Bargain used Seat Ibiza - with evil spirit as standard.

STEPHEN KING created 'Christine', a 1958 Plymouth Fury with a bad attitude - then John Carpenter brought her to life in the 1983 film of the same name.

Now life has imitated art in the the most deadly way - and I have unwittingly bought 'Christina' - a Spanish version of the satanic, possessed killer automobile.

She is a 2001 Y-reg Seat Ibiza 1.4S!

As Carpenter himself would say in a gruff movie-trailer voice:

"She was born in Barcelona on an automobile assembly line. But she is no ordinary automobile. Deep within her chassis lives an unholy presence. She is Christina – a red 2001 Seat Ibiza whose unique standard equipment includes an evil, indestructible vengeance that will destroy anyone in her way.

She seduces 39-year-old Jacko, who becomes consumed with passion for her sleek, rounded, rust-laden body. She demands his complete and unquestioned devotion and when outsiders seek to interfere, they become the victims of Christine’s horrifying wrath. Based on the book by Stephen King."

The parallels are uncanny.

Christine was absolutely trashed by some small-town hardcases - but rebuilt herself and took bloody revenge. And being a 1958 vintage she carried out her murderous spree to the hot sounds of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and Little Richard.

Christina was driven for six years by a woman - but survived and rebuilt herself rather than wait for genuine Seat parts to arrive from Spain. She is still plotting her revenge and, being of 2001 vintage, has somehow got her radio jammed to the less enticing sounds of Southern FM. Actually, that is almost revenge enough!

In the film, Arnie Cunningham at least gets a few weeks driving pleasure before Christine reveals her demons. In real life, Christina only waited until she was parked on my drive on day one before getting freaky.

I turned off the radio. I turned off the engine. I removed the key from the ignition. I opened the door and got out. I closed the door and was just about to walk away when her radio display flickered into life! The ghostly green display found Southern FM again and Leona Lewis started wailing on yet again about her 'Bleeding Love.' Gaaaah! Nooooooo! I ran.

Chastened by the wife for being such a big girls blouse, I went back to the car. Leona had given way to Alicia Keys. I got back in and sat down. I pressed the off button. Alicia obligingly ceased singing. The display faded and blinked out.

After a few seconds, reassured everything was fine once more, I again tried to leave. But my hand was no sooner on the door handle than Christina sprang to life and bade me listen to the traffic report. I sat through it and then endured a bit of Maroon 5. A firmer press of the button killed the sound again - and this time I almost made it to the house before Christina again spluttered into action.

I got back in. And half and hour later she was back with the dealer who promised a mechanic or electrical engineer would sort the problem. "Could be a week or two," he said.

"Take your time," I said, "but forget the mechanic - try an exorcist . . ."

FOR a few minutes at least, she's content. "Boooo! Boooooo!" she yells, beaming happily. "Booooooo! Come on daddy, how loud can you boo?!"

A son would never do this to me.

What should have been a landmark occasion in this generation of the Jackson family history was proving something of an anti-claimax.

Having been unceremoniously turfed out of my own home by my own wife so she could enjoy a day's peace and quiet - I decided to take my only offspring to her First Football Match.

With a son, it would have been planned weeks in advance and, When Saturday Comes, we'd both be in a state of pre-match frenzy ready to cheer the mighty Eagles to the rafters.

With a daughter, I didn't mention the football until we could see the stadium floodlights. The trip was sold to her on the promise of seeing dancing cheerleaders, music and fun at the Selhurst Park Family day.

Crystal Palace v Hull City was just daddy's little bonus.

What a bloody nightmare!

Horrendous traffic meant we got to the ground at 2.45pm - no time for the family frolics, honey, we've got to get tickets. £35!!! Robbery! But hey, we got a post card-sized 'poster' of the Palace first-team. Manager Peter Taylor's inclusion rendered it relevant for all of 48 hours!

The small bag of sweet treats occupied little 'un for 15 minutes - then she needed a 'comfort break' but the sight and aromas of the Selhurst facilities caused her tiny bladder to refuse to function until Daddy had cleaned the immediate area. We'd better be 3-0 up by the time we get back after that. We weren't. It was a dismal 0-0 after 45 minutes.

