Alastair Cook’s currently in the process of causing as much hurt to Australians as would happen if someone told them that they thought that Kylie and Dannii Minogue are in fact as talented as each other.
He’s going to resume at Adelaide on 136, which is after that unbeaten 235 he racked up at the Gabba last week. That was some viewing, seeing him batter Australia’s batsmen about. Given that he looked technically spent during the English summer, it’s like watching an unsubtle visual suggestion that Australia’s bowling attack is fucking awful.
Of course, that’s in fact the only time that Cook has brought up a century when I’ve been watching. When he was going through that two year-long purple patch that was the start of his Test career, I wasn’t really watching that much cricket, which is one of few things about 2006 and 2007 that I could definitely tell you.
I resumed watching cricket regularly in 2008, coinciding with his first bad run of form, so I didn’t see any there, though he did make some promising starts, like in Chennai before he skied an attempted slog-sweep. In 2009, he timed his centuries to occur when it was term time while I was at university, or, in 2010, while I was in some part of Catalonia wandering up Montserrat and eating smurf flavoured ice cream.
In the case of the Adelaide Test, I went for an intended hour’s slumber, only for it to turn into seven hour comatose.
So whereas before it was simply a matter of circumstance that made me miss Alastair Cook scoring runs by the saxophone case-load, now my body’s decided to turn against me as well. Thanks a lot, body.