MYSTIC GLENN SIGNS OFF

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One final look into the crystal ball.

Everyone's been talking about the future of Aussie cricket this week, which as far as I'm concerned makes it amateur hour. Some of us do this predicting thing full-time, mate.

What with Warney and myself retiring, I've been wondering what's in store for the blokes left behind. I've looked at the charts, swirled the tea leaves and even had a good root around in the entrails of the turkey that Metronomic Accuracy managed to snatch off the table during Christmas dinner.

The twinge I gave the old back chasing the little mongrel just made me even more certain I've made the right decision.

Sadly though, the signs were unclear. Luckily, Matty Hayden had whipped up some of his curried wallaby profiteroles for afters - a recipe which he says he learned from an old bushman and which is supposed to have hallucinogenic properties and expand the mind.

Well, I don't know about that hippy talk, but I tell you, after a bowl of those beauties I fell into what I can only describe as a trance-like state.

In my vision, it was 2009. And it was not good.

It was the first Test, the Poms were about 600-odd for two, and recalling Jason Gillespie was looking like a serious boo-boo. He should have had a wicket in the first over but the chance behind was spilled by Geraint Jones, who had replaced Gilly after claiming Australian citizenship.

Poor Ricky Ponting was off the field after being hit in the cakehole by a loose one from young Shaun Tait. Bloody bad luck for a bloke fielding at extra cover.

Seam bowling resources since the retirement of yours truly appeared to be a bit thin on the ground. Brett Lee's pace isn't what it was, which means he's taken to retiring on his nous and accuracy. Which in turn means he's full time at the gentlemen's outfitters. Mind you, he can measure a bloke up for a suit in double-quick time.

The only seamer who's really doing the business is Stuart Clark, but he has a long way to go in terms of grumpiness, pre-series predictions, Pom-baiting, hair care and so on.

As for Stuart MacGill, he's not too bad with the ball in his hands but he's just no replacement for Shane in other key areas: dirty texting, hotdog eating contests and leading the team in the pre-match rendition of Stairway To Heaven (Rolf Harris version).

You'd think they might chuck the ball to one of the all-rounders, but Shane Watson's on crutches after falling down the stairs and Symmo's retired to live in a mudhut with Haydos and do a lot of manly bearhugging.

All in all, it was a what in the trade call a nightmare vision of the future.

By Alan Tyers