Fa said cricket was boring? Headline-hitting controversy in each of the two Test matches.
First, Jonny Bairstow was the hero of the hour when Just Stop Oil eejits staged that orange-powder demonstration and he carted one of them off like an ironing board. Come the second Test at the hallowed Lord’s, Bairstow lost his halo when he dopily wandered off his crease before the umpire declared the end of the over, promptly stumped by Aussie wicketkeeper, Alex Carey.
Some say the high anxiety of it all was what fuelled England captain Ben Stokes to that barnstorming 155. Had Bairstow still been there, they might have won the match. But, when the tourists clinched it, the Lord’s crowd – which normally only mildly applauds or gently tut-tuts – went hilariously aff their heids, some of the poshest members even getting up close and personal with the victors, chanting: “Cheat, cheat!”
In fact, Carey didn’t cheat. It’s even been suggested Bairstow – also a wicket-keeper – tried the same move himsellie to oust a batsman in the last Test. Me? I was affa happy because it was a win for my dream team.
Fit’s this, Mo? How come you know so much about a sport that’s a big yawn to most folk in Scotland, especially females? That’s because of my secret, going back more than 60 years.
The summer of 1961; me a daft 13-year-old with nothing to do while mum was at work but watch telly. One channel: sport from morning until early evening. I knew zilch about cricket, but there seemed some excitement round the Australians fighting for The Ashes – fitever they were.
Absurdly, bizarrely, this quine got totally hooked – maybe not altogether unconnected to the fact that some of the green caps were truly handsome devils. I was under their spell, following every ball of all five days of all five Tests. Like my Love Island, circa 1961.
I got it into my stupid napper to contact Jack Fingleton, the Aussie commentator. Wrote some guff about my maybe being the only girl in Scotland supporting his team. About two weeks later, arrived this big brown paper parcel.
Imagine my hysterics when I opened it to find the official, hardback tour programme (cost a fortune at the time), complete with big pictures, details about my darling players – each one signed with an individual message to Mo, and a letter from the legendary captain, Richie Benaud, saying they were delighted to have a “cobber” cheering them on in Aberdeen.
Clueless aboot my cobber status, I was ower-the-stumps, even though not a soul I showed it to was the least impressed. Ca’ on a pucklie years, I was packing to move ootski. Couldna’ find the book. Asked mum. “That al’ thing? I threw it oot. So boring.”
Quite apart from my heartbreak, I’ve since discovered those vintage Ashes programmes now sell for hundreds of quid – even without the autographs of every player. D’oh.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970