It was as close to the perfect cricket match as any spectator at Edgbaston could have hoped for. It was the sort of game tournament organisers dream about, spectators pray for and players daren't imagine. The South Afican players may be suffering now, but spare a thought for the fools who sold their tickets or just failed to show up (it happens). They will never forgive themselves. Dimwits.

Who knows, there may even be a tout or two sitting at home counting their ill-gotten gains who is wondering now why they didn't take a day off for once eschewing the pursuit of a quick buck in favour of a fantastic day's cricket. Alright, alright that would break the tout's code of honour or whatever common code it is that binds practitioners of the black arts, but this really was that good a game. Stuff your Manchesterunitedluckylastminutecupfinalwin. I'll take the last two overs of the Edgbaston World Cup 1999 semi-final please and you can keep the change.

Imagine if you were blessed with extraordinary foresight and you could pick the last gasp wins from the duds in advance. If you could choose the venue, the company and even the seat as well for the game of the year, where would you be? Newlands perhaps, surrounded by your family on a New Year's Day Test? How about enjoying a drink and a gossip with a group of old buddies on the last day of a fifth and deciding test in Antigua? Well add Edgbaston on a beautiful summer's day to the list of possibles. The game, the weather, the contest were all superb. The only problem is that at Edgbaston there is no obvious place to sit. So if ever there is a repeat and you've seen it coming, here's some advice.

Don't go the executive route. A box may sound like a cushy option. There's plenty to be said for waitress service and endless top-ups, and the Midlands businessmen who parted with 400 pounds a head to eat and drink in the executive boxes at the City End probably thought they had the best view, and certainly the most luxurious seats, on offer today. But the problem with executive atendees of course is that most think that the game is a rude interruption to the real reason they are there: to talk about themselves. Loudly. How long can you bear the bleating of the highly indifferent trying to look interested: "he's out, my god that's amazing, he's actually out. Who was he anyway?"?

There's always the stands. Good for atmosphere of course, but always bad for replays, reliable information on who hit that shot or how the wicket fell (no, I'm sure it was lbw McGrath, oh no it was stumped Gilchrist, you're right) and there's always the danger that you'll be trapped between either the inebriated city types, the spectators with a bulk problem who should really have booked a seat and a half each, or the Aussies. Or all three.

Most fans who know no better think the press box must be the place to be. Yes, it's true, journalists are plied with free food and soft drinks. They usually have a choice of TVs for replays. They have staff on hand to bring them scorecards on request. And best of all they are paid to be there.

But press boxes are not the best places to actually watch cricket. During big games they are crowded, fraught, and fairly pungent. Cricket journalists may know a lot a about inside edges and late cuts, but deodrant is unfamiliar territory for many. Worst of all it's considered very bad form for journalists to clap a century, let alone cheer a winning six. It is essential to be seen to adopt a stance of strict neutrality wich mitigates against behaviour that might express enjoyment of the game. The older and wiser you are the less moved you will be by a game, because of course you've seen so many. If only political reporters acted with such admirable equanimity. Sadly shouting: "Come on, it's only a game" to a collection of journalists hard at 'work' just doesn't make them any more inclined to en joy themselves.

The best seats, and the best kept secret, at Edgbaston today were on the gantry just above the television commentary boxes over the pavilion. Find a flight case with a lid big enough to stretch out on, just above the bowler's arm. There's plenty of legroom, a great view of the big screen and the scoreboard, and an atmosphere enhanced by a small coterie of TV staff from more than one country all rooting for their team (which today turned out to be Australia in the main) vociferously. No tight lipped appreciation here. Throw in a lot of banter, a bit of gossip, the odd side bet between commentators on a break, and the thoughts of Harsha Bogle sitting at your side (''I'm telling you, South Africa will win this'' he kept on repeating while furiously combing his hair in preparation for going on air) and you have the perfect seat. Was I the only spectator who had a tear welling in his eye when Klusener struck the second of his final over boundaries or was it just the rarified atmosphere on top of the pavilion?

Of course next time there is a match like this at Edgbaston the gantry will probably have been replaced, the cameras will be automated and Harsha Bogle will be a nonagenerian. But if you can bribe a member of the TV crew to hide you in a flight case and t ake you up to the gantry pay any price. You won't regret it.