Ashes coming home

THE looks start on my walk to the Tube station in Brixton, south London.

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I can’t really blame them: I’m decked out in safari-style khakis, paired with an oversized Crocodile Dundee hat and flip-flops.

You could say it’s far from the ideal clothing for a trip to Brighton on a freezing cold November morning. By the time I get to Victoria Station, the colour of my toes suggests the onset of gangrene.

But I’m ready to risk life and limb today to prove English cricket fans don’t need to travel 10,000 miles to have a truly Australian experience. The country is only a few hundred years old - what could it possibly offer?

With that in mind, I'm heading to Brighton beach armed with a four-pack of Fosters, a nose covered in sunblock and a necklace made of crocodile teeth.

I arrive at Brighton Pier, resplendent in its grey overcast surroundings. It’s like Bondi Beach but without the sand, hot weather, fit sunbathers or sense of glamour.