Royal Streak

The Aussies are twenty for one

The tension at Lords is palpable.

Excitement runs through the crowd

Like a member of the Barmy Army with a tray of pints

Desperate to get back to his seat from the bar

The Queen watching from the Members Enclosure

Is as thrilled by the prospect of an Aussie humiliation

As is everyone else in her commonwealth

(Except, possibly, the Antipodean ragamuffins themselves)

She stays her pint of Fosters halfway to her lips

Her bag of Walkers cheese and onion remain unrustled

Anderson pounds in

And Ponting  is OUT

Absolutely, undeniably, incontrovertibly OUT

Caught by Strauss in the slips.

Her Majesty is on her feet

And begins to totter towards the steps.

An aide makes a grab for the pint glass and the bag of crisps

But Now she is gaining speed

And vaults the white picket fence

The stewards, suddenly aware of what is happening,

Are caught in a dilemma.

Should they wrestle the intruder to the ground as instructed

Or remove their baseball caps in humble obeisance?

That moment’s hesitation is enough

Her royal highness has evaded the cordon

And has crossed the boundary rope

And is on the hallowed turf

The players, the umpires, the whole crowd stands aghast and instantly silent

She is racing towards the middle

Discarding cardi, blouse and skirt

As she goes

The moment of silence extends second by second

Even Father Time swivels away

Unable to look.

Now she is on the square

The sun glinting off her second-best tiara

And there goes her bra and pants

Although, sensibly, she is keeping on

Her stout brogues

Because there is still some damp on the outfield.

And any dints on the wicket

Will only help Graham Swann

When he wants to make it turn

Later in the innings.

Thirty odd thousand mouths hang open

And, for some reason the electronics

In the Sky cameras have ceased to function

So the world outside misses the spectacle.

In the Test match Special Box

Aggers’ mouth hangs open,

Blowers manages a “My dear old thing”

And Sir Geoffrey has staggered to his feet and is saluting wildly.

Now behind the Monarch comes Prince Phillip

And in an extraordinary display of solidarity

The Admiral of the Fleet Uniform

Joins the other royal garments on the grass

And we are treated

To a display of the Crown Jewels

Undreamt of since the Coronation.

Hand in hand, their Majesties

Vault the stumps

A picture that remains for ever un recorded

By the thousands of photographers

Fingers frozen solid over unclicked shutter buttons

In bemused horror.

Her Majety’s eyes meet those of the recently dismissed and shocked Ponting

But there is no royal clemency there

Her small sneer says it all

“Walk wallaby” and she jerks her thumb towards the pavilion steps

And the dyed in the wool republican

Retreats his eyes wide with new found respect

For the House of Windsor.

Together, the Royal Couple

Have reached the far boundary rope

And are disappearing through the press box.

The equerry briskly removes the royal garments

(outer and under) from the field

As if it were an everyday occurrence.

Ponting continues his sad march to the pavillion

Troubled by conflicting emotions.

The next batsman, Hussey, emerges

Into the profound silence

The only man in the ground

To have missed the whole thing

Because he was busy buckling on his pads

“How’s it playing, Skip?”

His Captain eyes him glassily:

“If only you had balls like that Sheila.”

Hussey shrugs unsure of what that means

Play resumes at 20 for 2

And a subdued crowd

Settles down for the afternoon’s play

Forever unsure of what they have seen.

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