During the Second World War, Australian politicians mooted a military strategy known as The Brisbane Line. In the event of full-scale invasion, all land above the Queensland capital was to be sacrificed to the enemy. Despite us cynical southerners admitting to the occasional suspicion that this might not have been such a bad idea (well, this is the state responsible for the Big Banana, XXXX beer, and cane-toad races), it's days like this we're glad that cunning plan was never required. On the first day of the first Ashes Test, the laidback city of Brisbane was on her best behaviour. Like all good women, she was proud, welcoming and self-confident, and the jewel in her metaphorical belly-button was the cricket oval known as the Gabba. Newly refurbished, complete with nautically inspired architecture, the Gabba sparkled in the heat as a record crowd prepared for the opening round of the Ashes tussle.

By 9.30, under a near-cloudless sky, the professional face-painting artistes were well on their way to funding retirement villas in Port Douglas. "Green and gold is obviously popular," explained Debra, who's been strutting her streetwise Picasso stuff for three years now. "Lots of people want Union Jacks too. It's a great atmosphere."

By 9.45, the banners were unfurling. Red dragons vied for railing position with boxing kangaroos. St George Crosses competed with the Eureka Stockade blue-and-white versions. And then, of course, there were those now-familiar representations of sporting irony: football banners at a cricket match. At the beginning of summer, 12,000 miles from home, the boys were keeping the flame of the round-ball game well and truly alight. "Luton forever" hung next to "Go Gunners", only yards away from "Carlisle United".

Cathy from the Gold Coast hadn't brought a banner up, but was willing to admire the initiative of those who had. "It's so colourful," she said. "I have no idea where half these places are, but who cares? It's fabulous that someone from somewhere called Luton has come all this way to watch cricket."

By 9.50 the Army had arrived. With a grit and determination that would have made Monty envious, the Barmyites dotted themselves around the ground with the expertise of a crack Panzer division. "We're not doing too many songs today," said Major John (no relation of the former PM) from Reading. "We like to check out the lay of the land, and study the mechanics of the game - but don't worry, as soon as Lehmann comes in we'll be starting up with `Who ate all the pies'." In the event, they never got the chance, but England's fielding did inspire a subdued chorus of "Bring back Tuffers".

By the time the umpires had made it onto the ground, the sombrero wearers, Richie Benaud lookalikes and Elvis impersonators were poised and ready to rumble. By the time the first ball of the series was bowled, 28,000 fans were ready for anything. By the time the sun was over the yardarm and the beer flowing, they were ready for a party.

And they got it. Like all good women, Brisbane understood the ramifications of skimping on the details in her finest hour, and she didn't let anyone down. They got perfect weather and pop songs. They got Mexican waves and beach-ball games, and only the occasional arrest. They got Allan Border completing his lap of honour in appreciation of his 1000-kilometre charity walk. For good measure they got Pat Rafter, Dean Jones and local rugby-league legend Alfie Langer, who accompanied Captain Grumpy on his saunter around the ground.

And they got remarkable cricket. Even the Barmy Army was impressed. "It's like that Lou Reed song," said Major John. "You know, `It's such a perfect day'. Except for our team, of course." In the end in wartime no-one had to decide whether to sacrifice Brisbane to the enemy. Today, even us chilly southerners were happy about that.

Christine Davey is a freelance writer based in Victoria, Australia.

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