I'm reliving my mid-teen years by laying awake much of the night listening to the cricket broadcasts from England. It's the "Ashes" series – Australia v England – long a source of either gloating or anguish for us, the Antipodean colonials. "We" have crushed the Pommie masters several times in a row, but this series is starting to look shaky.
But that's neither here nor there - what do I care, after all, about that bunch of jumped-up dickwits who spend most of the game "sledging" their opponents?
The first important element of the late-night listening (now via the BBC's online service) is that it reawakens days in 1968-1972 when I went off to the hellhole and hellfire that was school under the fuckn Christian Brothers in an advanced state of torpor and fatigue. It seemed to make the terror less keen, as if the force of the arbitrary thrashings and floggings might be dulled by being half-asleep.
The other worthwhile aspect of listening, especially early in the morning in a hypnopompic state (or is it hypnagogic?) is that I dream that I'm actually at the crease, batting for Australia, whenever I drop back into sleep. This morning I faced same fearsome fast bowling, and even the Pommie spinners were sending them down at 88mph (a highly unlikely speed for spinners) and were swinging it both ways and cutting it fiercely off the pitch. I did manage to hang in there, but my legs were like lead, and I was almost run out on several occasions. If I remember correctly, I return to the crease tonight, freighted with the task of saving Australia from having to follow on, a demeaning procedure where one side has to go back in to bat right after it is dismissed for the first time, as a result of scoring too few runs to force the opposing side to take its second innings until later, if needed.
I hate the English masters, and I hate their cricket team. Nothing will change that. Ever.