Ashes 09: Call off the Ashes

As I walked the streets of London I saw the faces of the children, they were tear stained, drained of colour, and lacking all hope. Something had happened.

The more I looked around, the more I realised something was horribly wrong.

Birds flying into each other, rats ignoring open garbage, homeless people refusing to ask for change. Flags were at half-mast, women sat on the steps in front of their grubby looking buildings in a state of shock, and the men, the men, they looked like they no will to live left in them, they were mere empty shells moving around and bumping into other empty shells.

It was as if the country of England was in a state of mourning.

I thought to myself, what could tear a country up like this, it must be a huge tragedy, maybe Susan Boyle had auto erotically asphyxiated herself in a hotel room, or perhaps Kate Winslet has started talking with an American accent.

I found my way to an off-licence, jumped over the apocalyptic mess that was their alcohol section and picked up a paper.

My worst fear had arrived. It was a twist of fate that could befit a Shakespearean dramedy, Australia’s most reliable player, Shane Watson, is injured.

Nooooooooooooooooo, not Shane, anyone but him, take my gril, take my mother, take Natalie Portman, but not Shane.

Suddenly I understood England’s despair. Here is a country that had geared itself up for one thing this summer.

Watching Shane Watson.

And here we are, two weeks before the first game, and he is injured.

Not in a mighty battle while trying to slay their home town heroes, but just a strain at training. A meek end for such a great young warrior.

They might as well call the Ashes off. No one here is in the mood for it now. How could they be? Would you watch Escape from New York without Kurt Russell, offcourse not.

Get well soon, Shane, the game of cricket needs you.