Brisbane Gabba Day Two Ashes Test.

Spoilt by a transport system that works and that is free if you flash your match ticket, buses from all over Brisbane brought their hung over supporters to the gladiatorial arena – The Gabba.

Filled to capacity with 42,000 spectators, a sea of red white and blue and swaths of green and yellow. 12,000 Poms had made the journey to the convict colony then add to this 30,000 Aussies with some 20,000 outside in the local bars wishing they had a ticket.

Yes, this was it. The waiting was over, let the Pom bashing begin.

You have to be made of stern stuff to support England at cricket. The highs of the summer of 2005 brought a whole new band of supporters eager to celebrate the great Ashes victory. Some of those novices are with us now in Australia where things can go badly wrong. Chasing over 600 runs with your premier strike bowler unable to keep the ball on the wicket is not encouraging.

No problem, we have been in dire straits before. Let’s have a sing along with The Barmy Army and get behind the team. Not this time. Getting a ticket for the game involved various forms of deceit and favours from long lost relatives in Australia but there has been a heavy price to pay. The English support in the Gabba, whilst plentiful, is scattered to all corners. The opposite of a football match where fans are kept apart, here in The Gabba, we are intermingled with our convict friends. This has had a dramatic effect on the ability to muster a decent chant or song. At best a clusters of 50 have found themselves seated together and have done what they can to be vocal (Super Freddie Suuuuper Freddie etc, etc.) but with limited results. It has made for a slightly less entertaining day for everyone. Yes, I mean everyone, as the Australians enjoyed the songs and banter from the English support as much as the next chap.

It’s one thing keeping a stiff upper lip when 600 runs are being amassed but after a full two day grilling under the sun watching your team field it becomes nearly too much to bear when it’s our turn to bat. Still, at least we don’t dress up in plastic yellow safety helmets and look like we are reforming the “Village People”

Time to find a bar full of English supports and drink our sorrows away, in the hope of a brighter day tomorrow, then catch a bus home and be heckled by the driver and passengers and then find out you got on the wrong one anyhow and you are going to the other side of town.

Those punters that paid heavy prices for match tickets for days 4 and 5 may regret their investment but there is always the beach.