My life around Selhurst Park . . .

There are many defining moments in a person's life - rites of passage from riding a bike without stabilisers, a first snog - to the biggies like first-time rude behaviour, leaving home, marriage, kids . . . .

But I can also track my life around Selhurst Park, a footballing oasis in SE25, a far-from-bucolic area of south London - home of the mighty Crystal Palace FC.

The Child: Sitting on the wall that ran through the old White Horse Lane with my dad making sure I didn't fall off . . .

The Boy: Switching to the Holmesdale to proudly stand side-by-side with the old man . . .

The Gobby Teen: Plucking up courage to venture unaccompanied into the bear-pit of the Arthur Wait, shrilly crying "Come and join us!" to the opposing fans - hoping to God they did no such thing!

The Young Man: Back to the sanctuary of the Holmesdale - giving it large but not taking any risk of aggro!

The Man With Responsibilities: A short sojourn in the Main Stand. Bollocks to that! How expensive and I'm not dead yet!?

The Settled Fan: Now happily back in the Arthur, never quite getting into the heart of the AW Massiv - but close enough to not be signing alone.

What's your footballing journey?

The Sikh of Tweak . . . can't speak!

Bounced out of bed to catch the last few overs from Perth and was delighted to see Monty had taken a spectacular five-for - shaming that idiot Duncan Fletcher and bottle-job Steve Harmison.

Okay, Harmy took four wickets in his third Test outing of this Ashes series - but the weight of expectation on Monty was HUGE. And my God, didn't he respond magnificently!

So after the close of play - by which time I'm in my motor so I'm listening to the Beeb on the radio - I tune in to hear Monty being interviewed.

Bloody hell! I thought the BBC had collared some monosyllabic Premiership dipstick by mistake. He was hardly grilled by the interviewer, but the answer to every question was the same incoherent nonsense.

All we gleaned from the first England spinner to take five wickets in Perth was: "well, obviously, you know, I enjoy taking wickets and, obviously, you know, I enjoy doing that and will try to do my best. But you know, the important thing, obviously, is I enjoy the game and try to take wickets. Which I enjoy doing."

Cheers for that, Monty. FFS!

I thought cricketers were a few rungs higher up the academic ladder than the feeble-minded scrotes in football, so Monty's interview was so disappointing.

He wasn't asked any leading or contentious questions - but it seems even if a sportsman is capable of independent thought, they are all paralysed by fear at the thought of saying anything 'off-message' that hasn't been cleared by the team managers.

The shame of the media is that just because a star has spoken, they are seemingly untouchable and instead of applying any skill in helping an interview flow - the interviewers gratefully accept whatever turgid crap is spouted at them. Because the media is also paralysed by fear - the fear of losing access to the players if they ask anything remotely challenging.

From now on, I shall just watch the action on the pitch - and switch off as soon as a microphone swings into view at the end.

Jumping on the bandwagon . . .

THE occasion was Sussex CCC's triumphal open-top bus tour of Brighton and Hove to celebrate its success in winning the 2006 county championship and C&G Trophy.

PB and Jacko, stationed on the clocktower, were enthusiastic representatives of Headliners CC.

As the bus passed - to the bemusement or disinterest of early afternoon shoppers - we decided we could get a second bite of the cherry if we horsed it through The Lanes and on to the Thistle Hotel where the mayor of Brighton would host a celebratory luncheon for the Sussex squad.

But we were accosted by a blazered duffer who spotted our Sussex Twenty20 shirts, put two and two together and come up with five. "Hallo, you a player are you? For Sussex, what?" he bugled at PB.

"No," said PB, "but he is!" With a slap on Jacko's back. "Really?! Good effort, what!" trumped Blazer. "No room on the bus, though, eh, what?"

Of course I should have put him right, told him his grey-flannelled leg was being pulled. But no. "Not made the First XI yet," I heard myself say, "but I've done all right in the one-dayers. The bus is just for the championship squad. The rest of us have to walk to the hotel!"

"Too bad, eh, what? But have you had a good season?" asked Blazer.

"He passed the thousand-runs mark just last week," chirruped the delighted wag PB, referring to my total lifetime career total for the Liners, not one summer's glory with Sussex. "But I'm a bowler, mainly," I offer, "left-armer, it's been a good season for swing."

With hearty pats on the back, we take our leave of Blazer and leg it to the seafront, giggling like errant schoolgirls at lights-out.

The encounter is soon forgotten as we join the throng outside the Thistle, cheer the players off the bus and into the foyer - and just as we turn to leave, there's Blazer a few yards away! "What ho! There's the big left-armer!" he bellows, "Spot of lunch with the team, what?"

The crowd closes in, fearing embarrassing exposure, we have it on our toes again. Sharpish. Still giggling.

I'm 38. I really should grow up!