The chorus of boos was long and heartfelt. I didn't join in. Apart from the home defeat to Brighton I've never booed the Palace. My tiny companion had no such scruples. She's booing with the best of them, she's happy to be making some noise, she thinks it's all over and we're going home.

News that there are still another 45 minutes to endure does not go down well. There are a few tears. Mostly mine.

Suddenly, there's elation at SP! Boos give way to cheers! What have I missed?! Nothing on the pitch, but sitting under the giant TV I can't see that England's egg-chasers have defeated the Australian egg-chasers. Good news that has galvanised the Eagles - Scowcroft scores!

I leap out of my seat - Abi is frightened at the visceral (if a bit girly) scream which escapes me. Worse, I land heavily on her little foot. More tears. But trying to curtail a Palace goal celebration is like trying to stop a wazz mid-stream.

Layers of icing top this sad footballing cake. Hull equalise in the last minute. The drive home is another 'mare. And Palace legend Peter Taylor is axed as boss.

"Want to come to football again with daddy?" I suggest a few days later. "No! I want to watch a DVD with mummy - you can boo on your own!"

If someone murdered a member of your family, then passed the body to another who in turn cooked it for a third party to enjoy as a meal - whom would you hate most of the three?


Would it make if a difference if the cook was a craftsman and delivered a spectacular dish for the diner? And would it matter the diner finished every morsel and really appreciated all the effort that had gone in to preparing the meal?


I ask because last night - in fact very, very early this morning - I believe I was visited by a flying angel of vengeance, in the form of a CUCKOO!


I have lived nearly all of my 39 years without any memorable encounter with these creatures. Yet in the past few weeks I have twice crossed paths with what anoraked 'twitchers' would call Cuculus Canorus.


On the first occasion, the bird was silent. And hot and tender and partly caramelised and served with the sweetest baby asparagus. Delicious. I showed it the utmost respect by washing it down with a toothsome Pol Roger.

This a.m. the bird was neither silent nor tasty nor demanding respect. It was a loathsome intrusion into my home. Sitting smugly under the eaves, it sang. "Cu-coo, cu-coo." And sang . . . and sang . . . for hours. Until even the fretful seagulls could take no more and tried to drown it out.

It only had the one song. And it performed it with metronomic precision for hours, with no change in pitch, harmony or tempo. It nagged like toothache or Portsmouth fans giving it the Pompey Chimes. The whole family was awake and on a short fuse. Then it was gone.

Was this visitation coincidental to my fine meal? I think not! Was it a spirit of the star of the a la carte menu? An avenging relative? Who knows!

Was it inspired by Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven"? Possibly. Am I now free of it? Quoth the cuckoo: "Nevermore!"

I'M not exactly down with the kids, but I have noticed the streets of sunny Brighton are being rendered gloomy by a proliferation of angst-ridden, woe-is-me type youths.

Sounds like just any group of spotty teenagers, but these freaks call themselves EMOs and have taken their persecution complexes a stage further. They're a sort of goth 'lite'. Floppy black hair, eye make-up, maybe a piercing or two and light scratches on their forearms for that authentic 'self-harmer' look. A few slaps and a haircut might liven 'em up a bit. But I'd settle for just slapping them around a bit.

So it was a surprise to see similar expressions and loose-limbed despair on eleven chaps dressed in bright whites and old enough to know better. Step forward the vanquished Sun XI! Their starting line-up was a Who's Who of master batsmen with a reasonable chucker or two for good measure.

The Headliners XI, on the other hand, looked like a day release outing from a Royal British Legion Hospital. Only Jackson appeared to be in washboard trim and fine fettle. A lot rested on his steroid-pumped shoulders.

But cricket is a funny old game. KJ pouched an early catch and then contributed nothing more than buffet bowling and letting Scoggins off the hook with a failed 'c&b' long before his eventual 48. To round off his display, his charge to save a boundary ended with the sound of plucked hamstrings like a hamfisted harpist in a special needs orchestra.

RN, being of northern extraction, cycled to the ground with double calf strain and hamstring injuries - but fed on the pain to carry his bat for a match-winning 80, having already taken 2-17 with the cherry.

