Do I dare to hope?

No, of course I don't, stupid. I'm an England supporter. We are entirely bereft of hope most of the time, and don't dare to hope the rest of the time.

However, I have been letting my imagination run away from me. In brief alcohol- and chocolate-fuelled moments, I have visualised how England could win this Test. Incredibly dangerous, I know, and I have surely doomed them to a resounding defeat. But here's how it could possibly go on Day 5 at the 'Gabba.

Cook and Trott come out tomorrow morning and play themselves in for all of two overs before realising that the Australian attack are eminently hittable, and they clobber some quick runs. Cook eventually falls, followed by Trott in quick succession, bringing in a rampant KP and Collingwood who immediately start butchering the Aussies all over the park. Strauss, being slightly conservative, declares half way through the afternoon session, giving England a lead of around 280 and 45 overs to bowl Australia out. The match looks like it will be drawn.

And sure enough, Katich and Watson get off to a pretty good start, before Twatto applies hair gel one too many times and Katich throttles him, getting himself arrested. Ponting comes and goes without a whimper, out lbw to Anderson.

However, Clarke and Hussey put together a handy little partnership and, with an eyelash injury to Jimmy Anderson, it all looks over for England until Strauss has a moment of brilliance and calls upon Collingwood to bowl. Lo and behold, Colly's military medium can only be chipped to mid-off, where the ball falls safely into the hands of a gleeful twelfth man in Monty Panesar (on for Jimmy), giving Colly a hat-trick. Ponting throws a hissy fit at England's use of a sub fielder.

A jubilant Mushtaq Ahmed dashes onto the field and starts doing the sprinkler with Monty, but is banished from the ground for his unofficially-sponsored Adidas beard, or for being Muslim or something (it is Queensland, after all). Nonetheless, in the dimming light, Finn comes on to clean up the last four wickets, getting himself ten for the match, England win by 87 runs with 5 overs to spare. Jimmy Anderson comes out onto the balcony and, misunderstanding the concept of a flash dance, gets his gear out and does the hokey-pokey, getting himself an instant Men of Cricket contract and becoming the face (and body) of the Mardi Gras.

A demoralised Australia go on to lose the Ashes 5-0, Ponting retires in tears, Katich is given life, Clarke becomes captain for one game before discovering his life dream of becoming a relationships guru and North is given the captaincy, proceeding to lead Australian cricket into the darkest era of its history.

This is all perfectly possible.

When wickets aren't what you really want

England have just bowled out Australia, and this is probably the worst possible situation for the team as they'll now have to bat for a good two days to make the match safe, which I can't see happening unless Ponting decides that he should use Marcus North and Michael Hussey as his frontline bowlers (which he might, being Ponting).

I am trying to think of ways in which England could win this match, but my powers of imagination don't stretch that far. Cracks are appearing in the pitch. Cracks of doom.

Swanny gets a wicket

Too damn late to make any difference, but it might be a sign of him bowling better in Australia's second innings. If they ever have to bat again.

Kill me now

So much stuff has happened since I last posted. Mazhar Majeed, a century for Broad, Herschelle Gibbs' biography, Mickey Arthur's biography, the rise and rise of Test Match Sofa (who may be on the verge of world domination) and so on.

Day 3 at the Gabba, and all is going to shit. As we knew deep down it would. I'm trying to convince myself otherwise but we are well and truly fucked and it turned out to be a hedgehog, not a gerbil. Perhaps this is the one forgettable match, like Headingley was in 2009, but despite the excellent work of Jimmeh with the ball, I am fast losing hope.

So, kill me now. Let me die in peace, without having to see the repulsive face of a celebrating Ricky Ponting. It's tea now; lace it with cyanide, please.