I was phenomenally lucky to bag 2 tickets for yesterday's Ashes triumph. and Mrs were called away to fulfil various duties in the USA, leaving them with a spare pair. I rather overbearingly harangued them into selling them to me; I was lucky that they only charged me face value (£10). On Sunday night similar tickets were going on eBay for £500 and up. And if you can't exploit your friends, who can you exploit?

I met my dad at Kennington and walked down to the ground. As per usual for events in high demand, the touts were prowling – but it was a better class of tout: crisp striped shirt, brown shoes, clipped upper class accent, almost sounding apologetic in their offers of tickets at hugely inflated prices. “What if he offered us a grand each?” my dad said. “Nah, we have to go now, we've got a packed lunch and everything,” I pointed out.

The ups and downs of the final day's play are analysed in preposterous detail across several pull-out sections in today's newspapers, so there's no need for me to detail out the heart-stopping moment when it seemed McGrath had got a hat-trick and dismissed Pietersen first ball, the grim lunch period when it seemed we might just throw it all away, or the triumphant moment when we regained the Ashes, when two blokes in black ties lifted 4 small bits of wood off 6 other, longer bits of wood. Whey-hey. (I can't see that particular bit of videotape being even slightly worn out over years to come.) So other, non-cricket-related incidents seem worthy of comment…

1. Streakers. A few years ago, TV companies stopped showing streakers when they ran onto the pitch with their parts flapping about in the wind, lest it encourage others to try and grab a glorious nude moment which they could then replay at leisure on their VCRs at home, accompanied by lugubrious commentary from Richie Benaud. Erika Roe made front pages in 1982 when she streaked in a rugby international at Twickenham, and look, I even remember her name nearly a quarter of a century later. These days, when newspapers are offering money to contestants on University Challenge to pose naked if they look remotely attractive, you can understand the TV companies' decision. Brainless dwads in pursuit of a moment of fame would turn the hallowed turf of our sporting arenas into writhing, seething masses of naked flesh, each person holding up a hastily constructed banner with the mobile phone number of their putative agent. Anyway, there were two streakers yesterday, one male, one female, and a third gentleman who pranced around the ground but concealed his genitals with a tutu. All three were, I imagine, ejected from the ground, leaving them sat on the Brixton Road wrapped in bin liners, wondering quite what possessed them to be so moronic.

2. Cartwheelers. A girl in the stand opposite kept the crowd amused by cartwheeling to and from her seat, whenever she wished to go to the toilet or to get a drink. As she kept her clothes on and didn't trespass onto the playing area, she was allowed to go about her business. And why not, it's a free country.

3. Singing. I've never felt quite so embarrassed as when the disembodied voice of some opera singer boomed over the tannoy at 10.25, encouraging us all to join in with a version of Jerusalem. We were 34-1, or something, victory by no means assured, and we're being asked to sing a hymn in praise of England? Aggh. Noo… Tom, who sat next to me, had his own way of joining in.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?

Nope.

And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

No.

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

Er, no.

And was Jerusalem builded here
Among those dark Satanic mills?

No.

The other reason Jerusalem is rubbish, is that no-one knows the words. We can just about cope with chanting “Stand up, if you're 2-1 up” to the tune of the Pet Shop Boys' Go West, but unlike, say, the National Anthem, Jerusalem is not generally taught in schools, so you had the spectacle of everyone standing up and singing “And did those feet in ancient time, walk up-a-dum dum dum, du- Oh, yeah, cheers Bob, pint of Fosters, ta.” The embarrassment was compounded at lunchtime when the opera singer returned to entertain us with suitably patriotic numbers. We were on the brink of ballsing up the game completely, and we're being bombarded with not one, but two consecutive versions of Land Of Hope And Glory, interspersed with the sound of aforementioned opera singer bellowing at us to join in? Insanity. Then he launches into Nessun Dorma, and continues to bellow at us in the gaps to join in. Join in! With Nessun Dorma! He may as well have singled out one person in the crowd and ordered them to perform Wagner's Götterdämmerung. When he came back for a 3rd time at the tea interval to sing Jerusalem again, I lost patience, and went for a p!ss. The occasion was big enough for us not to need pseudo-emotional anthemic music to ratchet up the feel-good factor. It was preposterous.

Still, a marvellous day out. I am living proof that the sun's harmful rays can penetrate thick cloud cover. i.e. I have a big red face.