A rambling account, which is probably of interest to no-one but me.
More than half a century ago, a school-friend and I spent many happy days watching cricket at The Oval. As I remember it, we started going when we were about twelve years old and continued for at least two further seasons.
A friend of my father was a member of the SCC, so we regularly received free tickets – all we had to do was get there and enjoy seeing Surrey at the peak of its cricketing ascendency. County champions for seven years in succession.
To get there was fun in itself for us youngsters. A longish bus trip to a then-pleasant English town at the end of the Northern Line, happily as yet unsullied by the gilded Muslim excrescence which now dominates the place. The blasphemous Mosque where Pakistanis shout their hate-filled racism, where they plot to kill and maim in the name of their paedophile cult leader and his boss, the murderous, vindictive anti-Christ. I am deeply offended by what has been done to the pleasant place where my parents started their married life in the 1930s; culturally, morally and spiritually offended. The invaders show no respect for the values that I absorbed as a child – I return this with my contempt for their medieval barbarity.
Then the trip on the tube – safe and uncrowded; no black bastards with knives and drug-fuelled crazy eyes, no white-trash trying hard to be black in speech and action, but failing miserably. No shit on the floor, no ripped seats, no graffiti – it hadn’t been invented at that time; scribbling on toilet walls was the nearest the unwashed came to expressive art (read ‘filth’) – no noisy mobiles or iPods, no overt queers or transexuals.
We walked the short distance from the Oval station to the ground, passed through the turnstile to a stand that was sodden with the not entirely unpleasant reek of beer, to make our choice of the many vacant seats in the sparsely occupied holy of holies. We watched the magical play of noteworthies such as the Bedser twins, Tony Lock and Jim Laker. Not to forget Peter May, who later became Chairman of Selectors for England and who then lived opposite the cricket green in the same large Surrey “village” that I migrated to soon after my first marriage. Or Ken Barrington. Wow! What a feast of cricketing Gods!
Since those Halcyon days I have watched much cricket – some good, some awful – but I’ve watched it all on the box. Except for infrequent afternoons at rural cricket greens, all my cricketing voyeurism has been via TV. But vivid images have remained clear in my mind of the massive scale of the Oval. The enormous grass-covered field and the few stands combining with the open areas to repel the advance of the gasometers and flats looming outside. The Oval remembered through the eyes of a child.
Yesterday, Boadicea and I treated elder daughter to an evening watching the Brisbane Heat lose narrowly to Warnie’s Melbourne Stars in the KFC T20 Big Bash at the Gabba. She knew next to nothing about cricket, but she’s always felt that having lived in Brizzie for a decade, she really should attend a match at the Gabba if she wants to qualify as a local. Dear Lord, teams with names instead of titles, wearing highly coloured costumes rather than white, playing an almost unrecognisable version of the game, sponsored by an American purveyor of fried chicken, for a league competition labelled as though it were a boxing tournament. W.G.Grace would turn in his grave.
We left the car at our local station, travelling in a clean air-conditioned, almost un-graffiti’d train to Central, where we met daughter from work and caught the bus down to Woolloongabba. All our travel on public transport was included in the price of the ticket. Wherever you come from in SEQ, your trip costs you nothing if you have a ticket for the game.
We wandered around in the company of thousands of other people until we found our gate, and then located our seats, which I had thoughtfully purchased in the cheapest of the corporate box classifications – little enclaves where nobody will walk past you and you have somewhere to rest your food, drink and other paraphernalia. Plus, a great view; imagine us about halfway between deep mid-wicket and long-on, at the Vulture Street end – perfect!
The first thing that struck me was how small the ground was. The Gabba, as you probably know, is a complete stand in the round, all built to one integral design, and it looks very well finished and furnished – but it struck me as remarkably small. How wrong I was!
The Senior Queenslander sees things very differently from the Surrey child. When I checked with Wiki, I found that the ‘massive’ Oval of my memory can only hold a maximum of 23,000 people (and it was considerably less back in the 1950s), whereas the Gabba can accommodate 45,000, no sweat. I wonder apprehensively how many other clear childhood memories are equally distorted?
It may not be cricket, but it was great fun with everyone enjoying themselves, including the many children and pre-teens, who were pretty well-behaved, considering we had all been issued on entry with a pair of clappers, or clackers – blow-up-able metre-long balloon thingies in Brisbane Heat colours which made a satisfying noise when whacked together or over someone’s head. We punched beach-balls around the ground, applauded every boundary, cheered when the Stars dropped a catch, executed Mexican Waves, misbehaved for the roving cameras and booed Warnie when he took his place at the bowler’s crease.
