I make no apologies, I love Test Cricket. You can keep your twenty:20 nonsense and One Day stuff, these are no substitute for the real thing. My only complaint is that they limit the games to 5 days, why no play to a finish?
Anywho, this year see's the Old Enemy back in Blightly. The convict boats have been turned around and, assisted by an asylum seeker from Pakistan, who has been fast tracked through the Australia citizenship program Michael Clarke's men (back problem permitting) will begin their humiliation in just under a month. Here's the timetable:
July 10-14 1st Test, Trent Bridge (11:00 BST)
18-22 2nd Test, Lord's (11:00)
August 1-5 3rd Test, Old Trafford (11:00)
9-13 4th Test, Chester-le-Street (11:00)
21-25 5th Test, The Oval (11:00)
(thank you BBC)
Just to help things along, England have imported various South Africans, Welshmen (yes, I know it's the England and Wales Cricket board) and some Irish bloke to give the Aussies a pounding. Just to get you in the mood for the ultimate sporting contest here's Shakespeare's speech from Henry V:
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Too much?
Anywho, this year see's the Old Enemy back in Blightly. The convict boats have been turned around and, assisted by an asylum seeker from Pakistan, who has been fast tracked through the Australia citizenship program Michael Clarke's men (back problem permitting) will begin their humiliation in just under a month. Here's the timetable:
July 10-14 1st Test, Trent Bridge (11:00 BST)
18-22 2nd Test, Lord's (11:00)
August 1-5 3rd Test, Old Trafford (11:00)
9-13 4th Test, Chester-le-Street (11:00)
21-25 5th Test, The Oval (11:00)
(thank you BBC)
Just to help things along, England have imported various South Africans, Welshmen (yes, I know it's the England and Wales Cricket board) and some Irish bloke to give the Aussies a pounding. Just to get you in the mood for the ultimate sporting contest here's Shakespeare's speech from Henry V:
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Too much?