I don't think RN is human - at least not entirely. I've known him more than 16 years and never seen his house. Nor has anyone else. Turns out he lives at the Cyberdine Systems factory in Lewes and is a T-101 Terminator. He's living tissue over a titanium endo-skeleton with a built-in Alec Bedser programme. After his knock he chugged a pint of WD40 and responded to the offer of a lift home by lighting up his bionic eye and snarling: "Fuck you, asshole!" Charming! Luckily for the Liners though, he'll be back . . .

Had it not been for RN, man of the match would have been Glen Donegan. His unbeaten 60 and 4-30 was fantastic reward for a real all-round display. Bowling to a crocked KJ was just like bowling to a four-stump wicket, but they all count.

PB deserves a mention for his stylish 35: Hi, PB. fnurk!

Anyway, aside from the pisstaking and to be uncharacteristically serious, I think every player is indebted to every other player for making it one of the best days of cricket we've enjoyed in many years. And thanks to St James's Montefiore CC for the venue and Stanley and his pal for the post-match tucker. And once again huge thanks to everyone who contributed to the "We Can Beat Wilms" child cancer campaign. For some reason I can deal with adversity and chaos with stoicism - but generosity, compassion and anything to do with Molly plays havoc with a stiff upper lip!

The match details can be viewed in quite detailed detail here: http://headlinerscc.proboards82.com/index.cgi?board=general&action=display&thread=1182249882

Headliners CC v The Sun

HISTORY is littered with examples of conflicts in which divided loyalties have destroyed friendships, pitted brother against brother - and father against our kid.

There are the biggies such as the English and American civil wars. Then come regional spats like the troubles in Northern Ireland and the Merseyside or Old Firm derbies. Some way down the line are the grudge matches - although no less serious to those involved - such as between those who crack the Big End of an egg and them what crack the Little End.

But a war is looming which even has the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse knock-kneed with fear and ready to turn tail and bolt for the trees - like Baggie at the first sight of a cover drive heading his way.

Orcs and Nazgul don't fancy it. Elvish archers suddenly realise they've left the iron on and Sauron has shut the gates of Mordor on the pretence he doesn't want to be disturbed while "Gondor's Got Talent" is on the telly.

Battle lines are being drawn - in crayon - as The Sun and Headliners CC are poised for a cataclysmic encounter at the sinister and deadly-sounding St James's Montefiore Cricket Club, near Ditchling, Sussex.

The Liners and The Currant Bun used to live in peaceful coexistence. There was frequent cross-over of talent (well, players anyway) and frivolous badinage between respected (well, tolerated anyway) rivals.

Until it was foolishly mooted that these white-flannelled gladiators should play each other. Thighs were slapped and guffaws guffed at the splendidness of the idea.

But it has turned sour. The frivolity has turned frosty. The respect has turned to contempt.

The Sun's warm-up match - a resounding victory against the Sunday Times - was notable for the tension within the team as the few Liners in the line-up were watched and analysed more closely than the opposition.

Boxing clever, KJ allowed himself to be tonked for 60 runs off just eight overs so as not to alert his temporary team-mates to the true venom he could muster. Unfortunately, Statto wasn't so sharp and got carried away - all the way to 56 - after getting excited at hitting a career-first four in front of the wicket.

But the Scoggins had the same idea for The Bun. Having given it all the chat all season about his 874 average, he holed out on 25 leaving us hopeful, yet still worried. Bastard.

And Baggie bowled four overs of multi-hop jank. Clever, thought I. Turns out he had poured his very soul into every ball. Chin up, the Liners shall make hay.

The storm clouds are gathering. The waiting is tense. It's T-Day all over again. Watch this space . . .

I apologise for the uncomfortable imagery, but I want to share something I learned from a cross-Channel adventure last weekend.

And it is this . . . that to fully appreciate the rarified elegance of one of Europe's finest restaurants, you first need to have stared down the ragged tradesman's entrance of a pound-a-pop East End stripper.

Well, When your fourth bottle of Pol Roger Brut 1998 is competing with the eighth bottle of Becks still in your system from the early hours - you can't help but draw comparisons.

