Stumped

Let me clarify something straight off the bat: despite being English, I don’t profess to being an expert on cricket. Cricketing metaphors aside - and you’ll be hard pressed to fit many more punning atrocities into one speech than during this year’s final sitting of State Parliament, where sports minister Phil Reeves knocked everyone for six (groan) in a fit of Ashes-fuelled delirium – I think I have finally discovered the root cause of the problem: the scoring. There are just too many fractions for my liking. A cricket scoreboard looks like a GCSE maths equation that I’ve tried quite hard to bury.

But I can still see the binge-drinking appeal of test cricket, something that both the Aussies and the English adhere to with proud commitment, while any sport that breaks for tea is fine with me. Just don’t quiz me on the current form of English batsmen and selection policies, which seems to be such an assumed notion for Brits entering Australia that I’m surprised there isn’t a section for it on the landing card, just below the list of quarantined items: “Before entering Australia, it is compulsory for overseas migrants to name all left handed test match cricketers who have scored a century for England since 1945. Please select from the following options...”

I passed a quartet of beery, flag waving Aussies heading to The Gabba for the first test and felt myself physically retreat for fear of making some form of pommy-esque noise that might denote quite clearly where my allegiances lie. Upon their approach, I cowered slightly behind a lamppost. They were already attracting hoots and hollers from passing cars and had made good progress on being inebriated before breakfast. Assimilation into Australia is doubly hard during an Ashes series: without a basic understanding of the game, you’re just left floundering with a plummy accent like a noose around your throat.

There is a mutual respect between both sets of fans, obviously, but a lot of this seems deep rooted on drinking grounds and who can act like the biggest prick. The England team seem to be front runners at the moment with that Sprinkler dance routine, which successfully riled most of the Aussie news bureaus. There was a slight pitying, but mostly mocking air to the news that the number of travelling Barmy Army followers would be reduced this year due to the global financial crisis. A ‘Courier Mail’ article couldn’t help but rub it in: “Last time they were here, watching their team get thrashed 5-0,” it starts, “the Barmy Army mocked Australians for the low value of the dollar. 'We are fat, we are round, three dollars to the pound,' they sang, while applying factor 50 sunblock.” Ouch.

Anyway, Peter Siddle’s storming six wickets on the opening day (including a hat trick) seems to have set a precedent for a disappointing first test for England, but, like with most test matches, that still doesn’t really mean anything, because this game won’t end until January 7th 2011, after travelling to Adelaide, Perth, Melbourne and Sydney, so who knows what could happen in between. But if England do manage to win in the Ashes in Australia, it will be the first time since 1987, which should leave the Barmy Army truly bowled over. Groan.


AU Tube: Understanding Australian TV
‘Hey Hey It’s Saturday’ (Channel Nine)

A contestant who last appeared in 1984 has the opportunity to gamble her prize of an Xbox including “the ultimate interactive snowboarding and skateboarding game, Tony Hawk Shred” for a number of mystery prizes attached to a series of fluffy ducks on a giant wheel. This round is called Plucka Duck, endorsed by one of the show’s main mascots: a man in a giant, white feathered duck costume wearing Ashes-themed cricket helmet and shin guards.

The audience scream as he frantically peddles on a bicycle to operate the wheel. All the while, crudely drawn cartoons flash up on screen with very little reason, as if the cameraman has been sidetracked by the Beano, and random captions appear fleetingly to further confound the coherency of this epileptic show. When the audience aren’t screaming their heads off, each gag or pratfall is accompanied by a spray of triggered sound effects. Then presenter Daryl Somers, who looks a bit like a cruise ship singer, starts conversing with a shaggy blue puppet, interrupting the show every so often by bobbing in front of the camera. There are acid trips less surreal than this.

In 1984, our contestant went home with a car (but traded it in because - and this is gratitude for you - it was “too small”). Thankfully, the prize beneath her plucked duck reveals a set of saucepans. Now that’s karma.

The show is essentially a collection of those Saturday variety shows that used to be quite popular, if your memory can stretch back far enough to when children used to spend more than five minutes with their families, and usually to watch crinkly morons like Jeremy Beadle, Noel Edmonds and Jim Davidson. Yes, I know, thank god the internet came along.

Clearly Channel Nine didn’t get the email, although it is interesting to find such an archaic format still plugging away. It moved to a prime time evening slot in 1984 after being a children’s morning show which, essentially, it still is, and most of the jokes seem to be dated from around the same period. So Plucka Duck is a bit like ‘Wheel of Fortune’, there is a gag-blowing segment like ‘The Comedians’, and Red Faces is ‘Opportunity Knocks’, where disgruntled Skyhooks guitarist Red Symons is the regular sourpuss on a panel of three celebrity judges who usually humour the slightly unhinged variety acts that perform, apart from Red, who goes for the jugular.

He proudly gives a score of zero to two seven year olds who perform some Irish dancing, creepily made up like Victorian dolls despite the gaps in their teeth. It’s weird, obviously, but come on Red, they’re only kids, mate.