ASHES DIARY 2010-11

By Ricky Ponting, as not yet told to Geoff Armstrong

November 15, 2010

FAAAAARRK. Farkinell. F*** f*** f***edy f***.

Right. Sydney, season launch for CA marketing dept, and announcement of team for first Test. And - What?

When Rianna told me the team was being picked this week, the words of my predecessor the great Chappelli sprung to mind:

You f***ing what?!?!?

Can not f***ing believe it. Are they trying to sabotage us from within, or what? Here am I, for the last eighteen f***ing months trying to get these p***ks to believe in themselves, making sure the boys stick together through thick and f***ing thin, blahdy f***ing blah, I know, yeah, it's a stretch. I know North can't get past ten because his thumb's in his mouth, I know Huss is f***ing 35 going on 70, I know Mitch is wrecked every morning from doing f***ing jujitsu with his missus all night - and I know Haury's Haury and won't ever be anything more - but Jaysus I've tried. I really have tried. It's no easy job to con these blokes into believing in themselves. I've said all the right things and made the big speeches about the big moments and dragged them along with me and for five minutes I thought I might've kidded the Poms into thinking we're Australia. But then this happens. Faaaaaaark.

When Rianna showed it to me on the schedule, honest to God I thought it was a misprint. I got my PA to get Hilditch on the line and ask him what the f*** was going on. He said it was a marketing wheeze to announce the team selection 10 days before the series. I said fine, so announce the team. It's us eleven.

The phone went silent. Hilditch started stammering and choking. What the f***? It seems that now that Greg bloody Chappell's replaced Merv, the selectors are getting a bit above themselves. They want to see what happens in this weekend's games. So we all have to play for our places, whatever that means. I couldn't believe it. What do these selectors think they're doing? Selecting? Don't they know that's my job?

Hilditch couldn't stop apologising.

And so instead of announcing the team, they announce a cast of thousands. F*** this, I said to Rianna, they might as well have picked Dan Marsh. Everyone else is in there. F***ing Poms must be pissing themselves. I mean, isn't this what they usually do? Are we them and them us? That's how it feels. F***ing marketing geniuses, I wonder sometimes, I really f***ing wonder...

So Hilditch says, Don't worry Rick, it's business as usual, you pick the team and I'll deal with Chappell.

Yeah right.

So this weekend we have to go through the charade of playing for our places. I know what's gunna happen. Watto'll do his hammy getting out of bed. Katto'll get hit on the thumb. Clarke's back will lock up changing gears in the Maserati. Huss and North will make king pairs, Khawaja and Ferguson will make double-tons, and the only way Haury will take a wicket against Tassie will be me stepping on my stumps, for mercy's sake.

Fark.

Of course, yeah, I couldn't say any of this. I fronted the press and said we were coming together well as a team. I said we were looking forward to getting on the field. I said the Poms were vulnerable. I said Dougie Bollinger was set to blast them out. I said that no, this Ashes series wouldn't define me as a captain.

Then I ran out of bulls***.

And then it f***ing started f***ing raining. And nobody turned up. There were more cricketers selected in the team than there were people in the audience.

Fark. One day this'll call come out. How we handed our arses to the Poms on a f***ing platter.

So Geoff - can we write any of this?