Roll the tape.

A familiar rhythm, drumstick on cowbell, and then the organ riff that insinuated its way into many lives: Booker T and the MGs' "Soul Limbo".

Ian Botham, Headingley 1981, driving imperiously and slashing deliveries over the slips. Cut to Bob Willis, staring, intent, focused, his right arm trailing behind him on that familiar curving run up to the wicket, and watch as the hapless Ray Bright's middle stump cartwheels out of the ground, and the crowd boil over on to the pitch in jubilation.

Edgbaston, two weeks later. Botham again, charging in to take the final wicket in an incredible spell, roaring his joy, brandishing a stump.

On again to Old Trafford: a Saturday afternoon of total mayhem, as the scoreboard scurries to keep up with an onslaught from Botham as precise, as technically perfect as the Headingley one was anything but. Then cut to Mike Brearley's softly spoken acknowledgement of victory.

Time passes.

Hazier images: Kensington Oval, the West Indies visiting. The pictures are unclear, but the description is Brian Johnston's, on a crackling car radio, as Phil Tufnell spins the West Indies out in the time it takes to drive home, Richards' stumping the catalyst for a procession back to the pavilion that had seemed unlikely not so long before.

On to the Ashes, 1993. Atherton takes over for his first two Tests and the final two of the series: again the radio tells the story as the returning Fraser brings England victory, relayed, too, to distant, unknown names on CricInfo's first home, the #cricket chat channel.

Change the music: Sky have the coverage now, England's story unfolding late at night, early in the morning, as time zones permit. The West Indies - memories of 46 all out all too present: Tufnell wheeling away to Chanderpaul for what seems like forever, that trademark step, skip and run, hair flopping into eyes, teasing him, coaxing him into a fatal indiscretion; Alec Stewart's centuries in a Bridgetown ground with a crowd that sounds more like it's The Oval; and then Caddick and Tufnell bowling England to the unlikeliest of wins.

Radio once more: nine wickets for Devon Malcolm in an inspired spell to rout South Africa at the home of so many England victories, The Oval. Maybe someone should have hit him on the helmet more often.

Back to the Ashes, and back to late nights in front of the TV: away in Australia. Darren Gough warns Mark Nicholas 'there'll be fireworks', and proceeds to blaze away at the Australian attack for a totally unexpected (except maybe by Dazzler himself) half-century. Cut to Big Dev, willow like a matchstick in his hands, depositing Shane Warne way back over his head. And later in the series, Tuffers' running catch, sheer joy, as England, Fraser, Malcolm, Caddick claim a victory, Charles Colville shouting himself hoarse for Sky TV.

Sky takes us to Johannesburg. Atherton. Chanceless, resolute, the quintessential immoveable object, for a day and a half, to earn a draw that must have tasted like defeat to the South Africans. Boycott, smug and certain on the radio, a Yorkshireman praising a Lancastrian after his own heart: "Tha'll not get him out."

Dissolve now to 1997: the Ashes again. Edgbaston again, Gough and Malcolm charging in, Mark Taylor fishing and caught in the gully, Hussain and Thorpe batting on and on, and Stewart and Atherton deciding four days is plenty, and they'll finish it tonight, thank you very much, with overs to spare. To The Oval, where Caddick and Tufnell wipe away some of the pain of losing the Ashes on an amazing Saturday, as Graham Thorpe dives forward at mid off to cling on to the final catch. Cut to the Cat, fag in one hand, champagne bottle in the other, up on the balcony, absolutely drained.

The memories are less hazy now, recent, bright. Stewart and Thorpe tough it out on a Sabina Park wicket that keeps Wayne Morton on a semi-permanent shuttle run from dressing room to pitch, before, incredibly, Atherton is out in the middle and the game is called off. Butcher and Headley inch us to victory in Trinidad, nerves jangling.

South Africa at home. Old Trafford. A follow-on we have to save: Gus Fraser, unlikely hero with the bat in an excruciatingly tense final session, described in words by CricInfo's commentator. Another draw that seems almost like a win. Onward, cutting again to TV images: Donald steaming in, an assault that Atherton responds to with that familar, blank, almost insolent look back down the wicket; Donald's fury at a dropped catch; Athers missing out on a century to make sure we win. Fast forward to Headingley: South Africa 27-5 on a sunny afternoon, and then the roar that greets Gough and Fraser the following morning: two wickets, and a home series win.

Australia again: Dazzler's joy at his hat-trick. Later in the tour, coming downstairs to breakfast in England to find, amazingly, an extended evening session in Australia that's still going. Ramprakash pulling off a blinding catch at point, fists clenched in triumph, screaming "come ON!" at his tiring teammates. Stewart wanting to leave the field, but Australia claiming the extra half-hour. Gough and Headley almost out on their feet as the Aussies tumble.

New music: Lou Bega, "Mambo Number 5". And a new hero: Alex Tudor, nightwatchman, and almost-centurion, as Thorpe does his best to give him the strike against New Zealand.

Now it's last summer, the memories and images still fresh. The huddle, after the West Indies are skittled out for next to nothing at Lord's, Stewart emphasising every word with clenched fist. Gough playing Atherton to Cork's Stewart on a sunny afternoon, the crowd chewing their nails as they inch closer and closer to victory. Up to Leeds, Caddick ripping the heart out of the West Indies with an incredible spell, and then cut to the balcony at The Oval, champagne spray filling the air as Caddick, Hussain and Thorpe celelebrate with the rest of the team.

Change the music. The Barmy Army. "Jerusalem".

Winter, Pakistan. A run chase in the dark. Hicky and Thorpe can see it well enough to nudge and nurdle ones and twos, and when Hick finally succumbs, it's Nasser who charges down the wicket waving his bat like a madman as the winning run is scored. Jubilation in the pavilion, all except for Thorpe, alone with his thoughts.

Cut again, to Sri Lanka: one down, two to play. Athers and Sangakarra have words, fingers are pointed, and Nasser finally finds some form as we bring the series level. On to Colombo, where Thorpe stays unbeaten in the match and shepherds England home for the third time in four Tests.

Home. Lord's. Pakistan are here for a two-Test series. Dazz has never taken five in an innings here, so badly wants his name on the board, cheered every time he takes his cap and makes his way down to long leg: his joy when he gets it is unconfined, greater even than the celebrations when he gets his 200th Test wicket not so long later.

These are my memories. There are others, darker. But these chase away those shadows.

We can beat anyone. If we remember how.

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