Ben Duckett, Zak Crawley and Ollie Pope from whom much may have been expected, were also out cheaply. 

But now Australia are in for their first innings and, quite frankly, this could go to the wire because the Aussies have been slipshod, careless, weak and equally as pathetic but you must never call an Australian that because that's a brutally abusive and pejorative term and you know how that winds them up. They have lost wickets fairly rapidly and will probably be all out in double quick time. So Australia you can put that in your cheroot cigar and smoke it. 

Here in Britain it's the penultimate week of November. In the old days, young children would sneak their transistor radios into their bed and covertly listen to the Ashes because mum and dad thought you were fast asleep. Thanks to the wonders of satellite TV, the highly regarded Sky can also accompany you through the night as you shuffle your score card about and drink as many cups of coffee as you possibly can. It is time for the Ashes, cricket's liveliest of encounters, a controversy waiting to happen and a match nobody really wins because both England and Australia both deserve the spoils.

The green baggy caps are ready and waiting and the red, white and blue of England is snarling, sneering and sniggering like giggly primary school children at assembly, contemptuously and now furiously. They'll be waiting for each other just to prove who's the fittest and strongest. Come on England or if you're reading this in Australia let's settle our differences over several tinnies of lager. Hold on, it's only a game of cricket and indeed it is.