And by any token, a 24-hour jolly which takes in both a Shoreditch table-dancing dive and a Michelin two-star restaurant in Brussels is definitely one for the scrapbook. Twenty-four bizarre hours during which every instance of civility and culture had a diametrically opposed snapshot of the gutter.

For example, the £60 starter of Rosette of Lobster and Black Truffles enjoyed by several of my dining companions was a beautifully presented roundel of pure class and had them in raptures. Seeing their bliss, I thought better of pointing out its startling similarity to the £15 Starfish de Shoreditch presented on a greased pole not 10 hours earlier.

Later, having ditched the Saville Row in favour of casual classic Ben Sherman gear (ideal for pulling or fighting - depending which way your nights usually pan out) - it was time to hunt out the rest of the gang somewhere on the Grand Place.

It was not difficult to spot them. You don't find representatives of the cheap end of her Majesty's Press working their way through moules mariniere under a parasol outside a cafe bar. You find them holed up inside on the second floor, flushing down snotty strings of croque monsieur with 12% continental ale and demanding 'who's had my 'kin crisps?!'

After reminding the bewildered barman that if it wasn't for us he'd speaking German, a quick conference decided that having left the pub, we ought to, um, find another pub. Genius. It's "outside the box" thinking like that which won us an Empire!

Between 8pm and sunrise, we did what Brits do best when abroad. Mix beer and spirits into a deadly ferment in already gorged bellies, sing long and loud, and wake up with no recollection of the walk home.

Every time a Eurostar heads north out of Paris, Lille, Brussells you can hear an enormous exhalation as the train pulls away. The groggy, pasty passengers think it's something to do with the hydraulics. It isn't.

It's entire cities breathing huge sighs of relief that we're not staying and are going home. But chin up, mes amis - there's another train just pulling in!

You know that feeling when everything just clicks? Your run-up is smooth, your action precise and the ball fizzes on to the spot every delivery - and every other other over or so your team-mates converge on you with smiling faces to celebrate sending another rabbit back to the hutch? . . . Neither do I.

And after my first outing of 2007 for the Headliners, I'm still waiting.

I have to say I felt confident taking the ball when Dogger asked me to freshen up the attack after the industrious RB, the doughty RN and peckish Beefdom could find no chinks in the West Blatchington armour. Three nets and a high-protein shake or two in pre-season had me in fine fettle.

But after four overs of unadulterated leg-side jank I asked to be withdrawn from the attack having conceded 27 runs from an embarrassing series of double hops. "If you're sure," said Skip - a gesture really, as I could already see Stanley warming up at fine leg.

Of course the real villain was RN. Leaving the pavilion, the West Blatch openers' introduction to the pitch was hearing the mouthy Yorkshireman telling RB: "Don't take too many early wickets, let's make a game of it!"

Donner A, Mackenzie T and Proton K decided they'd make a game of it all right and twatted 145 runs between them!

Brown S tried desperately to return to his beer, skying three huge efforts off successive deliveries to RB on the boundary. The first actually carried for six, the second was dropped but the third was superbly, um, dropped too!

The unlucky bowler was RN. The rest of us offered commiserations and encouraging noises to both men, while we all tried to imagine what RN would look like with Bryant's nadgers threaded on to his necklace.

Then the plucky Stanley had the dangermen despatched with great flighted deliveries tempting the batsmen to waft ineffectually and allow decent fielders in Beef and Panch Jr to catch and stump.

Beef then enjoyed a sensational over, taking three wickets - including a tremendous caught and bowled in which he actually spilled his own blood to secure. Well it looked like blood, but someone later heard the groundsman mutter about the peculiarity of someone leaving a pool of gravy on a length.

Set 198, Liners did not shine. The Don hit 26, Beef knocked a patient 36, Dogger fell to the most plum obvious 'lbw' ever seen in the history of the game and Fitzy's £200 prescription Oakleys meant he had a clear view of the walk back to the pavilion, if not the ball that sent him there.

The highlight was your humble scribe's ferocious 11, reaching 1,000 career - thus ending the longest running saga since The Mousetrap.

I felt sorry for West Blatch's Brown N. Seven wickets for 18 off 10 would normally be an achievement worth celebrating - but it ain't a 1,000 runs matey! It ain't a THOUSAND RUNS!

