Gabba Gabba Hey.
The nation's already hopeless productivity will once again suffer as those suckers who have greased the Digger's greedy palms with silver survive on half an hour of sleep for a week, as not even his mighty influence cannot transport the sun-blenched and snake-infested battlefield to a more convenient for the advertisers longtitude. And you will be forced to listen to the sages Huss-ain and Sireeyan for your trouble. And with a bit of luck, you'll get Gooch, too. Serves you right.
Savour these last few hours of glorious optimism because as sure as eggs is eggs, bloody Ricky Ponting and some squeaky-voiced youth probably dragging his still bleeding umbilical cord behind him as he runs in will have surely wrecked all hopes any sane Englishman has of exercising his birth-right by laughing heartily at the whining convicts by 3am tomorrow morning.
It's only a game. Isn't it?