The young gentlemen in the ‘box’ in front of us – IT gurus or finance traders I would guess from their abundance of money (non-stop beer, seafood, fruit and cheeses; where did they find the room?) and carefully trimmed designer stubble – gave a few resounding choruses of “Warnie’s a wanker” and many joined in, but it was all good natured, so when the cameras caught sight of Liz Hurley behind the smoked glass of an executive box, the entire ground roared their approval.
I was disappointed that neither James Hopes (captain) or Daniel Vettori were playing – injuries, I believe – and am, of course, convinced that we would have won had they been present, but Matthew Hayden gave an impressive display of how an old guy (even older than Ponting) should hit the ball before he was prematurely caught at 22, and Nathan Hauritz bowled like a demon; perhaps we’ll see him back in the Test side soon. Ryan Harris appeared to be recovered and was a delight with both bat and ball, though I have to admit to more than a little bias – I like the guy.
Daughter loved every minute of it, and so did Boadicea; both asked if I would take them again. I muttered darkly about preferring proper cricket over 5 days in the comfort of my lounge room, but I could tell that neither lady took the slightest notice. We shall be back at the Gabba soon, I’m sure.
All 29,000 of us trooped out at the finish. We were naturally a very multi-ethnic crowd in appearance, but we were all Aussies, so we were properly docile and obedient as the Police worked the traffic lights and shepherded us in large packs across main roads towards the hundreds of waiting buses. I didn’t hear one voice raised in anger, or see one person shoving or being shoved or otherwise causing trouble. We plodded along to the right stop, boarded when told, and dissipated like mist.
Except for three of us, who had misunderstood the apparently clear signage and perversely boarded a bus that was going in exactly the opposite direction from the one we wanted – it was heading away from the city and Central station. By the time we realised, we were well outside Brisbane on the way to the Gold Coast (well, perhaps I exaggerate, just a little; well on our way to Logan City, anyway). Buses here frequently run on their own roads, through their own tunnels and over their own flyovers, so when we exited at the first possible stop, we were alone at 10:30 pm on a bus platform elevated above other roadways in the middle of nowhere. Alone that is, apart from the handful of other lost souls who also confessed to having misunderstood the signs at the Gabba bus station.
Daughter’s iPhone came into play. A few minutes later we were all on the opposite platform, agreeing that the electronic annunciator promised a bus to Central, or close by, in 20 minutes. When it came, we explained to the driver what had happened, expecting to have to pay a fare. “No worries,” quoth he. “If you’ve still got your Gabba tickets, you can travel all night in the wrong direction for all I care. You’re cast iron.”
We were eventually deposited in an underground bus station in the centre of the CBD. Daughter said she knew where we were, providing we could find an exit on to Adelaide Street. The solitary bloke in a TransLink uniform directed us with a grin, so it was only a few minutes walk through the darkened streets until we reached the haven of Central.
No problems, no muggers, just happy smiling people. I’m glad I live here.
Boadicea's Chariot 
You can’t beat watching test cricket live, the one day stuff is fun but I prefer the five dayers.
Your account has put The Gabba in complete perspective for me, our new rugby / football stadium seats 47,000 has no ‘corners’ and is similarly ’round’ in structure. Your description gives me a great perception of the place.
Your transport system sounds brilliant, we have none of that, nothing! Here, it’s a scramble for parking (or in my case get a lift) a mad rush at the events close, congested roads in a very poorly lit semi-industrial part of town.
I see that you have a couple of ODI’s in February, they will be televised here, I’ll keep an eye out for you 😉
Well Bearsy, despite your gloomy forecast, I enjoyed your ramble, especially the first italicised section 🙂 (Nothing better than a good rant.) I never went to the Gabba itself, but I watched SA play Samoa, I think it was at Suncorp Stadium, so I can identify with the nature of the experience, to some extent.
I do not know if you have skied much, but what you describe reminds me of the difference between skiing in Europe and the US. In the former, badly behaved Europeans push to the front of the queues, show a lack of regard for other skiers, get drunk, ski off-piste without guides, party til the early hours before returning to the slopes the next day. In America, the ski lifts are orderly and efficient and Americans are polite. Drinking on the slopes is frowned upon and one can get into serious trouble for being intoxicated. Off piste skiing is also forbidden without a guide. All Americans are tucked up in bed by 8pm.
