The First Final

I quite like the relevance of my subject title. Generally the phrase 'The First Final' evokes memories of getting down to the SCG in late Jan to watch Australia inevitably beat a tired touring team in the first of a best-of-three finals series. This reference, however, has been stolen from Long Way Down. At the last border crossing into South Africa, Ewan remarks that its the first of the 'final' acts they would commit on their 3 month journey. Our version of this was the final expedition meeting.

I must admit that lately I've been playing a mental montage in my head of differing memories since The Everest test turned my life upside-down this time last year. I've definitely come a long way since I could barely walk up the stairs at The Amuse Bouche at our original meeting.

It was with a touch of sadness that I headed off for Lords for our final pre-trip get-together. Whilst part of me is jumping out of my skin to get on the plane, there is significant portion of me that doesn't want this trip to end. We had to fill out a little media pack for Captive Minds last week, and it on my biggest fear was the post-trip depression that will no doubt occur once I get back and it all sinks in that it's all over. Then again, my sadness could have been due to the fact that after dinner at Jim and Emma's place the previous night, I hadn't managed to get to sleep until 2am. Not too much of an issue really, but when Butler call's you before 9am to appease one of his many neurotic meltdowns about the trip (this time about immunisations), it did get on my nerves a little. Conversation as such:

*phone rings*
Me: urgghhhhhhhh
Butler: Hello Mate, I wanted to talk to you about jabs
Me: urgghhmmmmumph
Butler: Do you think it's too late to get all the recommended jabs that are on our to-do list?
Me (furious): ummmm ask your doctor mate
Butler: Yeah I have. Which ones did you have?
Me (annoyed): All the ones on the to-do list
Butler: When did you have them?
Me (massively upset): When the to-do list said to have them
Butler: Right, ok. Well I'm being charged £150 by this travel clinic and they told me exactly what I need and that it will be ok. What do you think?
Me (incredulous): Well help me help you. What answer do you want? Do you want my actual advice, the official advice, or do you want me to tell you want to hear?
Butler: Well a combo of the 3 ideally
*phone line cuts off*

Further infuriating me was the fact that I forgot to bring along Vicks and G's passport, so had to go via work to pick them up. Then I realised that getting the tube was going to be risky for lateness. So I ordered a cab. I don't remember asking him to take me via every speed hump in London but I was almost ready to lose my breakfast. I then wound up at the wrong gate. When i finally arrived at midday, it turned out that the meeting wasn't going to start until 12:30.

The meeting itself had it's ups and downs. It was like any standard meeting for me. I concentrated for 15 minutes and then started entertaining myself by making as many stupid comments as I possibly could. Particularly following Alex's medical advice to 'swallow it down' and following Butlers excellent question of 'What's a long-drop?'

Announced was the snaring of a Title Sponsor, with Nokia Maps coming on board, and also some sadder news that Charlie B-N had to withdraw from the trip at the last minute due to a long-standing illness. A couple of weeks back, I spent a 15 minute train-ride contemplating the horrors of having to make that decision after carelessly rolling my ankle, and the mindset wasn't pleasant. Everybody on the trip feels for him massively and there will be an apt tribute to BN during the game. 2 other sponsors come on board, Bulldog - a grooming company (!) and Mumm, a champagne partner... The champagne is obviously for post-match celebrations however I'm not sure whether it's a good idea to be drinking it. We were then subjected to a harrowing Medical presentation. Breck described that it was either a headache or death, and if it's neither than it's most likely a mile-long tapeworm bursting from your arse like a party-popper.

Following the marathon meeting, we headed down to the indoor nets. These would have to be the premier indoor facilities in the world. With the pitches graded from fast-to-slow, we were allocated the faster pitches. With brand new pink balls. Forgetting this, I nominated myself to have a hit early on. What proceeded was a confidence-shattering lesson in pain and swearing. Ignoring the sledging form my own team-mate who was stood behind me (thanks Wes), I proceeded to play and miss at just about everything from Waters, Neil, Butler and various others. Joe Williams was heard to remark that if even he could make the ball do hoops, then I was certainly going to struggle. Add to that the spitting nature of the fast pitches that aided even Chris Martin in bowling throat kissers, and I was in for 15 minutes of pain. Thankfully Waters was just too good for me, and I avoided most of his deliveries through sheer ineptness rather than good judgement. Neil is a touch slower so I fancied my chances. Except he hit me. The 3rd time was flush on my inside leg. Sharp intake of breath. Throbbing thigh. Don't show it hurts. Exhale. Deny that it hurts to a genuinely concerned Wes and face up. Throw kitchen sink at next ball. Miss. Regather myself. C'mon it'll stop hurting soon. And it did. And just as it did, another one flush in the same spot. Agony. Resist the urge to vomit. Scream.

What followed was a tantrum that 10 minutes later I was very embarrassed by, but at the time with the adrenaline pumping I thought was appropriate. I swore loudly and repeatedly, threw the bat down and got down on my haunches. What resulted was a bruise that is still quite spectacularly changing colour a week later and an apology and request to be punished in some way for my petulance to Haydn.

To ease the pain we had a genuinely awesome feed at an old Thai haunt of mine (not that kind of Thai haunt) that was attended by all and sundry. Some say Hillsy should have been there. Others have just revoked his Tenzing license. Some Jaeger-Bombs and some Snakebites later, and some impressive dance moves from that c*nt Neil Sharland and I was ready for bed. Until it emerged that the safe place I'd left my cloakroom ticket had since escaped my mind. Had it not been for Mike Prestons wife Helen pointing out the inner-pocket of my jeans, I would still be at Finchley Road making chitchat with a Russian speaking broken English.

The final meeting had passed. The trip edging ever closer.