No long appeal. Just watch this. Then visit www.justgiving.com/wecanbeatwilms and please make a donation.

Cheers

Jacko warned not to give up the day job! I entered a short-story competition last week - and the judges hammered me!

The rules were simple: Submit a previously unpublished true story about yourself. Max 1,500 words. Prize: £1,000. I delved back into my sporting past and regaled the judges with an inglorious episode from my short boxing career at college.

Here's my effort that garnered "nul points" from the worldwide juries:


IT'S difficult to enjoy your breakfast when you know a fit, strong, aggressive bloke is going to punch you hard in the face sometime before lunch.

This was neither an irrational fear of an unprovoked attack nor a ghastly premonition. It was a planned event, I knew when and where it would happen. It was to be a self-imposed initiation test. A test of my mettle and courage.

I'm certainly not a masochist and whoever was going to land that punch was going to have to earn the privilege. Before that blow landed (and hopefully afterwards!) I would be doing my damnedest to dish out similar punishment.

In short, I was learning to box.

At that early stage of my training I had only recently progressed to light sparring after weeks of gruelling fitness work and practising basic punches and combinations. So far, no one fending off my newly acquired skills had actually fought back. The instructors didn't have to and the leather bags tended not to - which is not to say they didn't nip back at you a bit sharpish if you lost concentration!

I'd been told I could develop into a useful boxer. Despite being dominantly left-handed, I adopted an orthodox stance but could switch to southpaw at will.

Yet one thing was nagging at me. I had no idea if I could actually take a full-on "bloody-hell-this-bloke-means-to-damage-me" punch. I'd been caught accidentally a few times by my fellow students but never at full power and never without the action immediately stopping and accepting the apologies of the perpetrator. And I have to say these innocent tags still hurt like the dickens and made the prospect of genuine combat genuinely unappealing.

So I decided to find out how bad it could be. When it came to a bit of proper sparring, I would deliberately leave myself exposed and invite the consequences.

On the appointed day, despite my undigested breakfast turning somersaults in a suddenly turbulent belly, I was able to see one or two positive aspects as I pulled on my gloves. First, the bloke in the opposite corner was a little lighter than I was and looked just as anxious as I imagined I did. Second, we were given headguards. This cheered me no end. Flimsy as the padding looked, it offered reassuring protection - unless I was careless enough to take a blow straight to the chin.

Which is exactly where he pinged me about 12 seconds into our first round!

All my plans went out the window - as did most of my cognitive processes. I thought I'd have a few rounds toe-to-toe before dropping my guard and taking my medicine. I didn't count on matey-boy flying out of his corner like an adrenalin-fuelled, hay-making demon.

I blocked a flurry of wayward blows, ducked under a hook and was just about to take a step back and wait for his nervous fury to pass. But as I came out of my crouch, I just had time to realise my field of vision was filled with red leather before I saw stars exploding spectacularly all around me.

In the half a second it took my rear to thump Bambi-like on to the canvas, my addled noggin tried to make sense of what was happening. Had the gym blown up? Had something fallen from the ceiling and struck me? And when did my opponent invite another two identical versions of him into the ring?

My disorientation was only momentary and I was soon in full possession of the facts. I'd been laid low by a man who had his eyes closed throughout his entire pinwheeling mayhem and had no idea he'd hit me until he almost tripped over me. As I stood up, he had the proper mix of concern and badly-hidden triumph flitting across his face. Our coach just looked perplexed by the whole sorry debacle.

I suppose, ultimately, I had my questions answered. I knew what a knock-out punch felt like - and I can report even brief unconsciousness is a fine anaesthetic! But my boxing career was stillborn. I carried on long enough to find out what the other side of the equation was like. A few weeks later I knocked my sparring partner out cold. It was the day I called it a day.

I'M sure the sympathy expressed was sincere. But it was so shockingly wide of the mark I was momentarily stunned.

"Sorry to hear about your loss - I read a bit of your web thing," offered the venerable Doug. "Very sad. What was it again - your cat?"

"Very kind of you, Dougie - but it was my niece."