There are advantages and disadvantages to both.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/cricket/8968614/Shane-Warne-tells-TV-viewers-how-hell-dismiss-Brendon-McCullum-…-and-then-does-it.html
Soutie – it wasn’t only that all ‘normal’ public transport was free. There were sufficient coaches lined up to get people away from the Gabba quickly. The huge crowd rarely came to a complete standstill for more than a few seconds. Impressive!
Sipu – Unfortunately we didn’t hear the Fox audio at the ground, but we did see the ball slide magically past Brendon.
Try skiing in Australia – although I don’t ski myself, many claim that it’s better than, or at least as good as, anywhere else in the world. But far friendlier. 🙂
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skiing_in_New_South_Wales
If I might be allowed a comment. I too visit my home town regularly – and Coventry, like parts of London, is an unlovely place in many ways; often called ugly for its attempts at modernisation of roads, and central areas. The city has more than its fair share of poor ‘non-locals’ too – but that can be attributed to the need for labour after WWII which started the growth of new communities. Having said all that, I find that the city is now being transformed with better buildings and road systems; it is cleaner and greener than it ever was and far less depressing for a returning son. I hate the social deprivation and graffiti too but even they are being tackled.
On the whole the place is not ‘worse’ than the towns here, for all Denmark’s social credentials.
I would not have imagined otherwise. 🙂
“Cast iron” blog Bearsy. A mate of mine is a member of SCC and goes with his mates to drink beer most of the day during match play or County games. Not really my sort of entertainment but I might go next year year as a guest, perhaps to write a contrasting or complementary blog on the Oval and its surrounds!
My only visit to The Oval was some years ago to watch son and his team mates play in the schools’ tournament. The champions from all the Home Counties, all aged about 12, were there with families, teachers and picnic lunches. Most people arrived in cars, so didn’t have to worry about public transport. The weather was a bit gloomy, but at least it didn’t rain. Son’s school didn’t win, but he carried his bat. We have a treasured photo of him, beaming happily at The Oval, in his whites of course.
Earlier this year we used public transport to get to south London. But there were “no black bastards with knives and drug-fuelled crazy eyes, no white-trash trying hard to be black in speech and action, but failing miserably. No shit on the floor, no ripped seats, no graffiti …” As for noisy mobiles, reception is not always available on the Northern Line, one of the deepest. In fact all recent trips to London have been problem free and there is always a great buzz in central London. Glad you and Boadicea and daughter enjoyed the colourful cricket, but I think you paint an overly bleak portrait of London, especially south London, many parts of which have improved out of all recognition over the last 30 or so years.
T20 cricket might even get the Septics interested, as it is fast and furious and gets a result in a couple of hours or so. Certainly the last time our Virginian daughter-in-law was visiting, we watched a game of T20 on the TV and she got quite excited about it all.
I am not sure she would appreciate test cricket though. “Five days to get a result that is normally a draw, gee!”, were her exact words. Mind you, I did point out to her that to get one hour’s play in an NFL game, the actual duration of the game normally is three to four hours!
Glad that you and yours enjoyed the game and Sheona is absolutely right about the improvement in South London. Our daughter lives in Balham, which is now very much young professional territory. The crazies have moved further out from the centre. Tooting and parts of Croydon are a bit grim these days.
I am delighted to hear that the UK is now a pleasant, friendly
police stateenvironment, Sheona. Long may it remain so.Blame my failing memory for suggesting otherwise. 🙄
I did recently hear rumours of country-wide riots, with shops being ransacked and burnt to the ground by thugs while the police looked on, but it must have been the Australian Propaganda machine at work, I suppose.
Hmmm Sheona.
I lived at the back of the Oval Cricket ground as a child – when large areas of bomb sites were boarded up. It was a pretty depressing place. Even Kennington Park (where my ancestors kept cows in the early 1800s) was a dismal place. My first real experience of trees and flowers was when I was sent to boarding school in Kent aged four.
My grandmother lived there long after we left – so I visited the area for many years and watched as the bomb-sites were replaced with new buildings. It wasn’t wonderful – but it was certainly better!
We moved to Wimbledon – and I knew places like Clapham, Balham and South London pretty well.
Some sixteen years later I moved to a flat half way between the Oval and Brixton. It was convenient, and a pretty OK area. However, Brixton had a number of no-go areas, but eventually I kept a carving knife on the mantelpiece and a loaded shot-gun by the front window. To be fair – I only picked up the carving knife once!
