The Ashes, and Consultant Radiologists

Feeling guilty. When you work 9 to 5 every weekday for 15 straight weeks, plus coursework and societies, sleeping til 6pm will probably do that. After another night of eternal grind on the online poker (which, by the way, ended almost profitless), I watched the Ashes until it started raining at about 6am, then after some reading I finally hit the sack. The cricket, obviously, has been dismal in general, and if I have to watch Pietersen bat like he's wearing an invisible blindfold one more time I might fly out there and shoot him. Cook too, for the millionth time dismissed after pleasantly wafting his bat around for ten minutes in the vague direction of that little red thing. Monty of the other hand, has been a pleasure to gaze upon. His prancing celebration, his comical batting, and the simple fact that he throws the ball to another fielder who then throws it back to the wicket keeper. The best spinner in the world, full stop. Screw Warne, and the rest of the Aussie bowlers, they lose serious marks in my book for looking like tossers. Brett Lee, most of all, has one of those exceptionally punchable faces. When a close LBW appeal has been turned down, I can't resist shouting "because you're a cock!" at the TV when Lee put on his "cheated" face. My own cricketing fame stretched to the school team, for whom in one match I ran someone out from the boundary. When I came to bowl, I was announced as "the owner of that runout", upon which I bowled like an epileptic ferret. I also batted like a baseballer.
Off on a tangent, what is it with fictional Consultant Radiologists? On Green Wing, Dr Statham is a gormless fool who memorably gets peeved at every syllable of the students' banter. In one episode, he pauses after saying the words "to which", and before he can finish his sentence, Boyce (medical student=class) chips in with "toowoo", to complete the owl sound effect. I wish I was that sharp with my Consultant. Or do I.. And the radiologist on Scrubs, who only makes a brief appearance, in his dressing gown after a urgent bleep for a CAT scan at 3am, is equally agitated. He says "Who ordered this scan? These are my machines, my machines, MY MACHINES!!!" whilst jumping up and down. Turk tries to clarify the situation by timidly asking "Whose machines?", and the result is not pretty. To sum up, radiologist is struck from my list of possible career paths, which is now down to hypnotherapist and chocolate tester.