"Really? I didn't read all of it. I think I'll get padded up."

And so Headliners CC bade farewell to the balmy winter and it was down to the serious business of nets in preparation for the 2007 campaign.

Still a little put out, but finding it hard not to laugh out loud at the continual air of absurdity that surrounds this club - I picked up the pill for the first time since last September and measured out a seven-pace run up.

Fitzy stood at the crease - and despite a long step across the off stump and full-length stretch of the bat - he was still a good foot away from my Harmison-like loosener which fizzed pathetically into the side netting.

After five or six balls of varying prowess, I switched to left-arm over the wicket in the desperate hope of better luck. And - knock me daahn wiv a fevver - I found it!

With a few wayward exceptions, KJ was pinging the ball in on a good length with a bit of movement and Fitz, BT and Doug were all on the defensive.

One ball, had it been in a match, would have had the scorer marking the first downward stroke of his 'w' as soon as he saw it leave my hand. That's certainly how i felt about it. So you can imagine my disbelief and dismay when a clearly flummoxed BT somehow toe-ended the ball away for perhaps a streaky brace. No justice.

With bat in hand, I felt good too. Especially as the bowling on offer was distinctly low-grade stuff. Yet BT once again proved my undoing.

I took a look at one shabby lob and decided that I could cart it back over his head once it reached me on the second bounce. Sadly, I felt the swish of willow without any resistance of leather - and heard the terrible death-rattle of my flattened plastic furniture. My distress was compounded by witnessing the oaf's delighted gloating.

Roll on winter and the end of this sporting charade!

IT is not just with bat and ball that KJ has failed to impress as a sportsman.

A day after my return from the beautiful ski resort of Megeve, France, I can report I'm as equally inept on Alpine pistes as I am on the greener, occasionally flatter venues of home.

Actually, I do myself an injustice. After four years of skiing holidays, I'm not too terrible. I'm still more Stanley Baxter than Alain Baxter but drop me at the top of almost any slope and I'll muddle my way down.

Lack of bottle holds me back. Technically, I can be the bees knees. Indeed, my short-radius turns were the talk of the town. But while the rest of my ski gang point down the hill and gracefully carve their way to a waiting vin chaud, yours truly zig-zags out of the clouds with eyes like saucers and thigh muscles burning like hot coals.

So it was with utter surprise and a sense of foreboding that I heard myself sign up to a potentially humiliating and life-threatening experience:

I entered a genuine, competitive, gongs-for-the-winners giant slalom race! And I even had to shell out ten of your johnny foreigner bank notes for the privilege.

The omens were not good. My only previous attempt at getting up a proper head of steam on skis cost me an eye lid and my original facial bone structure. I can testify to the stunning stopping ability of a noggin buried into the side of a mountain which sneaks up on you at 60mph.

As it happened, speed was not my enemy in the slalom race. Far from it. For an indication of my performance and prowess, it did not go unremarked in the hotel afterwards that the official race photographer captured three pin-sharp pictures of me - and single, dramatic blurred shots of everyone else!

I didn't help that to even get to the start gate - that's right kids, a start gate (plus race bibs and proper electronic timing when I was expecting only a frog with a big flag at the top and his mate with a stopwatch at the bottom) - I had to negotiate the steepest, scratchiest run in the entire Alps and then ski a treacherous route through a haunted forest past the frozen bones of long-dead English adventurers.

Maybe I'm bending the verite a tad, but it was certainly no preparation for an all-out assault on the fiendishly fiendish giant slalom course that stretched away fiendishly below me.

All too soon I was no longer louche English tourist Jacko, I was suddenly competitor No 29 with a weak bladder, slack bowels and visions of a life spent eating through a straw next to big machine that goes 'ping'.

I got off to a flier. The first three gates whizzed past in a stylish swish of parallel excellence. The next few were slightly more ragged but commendable. Then, disaster! The after-burners cut-out! I was in a Top Gun-style icy tail spin and had to dig deep to remember the procedure - and deployed the emergency snow-plough!

I crossed the finish line, just, with help of ski poles, to polite rather than excited applause. The timer consulted his calendar . . . 1 min 41.2 seconds. Not bad at all thinks KJ, coolly falling over in the snow trying to remove the bib.