I left and moved out of London and then on to Australia.
Last year, my youngest daughter who still lives in the UK asked to revisit the area where she grew up – and we went. We walked the area around the Oval – and it wasn’t much changed. We visited the road that we had lived in and that was reasonable. However, we started to walk down the road to Brixton. It was another country – and it wasn’t the one I remembered nor was it a pleasant experience.
This year was my mother’s 90th birthday. She had organised a memorial service for her twin sister (who died earlier in the year) at Southwark Cathedral where they had been baptised and married. We drove from Brighton to Southwark.
The traffic ensured that we got a very good look at the South London that we knew. I really don’t know how you can say that the area ‘has improved out of all recognition’. It was dreadful – and that’s me being exceptionally polite. It has deteriorated out of all recognition.
And the deterioration has been due to the indigenous population being too fearful to speak out. When I said to my daughter that I thought the area was a mess she told me to be quiet… because it was ‘their area’. I leave you to imagine what I said – and very loudly!
My cousin, who drove me from Brighton to Southwark, summed it up: “These areas have been taken over by people who have no idea about caring for the place where they live. They are people who want to take but are not prepared to give anything back”.
I may not agree with Bearsy’s ‘literary’ description of travelling on the present Northern Line – since I think that my experience of travelling on London Underground is a few decades more recent than his! But I cannot disagree with his opinion of Morden and South London…
FEEG
It has always been the case that areas of London ‘go down’ and ‘young professionals’ buy into the area and those areas ‘move up’. Kennington was one such place. It’s probably the same in cities all around the world.
Tooting was on the way ‘down’ when I lived in London. Croydon was a ‘good’ place! I knew Croydon well – I ended up walking from East Croydon to West Croydon last year. Despite it being daylight, I felt very uneasy – and I’m not that easily intimidated! I went shopping in West Croydon one week before my brother, who lives near by, watched the smoke and flames from the riots in his garden.
No, the riots were not in his garden – but I’m sure you know what Boadicea means! 😆
When I said south London, I can only speak of Clapham and Balham with authority, so perhaps I should have said “some parts”. These two areas where sons have lived have certainly been gentrified to an amazing degree. I always thought Croydon was in Surrey, so my ignorance of boundary changes is showing.
Yup, Sheona, Croydon is in Surrey, and so is (or was) Morden. Makes no difference, it’s still Sarf Lunnon, and so is Orpington, which is in Kent.
The point you’re missing is, as Boadicea explained, that in the 50s and possibly as late as the early 60s, those suburbs and many more were genteel, respectable places. Then they went down, and down, and down. It’s nice to hear that the locations your children have chosen have now risen again, but I very much doubt that the shops in the High Streets have reverted to even a shadow of what they used to be.
Streatham (which is nearby) used to be a smashing place, where one went for the Palais, and excellent restaurants. You had to be quite well off to live there. Now, and I speak from recent experience, it’s an absolute shit-hole. Ma-in-law lived there for some time, but got out before it went tits-up. OMG used to live nearby, too.
Of course,coming from Glasgow, you may be judging things by different standards! 😆 😀 😆
Its the same the whole world over. Hillbrow and other parts of central Johannesburg used to be sought after destinations for urban living and an active night-life, but since the indigenous masses moved in in the 1990s they have become some of the most dangerous, crime-riddled, drug infested hell holes on the continent.
But I am thrilled to hear that John Terry is to be prosecuted for saying a naughty word to an opposing player. Racism must be stamped out, even if it means stamping on peoples faces as happened in the case of 3 Somali women who kicked a white girl, calling her a ‘white slag’ and pulling out her hair.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/8937856/Muslim-women-not-used-to-drinking-walk-free-after-attack-on-woman.html
Glad you enjoyed the experience – as you say, not really cricket, but entertaining none the less! I do hope you pop along to a test match now too!
By the way, did you mean “kill and maim” in your first italicised paragraph? 😀
Sipu – a poor decision again by the Criminal Protection Service. The bloke’s an idiot sure, but to make him a criminal idiot for a word or two? Surely the world has better things to worry about? I often get called fat, but I don’t go crying to the local rozzers – in fact, they’re the ones calling me it! So far, being fat or ginger aren’t protected characteristics in law, but they will be if the culture of being so upset by name calling continues. Stick and stones etc.
Hi Cuprum – well spotted. How embarrassing! 🙄
Agree with your comment to Sipu; it’s getting daft.