In a summer full of magical English cricket and drama, few television sights will compare with that of six hungover and pasty-faced Allstars celebrating Flintoff's century in the first innings of the Fourth Test. Focussing on them, it was reputed that even Benaud was drawn to ask, "Who are those bunch of freaks? One of them has got such short arms it's a wonder he's able to wipe his own arse? Why has one refused a perfectly good Guinness? What's the big idea with the vanilla cheesecake?" I hope that this account will unravel a few of the mysteries of that day.

The story starts on the previous afternoon when six Allstars made their way to Nottingham. The dramatis personae included such luminaries as 'five cocks' Clements, the skipper, Fat Andy, Dolphin, Teflon Thompson and Dirty Jim. Five of us met on the train and were full of beer and anticipation on the train up. When news came through that the Allstar Five Bellies (five-a-side franchise) had pulled off a 2-1 victory, we sensed that there were more good things to come. The only decision outstanding was which Allstar should claim the goals from our unregistered Scratch, and having not played all season I was only too willing to accept.

Immediately upon arrival at Nottingham, it was to the hotel and then "on it" with Dolphin and his mate, who is something of a player in the world of bins! As usual this was a bit messy and we agreed that now we were past thirty, time was catching up with us (making the standards of Pordes and Nixon all the more impressive). Ducking out of one shit pub into a bar that was inside a converted church, the move to spirits and harsher imbibing rules (this was a tour after all) started to affect things more, indeed, Maxie was forced to retire after falling asleep. Directed to a taxi outside, he somehow managed to miscommunicate the name of his hotel and was taken on a £20 trip to the wrong one, somewhere on the outskirts of Nottingham. Despite this, he did make it to bed before the rest of us and was found, by a returning Short Arms and Dolphin, getting rather sentimental about Jason.

The rest of us had a few more drinks and then made our way to the kebab house for some late night refreshments. Here, I regret to admit a schoolboy error, as rather than go for the wholesome meat products on display, I asked for a seafood pizza, much to the amusement of the assembled company and the shop-owner, who did not seem to appreciate my knowledge of the rich seafaring tradition of Nottingham. My history lesson took a beating the following day as the seafood induced nausea and a violent incident deep within my bowels.

Next morning we made our way to ground, speculating all the way as to England's likely total. Queueing for an age at the gates of Trent Bridge we eventually made it into the ground in time to see Pietersen go. The Barmy Army was in full swing and then Flintoff and Geraint Jones started to take command. Langer, fielding on the boundary in front of us, took a great deal of stick, chiefly in the form of a melody from Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs. It was then that we made our first televisual appearance of the day, as another four from Flintoff put us on the screen, in front of six fat blokes who between their t-shirts were able to spell FREDDIE.

As lunch approached our minds turned to sustenance. Although there was a perfectly acceptable range of chips, burgers and pies inside the ground, Fat stuff insisted that it would be a much better idea for him to pop out and get one or two bits for us all to share. Thinking that a few sarnies, crisps, some scotch eggs and Fatty's acknowledged excellence in the field of pastry would fill a gap, we readily agreed to his suggestion. Unfortunately this was to be no triumph like Fats' tea. A less suitable choice of foodstuffs for a cricket crowd could barely be believed: dips (is this a soiree?); nectarines (are we in hospital?); bananas (some sort of joke at my expense?); 4 x large sausage rolls; a large pork pie (only one?); houmous (see dips); 2 x baguettes (as everyone uses them for dips nowadays?); some cherry tomatoes (can we throw these at you?); and the piesta de la resistance: a vanilla cheesecake (no cutlery or plates).

It is fair to say that his choice of products was not greeted with universal enthusiasm by the rest of us, and reminded me of why I hate picnics. With Flintoff just short of his century, the prospect of being seen celebrating with a large baguette and an undersized tomato was not to our liking. When the big moment arrived we were so busy trying not to step in the dips and nectarines that when the cameras pointed in our direction, Athers suggested that we were probably part of a Care in the Community scheme. We put this aside as the day wore on and managed to distribute a great deal of the excess food to Flintoff's mates behind us.

After Flintoff and Jones fell, other wickets went steadily and I started to lose some of my enthusiasm for the game with lack of sleep taking over. The highlight at this point was the excellent humour of Brett Lee fielding on the boundary and the Barmy Army was full of appreciation for that. The extended afternoon session eventually brought an end to England's innings with 477 on the board. This was far more than any of us had expected at the start of the day's play. With Jerusalem and Land of Hope & Glory being boomed out by some fat bloke during the tea interval (the pastry shops had run dry with him and Fat Andy in town) we were full of expectancy for the Convict innings. By the time the Aussies started their reply the day was pushing on. We had, lets be honest, been on it for a while and my recollections of the evening session are rather hazier than earlier in the day. Clearly, somewhere along the way five wickets fell, most of them inside edged lbws, for 99 runs. One of our party really started to feel the heat and unbelievably refused two beers. He will remain nameless for the moment but I understand that Kenny Lynch has taken a close personal interest in the matter, lest such events repeat themselves on the Hersham Links.

At the close of play the other chaps persuaded me that we should pay a visit to Hooters, which is Nottingham's famous owl sanctuary. When we got there I was dismayed to discover a lack of owls but instead, scantily clad girls serving drunken men food and beer. The others assured me that the reason for lack of owls was because it was still daylight and that by day it was normal in the owl conservationist fraternity to raise money by bearing breasts and serving booze and dirty food to drunken men. My conscience eased, I was able to rest easy and enjoy the curly fries, chicken wings and Guinness that the Jennifer Ellison look-a-like was serving us.

Looking back over the day we agreed that it had been enjoyable. Each of us had consumed on average 12 pints of Guinness, had seen a Test match swing decisively in England's direction and above all, been there when it counted! The train home was made all the more amusing by the company of an illiterate Australian who seemed unable to grasp the fact that his team were going to lose the Test. He was further perplexed to discover that his National Express coach ticket was not accepted on Midland Mainline. We took pity on his state and gave him the uneaten pork pie with a message that Shaun Tait could probably use it to practise with. Fat Andy had tears in his eyes for an hour afterwards.