Decision time

That settles it. The gang are willing to pay for me and the missus to travel out to Oz and find us a nice hotel but I reckon it will be better for me to stay here, sit up all night and watch on my lovely large TV with coffee and the wind howling in the trees. I will get the gang to text their impressions and the bizarre details and I will write, say, 400 words three times a day from each Test. All I have to do is find them an exciting bet - they don't need the money do they - and I am working on that, I don't regret my decision to stay at home. Australia has changed since 1982 when I first dropped into Sydney airport, had a fine old row with two Customs ladies (I'm being generous here you understand) and arrived in Brisbane several hours late. Much more authoritarian, much less fun, more controlled, less "She'll be apples" which was their way of saying "don't worry" and too obviously peopled not just by the descendants of convicts but by the great, great grandchildren of policemen and prison warders. Pity. I used to love every trip but in the end Melbourne reminds you of Manchester, Adelaide is cute like Aberdeen but hotter and even vibrant, exciting old Sydney goes a murky grey.

The Lotto party

My friends could not possibly keep their secret to themselves for long. After several emails, texts, SMSs and the like - going "Ha bloody Ha" and "U just don't no do u" - they finally front up. "As it is your birthday," says their first honest message - " we'd better tell you what is going on." They claim to be in the "only eight star hotel in the southern hemisphere" and living on champagne and dangerous chemicals. How come this change in lifestyle for a bunch who would certainly have struggled to keep their rust bucket car in petrol if they had stuck to the original plan and driven Nottingham to Sydney. "Kate's cousin who is not on her Christmas card list after he fails her dramatically one long evening of drink and all the rest is one of an extended family who win that big prize on the Euro Lotto and her lets her have a tiny bit as part of his divi up and she asks for more and says 'you are on a permanent promise' and he sends along a few bobs. So the four of us - Kate, the lad, the vet and the other waitress known as Busty - fly here first class, book into this nice, highly-recommended hotel and party." And finally "Send us your tip for a good bet and we will put a few bobs on for you as well as us." I am thinking about it.

The mystery deepens

An enigmatic text arrives. "You'll never guess where we are!!!" No, indeed. It is the text from a group who have no regard for the value of money, completely secure in their finances, happy to waste a few bob on a nothing message. Well, two can play at that game. "Who cares" I go. And wait.

Desert Pong

It's almost the end of October, there is a distinct chill in the air, the players are on their way and it has been a while since I heard a word from the travel group without a clue. "Help" is not even a decent hint when you don't have an itinerary, an estimated time of arrival or even a phone number that works. I try ringing various mobiles until I find one with the right number on the floor of the garage. What a bunch of helpless souls they are; probably stuck in the desert, without food and water or any defence against the Mardi and his savage camel cavalry. I'll give 'em four feathers when I see them. Still 32 days before the first Test in Brisbane and Jon Agnew, on Five Live to plug his new book, says England must be expected to win ack the Ashes. Makes you feel sure that, er, almost anything can happen. Especially when the Hopeless Heroes are stuck in a sand dune somewhere. . .

Help!

October 13 - and it is 28 years exactly since I flew to Australia for my first major tour. I have since realised that Bob Willis and his men almost drew that series. If there had been modern technology - I was still using a typewriter and sending my copy by telex - John Dyson would have been run out by Willis's direct hit in the first over of the final Test a couple of days after England had won the fourth Test. Instead by the final day it was down to Bob Taylor to provide the memorable moment by kissing the turf as his trips Down Under - so often fruitless while he waited for Alan Knott to trip over a carpet or be carried off by a dingo - came to an end. By the way, did you notice that the dingo baby case is still being fought out in Oz? Incidentally the news from our overland travellers is not good. I guess. Today I had a text which simply said: "Help." Where it came from or what sort of help was appropriate I cannot tell. I bet they're in the seats at the Gabba 44 days hence all the same.

Travelling hopefully . . .

So from the beginning of the Test series I will be offering my thoughts on (a) England's progress and, I guess, (b) Australia's resistance.

All the old gang, including the guys from the cafe, will be onside with me and - what else would you expect - they will want to throw in their twopennyworth. No matter what the result we will be there until the end but we will only cover the one-day series if it looks interesting.

Why? Well, and this is the first serious opinion of the Australian adventure, surely one-day cricket is drawing to an inevitable close. Let me know if you feel I am wrong - or right come to that - and we can have a lively debate.

Before the Tests begin there is one other little adventure to be watched. The lads and lasses from the cafe tell me they have plans to drive overland to Australia. Oh dear. Through Iran and Afghanistan? I do hope they survive but that they have enough trials and tribulations to make an interesting story before we restart my New Ashes Diary Down Under.

We're back!

By the time the England team arrive in Oz the New Ashes Diary will be watching their every move. All the old favourites will be back on board but to get the full story so tune in again on Sunday - 10-10-10 appropriately - and find all our plans to support Andrew Strauss and his Outlaw Band as they tramp across the wide brown land leaving their opponents begging for mercy.

Well, we can all dream, can't we.