Having arrived in Perth, I quickly find myself a cricket club. The grade system is meritocratic and I will have to work my way up from the bottom, but that should be no trouble for Laurence Elderbrook.
At my first net practice, few if any of the players appear to have heard of my exploits. Is Australia really so backwards? It would appear so.
Most of my new teammates don’t even dress properly for practice. Resplendent in my cream flannels, I look immaculate, but many of these chaps are wearing short trousers and sleeveless shirts that lack buttons.
I march into a vacant net and take my guard. As the bowler approaches, I wave him back with my hand. Something is amiss.
The bowler looks displeased but I have realised that I am thirsty and the matter needs attending to immediately. I instruct him to bring me a gin and tonic, but he refuses and I am forced to take the only option available to a man in my position. I let fly a huge, bestial roar and hurl my bat at him forcefully.
Some gentlemen who are waiting to bowl react angrily to this, despite the calm manner in which I have delivered the dressing down and despite the fact that it was entirely righteous.
As I am stretchered off by the paramedics with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few, I can see that I have impressed my new teammates. They admire my British grit. They admire me.