I don't think you'll ever appreciate just how much I'm looking forward to this.
You're going to get eviscerated. No quarter. No mercy. And that's just by your tabloids.
We're going to royally pwn your good-for-nothing soap-dodging, toothpaste-avoiding, nudge-and-nurdling, WAG-hopping, ladyboy-impersonating, skunk-styling, Shermanating, pedalo-riding, Murray Minting, colony-seizing, Scotland-annexing, Thatcher-electing, Simon-Benson-watching, Wimbledon-failing, Warne-hating, McGrath-hating, Sky-commenting, Bodyline-bowling, Bodyline-as-leg-theory-distorting, Hick-mishandling, Flintoff-venerating, Harry Potter-spruiking, Fleet-Street-hyperbolising, royalty-stalking, chav-culture-creating pillocks back to the Golden Age of cricket. Where Billy Murdoch and Victor Trumper will continue the work of decimating you, only more attractively.
There is no greater feeling than to crush your bowlers, drive them to the boundary before us, and to hear the lamentations of your WAGS.
Like a child playing keep-away, the mother country will collapse into sobs as they realise that what was not rightfully theirs is taken away and returned home, and that their perverse game is no longer. And your Limey tears will be the sweetest of candies.