God I hate losing to the Mother Country. If Sri Lanka, NZ or the Windies beat us, I really don't mind, and if it's India, Pakistan or South Africa beating us, I feel a little pain, but not much. But losing The Ashes? Oh, the pain, the pain... especially when that smug fucking cunt Flintoff does that arms in the air thing he does when he gets a wicket, or when that sunglass-wearing get-a-haircut noob Swann takes them.
If the Queen knights the English team again (which she did in 2005) I'll seriously have to reconsider my monarchist leanings.
I sat up late in my pyjamas with a hot milo and a purring cat by my side, hoping to watch the most incredible comeback in cricket history... what I got was the fucking ten stooges. Punter was looking great, but Hussey called him through on a risky single, and Flintoff, of all people, smashed down the stumps and Punter was out by foot. It was a rotten call from Hussey, and the commentators joked that at the lunch break, Hussey would do well to avoid Punter in the dressing room. If I was Punter I would have waited til Hussey had finished his cucumber and egg sandwich and then applied a solid mandible claw.
Once Punter was out, it was all over for another two years.
You know what we needed last night? Andrew McDonald and Andrew Symonds. Why weren't they in the team? Why? Why?
(Psycho Bitch update - the next day she told her boyfriend that my neighbour Paulie tried to have sex with her, and so the boyfriend started making death threats to poor Paulie. Paulie asked me to stick up for him, because I was a witness to the real story, but that meant approaching the psycho boyfriend, which made me nervous. Fortunately, the cops got involved, and like a good old Western, the psycho couple were told to be 'on a bus by Monday'... Small town justice. I love it here.)