3 hours ago
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“Australia is not for weak men.” Had I heard Ben Stokes’s words in Brisbane earlier perhaps I wouldn’t have decided to cover the Ashes series as a freelancer. Had I known how England were going to play, I almost certainly wouldn’t.
My attendance was not in any way predicated on how well England might do in the series – making decisions based on the potential success of the English cricket team can only lead to madness. But having been born with a form of muscular dystrophy, the physical requirements of an eight-week tour to Australia were more of a consideration.
Although not that much of one. I have always tried to ensure my disability does not affect my life any more than it has to and, as a journalist entering my 13th year as part of the press pack, the opportunity to cover an away Ashes series was always going to be too good to pass up. Having attended the 2006-07 series as a fan, there was no way this could be worse. Right?
First stop Perth, which after more than 20 hours travelling feels like paradise, although the sensation soon wears off – there are clues that the nearest major city is more than 1,200 miles away. In order to assimilate seamlessly I immediately begin eating industrial quantities of smashed avocado and grow a moustache – although my refusal to use the phrase “too easy” at every possible opportunity does give me away somewhat.
Given the first tube line in London predates the formation of modern Australia by 38 years, it is perhaps not surprising that, compared with home, the accessibility of public transport everywhere here is phenomenal. Not just distant London dreams, such as lifts everywhere and level boarding – a bit easier with things built more recently – but also in the willingness of staff to be helpful.
Most trams and trains I can just drive my mobility scooter straight on to, everywhere you can’t there is always someone on hand ready to deploy a ramp without it seemingly being some great burden. In Melbourne, I discover you simply go to the front of the train, the driver gets out a ramp and puts you on themselves. Perhaps “too easy” has its uses after all.
The only downside to all this as a miserably cynical and reserved Englishman is not really one at all, just that, if anything, everyone is too upbeat and chatty, and as the series goes downhill for England, often insistent on engaging in friendly Ashes banter. Although it is much worse at the point in the series when the tone of those interactions turns from competitive to patronisingly sympathetic.
An unthinkable two-day catastrophe in Perth is followed by day/night humiliation in Brisbane. While things might be going smoothly for me, England are having an absolute disaster.
The Australian tabloid press are also having the series of their lives trying to spin controversies out of the most minor events. I am unable to suppress a loud laugh when the journalist in front of me asks Stokes if he thinks “an apology is owed to Queenslanders” after England players are papped riding e-scooters without helmets.
I briefly wonder if I, too, had been breaking the law by making my wheeled way around Brisbane without the requisite head gear. Should I be apologising to the great state of Queensland? Then I watch England get thrashed by eight wickets at the Gabba and think maybe they should apologise to Queenslanders after all.
In Adelaide, as I briefly stop outside the ground to put on my accreditation, an elderly woman walking past says: “Good on ya for getting out of the house.” I briefly consider grumpily telling her I’ve managed to get more than 10,000 miles out of my house and that maybe she’s being a bit patronising.
But then I remember how England have batted on this tour and agree internally that at this point every England supporter is doing well to even get out of bed.
With a Test match starting on Boxing Day, Christmas Day is spent in Melbourne with an assorted crew of journalists, hosted at the Airbnb of three press box doyens. The show is stolen by two of the Guardian’s own: Ali Martin’s grilling skills – shrimps on the barbie included – and Barney Ronay’s potatoes are the culinary highlights.
To the surprise of everyone England manage to win the Test in Melbourne; to the surprise of no one Australians everywhere soon begin frantically justifying why it didn’t count.
Then on to Sydney, a new year and the reassuring embrace of yet another Ashes Test defeat, the promise of Jacob Bethell and the wistful hope that maybe, just maybe, in four years’ time it will all be different. The suppressed fear is that maybe England will never win a series here again.
That, though, is a concern for another day. First there is a 23-hour flight home to conquer. This is no time to be weak.
