In a certain Goon Show, career blimp and eternal coward Major Dennis Bloodknok finds himself stranded in a small outpost somewhere in the chirping, ribbiting English woods in the middle of the night.
Had the Goons embraced television, he might have spied the impressive bulk of Harry Secombe heaving to outside; but this is radio, and when the knock comes at the door his shriek is girlish in pitch, and ripe with the madness of being stationed too long at Fort Spon; of discovering that fresh consignments of women have gone off during the voyage; of being touched by the sun —
‘Hand me that rifle,†he instructs his dithering subaltern, ‘my sabre, those hand-grenades, and help me into my armour. Now, Private Bog, take this stick and go and see who it is, while I have my picture taken under the bed!â€
The English cricket team currently in Port Elizabeth seems to be more Bog than Bloodknok, but that hasn’t stopped its media entourage from turning the tourists’ loss to South Africa A in Potchefstroom into some sort of cricketing Isandlwana.
As flashbulbs popped under the bed this week, the subtexts screamed from between the lines of English broadsheets and websites. Expeditionary force ambushed, slain, by fuzzie-wuzzies in sleepy Poshestgroom! Time to send gunboat, says Graham Thorpe! Leader of opposition asks: Home by Christmas?
It was worthy of Major Dennis himself, all this talk of crises, slumps, and self-doubt. Even the South African media began to enjoy vicarious palpitations, abandoning its ears and eyes for a moment to indulge in slightly gloating hand-wringing about the shameful performance of the tourists.
The long version involves manifest destiny, the Riders of the Apocalypse, and the decline of the nation-state. The short version is that England were whipped by a second, fairly frayed, string. But why this defeat should be regarded as anything but a slightly misaimed sighter across South Africa’s bows is unclear.
Perhaps it is a reflection of the new spirit and desire that seems to have reanimated English cricket this year, and if this is the case then it would be uncharitable and unduly cynical to question this quest for excellence.
But all the same, the South African observer can’t help remembering the pantomime of a decade ago, the little team that couldn’t captained by the little Lancastrian who wouldn’t. Or for that matter the English rugby side that did a lap of honour in New Zealand because it hadn’t been beaten as resoundingly as it thought it would be.
Two visits in the past 10 years haven’t been enough to change those first impressions, and the local pundits can’t help feeling that England’s relationship with success and failure is still very raw and fragile.
Of course, this doesn’t matter in the context of the series. Psychological frailties are only exposed under extreme pressure, or by the complete absence of it; and Graeme Smith’s South Africans are too weak to prise open English minds by force, and too determined to bore the tourists into distraction. England will move on from this series victorious, their psyches intact and probably buoyant. Which is just how Australia like them —
The signs were there at Potchefstroom for those who weren’t determined to see surrender. Andrew Strauss looked fluent and composed for a half-century in his first South African outing; Michael Vaughan, England’s batting talisman, scored a century from 3/2.
The tourists proved that, unlike their hosts, they have a wicketkeeper who can bat. And, most worrying for a home attack traditionally wretched at wrapping up tails, the English lower order looked as if their only discomfort was the blisters forming on thumbs unused to batting for long spells.
On Tuesday, Thorpe urged his teammates not to panic, perhaps a public rumination on his own duck against South Africa A, but he was probably preaching to the converted. For the first time since Peter Heine and Neil Adcock overshadowed the ageing Frank Tyson in the mid-1950s, England has a better pace attack than South Africa.
It is a profound shift. Being dominated by superior batsmen is at best irritating, at worst heartbreaking for a few hours at a time. But knowing that They are waiting — Heine, Mike Procter, Garth le Roux, Clive Rice, Allan Donald — saps the soul. Nobody ever lay awake worrying about chasing balls to the boundary for a day, but the prospect of a single over of pain and fear and shame can be a fearful handicap.
Makhaya Ntini will get the odd one to jag back viciously, and if Dale Steyn plays he will raise some whistles, but always for England there will be the thought: just wait till Steve Harmison has a go on this. And that’s worth 80 runs an innings.
Not that Geraint Jones is going to be crouching 60m back when Harmison totters in off his long run: if you can’t beat them, make sure they can’t beat you; and the St George’s track could well emerge as a balding strip fading rapidly to brown.
The venue has always asked pace bowlers to work for their not insubstantial reward, but if ever there has been care taken to drain some life out of the track, it will have been now.
But talk of draws and deadened pitches and patchy batsmanship is no way to usher in a long-awaited spectacle.
The premeditation of India — the pitches, the shots, the bowling, the hysteria, the outcome — is over, and now those who relish the freshness and light of a new summer series, who have eagerly anticipated this new England with its depth and flair, have a chance to remember why there is nothing quite like Test cricket under blue sky.