Not bad. But still dead last! And not by fractions of a second. Last by more than 20 seconds! 40th out of 40! The winning time was a shade under 37 seconds.

I'm not expecting a call-up to Team GB for the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver - but at least I can now call myself a "competitive skier."

*I have been asked to point out that Mrs J also took part in the race. She took 1 min 09 sec. But you have to remember the ladies' course was, um, the same one.

The kiddies’ merry-go-round on Brighton Pier used to really bug me.

It wasn’t the awful airbrushed art of Scooby-Do, the Teletubbies and what have you on the little cars, carriages and trucks.

It wasn’t the surly East Europeans manning the kiosk who took the tokens without even a smile for the happy youngsters standing in line.

It bugged be that the two motorbikes on the little ride were quite clearly identical Harley-Davidsons – but had “Kawasaki” emblazoned on one and “Suzuki” on the other.

And to add insult to injury, both were also labelled CBRs!

I could live with the fact they were painted Barbie pink and had the same build quality and top speed of a genuine Harley. But I felt compelled to tell every little lad and lass who clambered aboard that they were being cheated. “Look!! How can that possibly be a Kwak!?? And when the heck did Suzuki start making CBRs??!! Eh? Eh? EH!!!???”

Angry looks from Mrs J and hostile vibes from mums and dads would send me muttering to the frantic drama of the Dolphin Derby.

But seeing my little niece Molly beaming away and squealing with delight as her bright pink Barbie bike chugged along the track and seeing her wave excitedly as we came into view on each circuit (and wave with her throttle hand despite my instructions to the contrary!) was a real tonic to soothe my cynicism.

When Molly smiled like that, you never noticed the tube in her nose or the fact she was the only child with no hair.

In fact over the summer I would get impatient for Molly’s visits. I’d take my daughter Abi out of nursery for the day and, after lunch at the Marina, the families would take the rattling, bone-shaking Volks electric railway to the pier for ice-cream and fairground rides.

Abi and Molly could well have been sisters. They laughed and charged around together and made up their own games and stories.

Abi was more often than not in Molly’s old clothes, despite being two years younger. But when Molly was smiling you never noticed she was so small for her age. And Abi neither noticed nor cared that her best friend had a tube in her nose and was the only child with no hair.

I had to work Christmas Day, so I can only imagine Molly’s reaction when she awoke to find a giant pink motorised Barbie VW Beetle next to the tree.

Fortunately, I did see the mobile phone film of her bombing through the park that afternoon in her vee-dub – foot flat to the floor trying to wring every last bit of juice from the batteries!

But this time her smile couldn’t hide the unpalatable truth. Molly Moo wasn’t at all well.

Just a fortnight after being given the all-clear from her aggressive and devastating cancer, Molly was taken back to Great Ormond Street on Boxing Day.

On the Friday, I stood by her bedside as her stand-in Godfather as she was baptised. On Saturday morning, her agony over, Molly died.

Even in death she still had a trace of a smile and I’ve never seen a more beautiful or serene expression.

Now I take Abi to the pier alone.

I really love the kiddies merry-go-round at Brighton Pier. I love the awful airbrushed art of Scooby-Do, the Teletubbies and what have you on the little cars, carriages and trucks.

Abi rides one of the bright pink Barbie bikes. It’s still a Kawasaki CBR. I like the sound of that.

Next to her I can see Molly on the Suzuki CBR. They’re laughing and smiling.

When Molly smiles like that, there’s no tube in her nose and her hair is flying in the wind.

At last! England can finally celebrate some success at getting under the skin of the Aussies!

But perhaps not in the way Fletch's troops had anticipated. Freddie Flintoff & Co were hoping to throw a bucket of cold water over their hosts' Australia Day jollities with a win in the day-night clash at Adelaide.

And they did so! England were so dire that, despairing of any worthwhile contest, the normally buoyant Aussies left the ground in disgust in their droves long before their opponents' humiliation was complete and before they even needed to turn on the floodlights!

Huzzah and hoorah! If we can't wipe away Aussie smirks with our talent, we'll do it with our total ineptitude! Well done, lads!