Ricky Ponting was not exactly chuffed to hear he would be the team's designated Lhasa Apso © Getty Images

Saturday, 26th November
Graeme Swann would like to scrap 50-over cricket and keep the other two formats. I have every sympathy. It reminds me of my French GCSE. I was a natural when it came to listening to the stuff and could read the lingo as easily as if I’d been raised in a fishing trawler off the coast of Marseilles. But ask me to speak it and the Hughes brain clammed up. I got my accents horribly muddled and my uncooperative vocal chords did unforgivable things to entirely innocent French vowels.

But there it was. Despite my protests, the headmaster insisted that the French oral exam was an essential part of the course and that he wasn’t about to remove it from the syllabus just because I wasn’t very good at it. C’est la vie, I suppose.

Monday, 28th November
One of the many benefits of following this great game of ours is that you are always learning new things about cultures other than your own. For example, until today, had anyone pressed me on my knowledge of New Zealand slang, I would have had nothing to offer but an embarrassed cough and an apologetic shrug.

But now I’m happy to say I have broken my duck when it comes to the vernacular of Christchurch and Auckland, thanks to Doug of the Bracewells.

“We’ve spoken about being more ruthless and having more mongrel…we are the underdogs and so it gives us that mongrel to go out and show that we’re better than them.”

Animals, whether be they monkeys or donkeys, are often a source of perturbation and antagonism in the modern game, so you have to admire Doug’s pluck, or as I gather they say in Wellington, his dog of mixed parentage, in introducing a canine theme.

But with sprains, tweaks and aches afflicting their opponents, are the tourists really the underdogs? I suspect Australia’s arrival on the field of play will have spectators nudging their companions and enquiring which one is Starc and whether the blond one is Lyon or Cutting or indeed Pattinson minor. Thank goodness Ricky is still there: the recognisable pedigree in a kennel full of pups and strays.

Tuesday, 29th November
The sun never sets on Twenty20 cricket and today our chum Chris Gayle popped up in Zimbabwe, playing for a team called the Tuskers*. The Tuskers lost out to the Rhinos in what sounds like an epic clash of horned titans on the African savannah.

Chris’ choice of franchise is an appropriate one. The elephant is a big beast, which generally prefers to potter about peacefully, doing its elephant thing, but when provoked can behave recklessly and is absolutely not one to back down. If, for example, you were to ask an elephant to apologise for trampling on your new shoes or snorting loudly as you were about to play a tricky snooker shot, he’d give you short shrift.

While the elephant isn't close to extinction yet, there is a dearth of tall, laidback Caribbean left-handed biffers in world cricket at the moment. So perhaps we should be grateful for the Twenty20 circus that prolongs the careers of such endangered and often unselected cricketers and enables us to enjoy them in their natural habitat: under floodlights, wearing gaudy polyester shirts.

* The article was amended at 1314GMT on November 30 to note that Gayle played for the Tuskers and not the Rhinos in the Stanbic Bank 20 Series

"When I told the TV people about the Test championship, they said they'd rather show the lifecycle of earwigs" © Getty Images

Wednesday, 23rd November
As three-cap wonders go, Hugh Morris was one of the best. It wasn’t his fault that his parents had the lack of foresight to bring him into the world in 1963, thus ensuring that his peak years as a cricketer would coincide with a period in English cricket when a new Test batsman had a career expectancy of two and a half weeks.

Anyway, in his current role as Head of Miscellaneous Cricket-Related Stuff at the ECB, he’s been keeping his finger on the technological pulse and wrestling with the ethical dilemmas inherent in allowing contracted cricketers access to social media. So Hugh, what’s the official ECB position on Twitter?

“It’s like giving a machine gun to a monkey.”

Hmm. Well that’s one way of putting it, I suppose. But it does put me in mind of that famous mathematical theory about the hypothetical primates. Given an infinite amount of time and unrestricted access to the internet, would an infinite number of international cricketers eventually come up with an interesting tweet?

Friday, 25th November
It isn’t entirely true to say that nobody wants to watch Test cricket. On the other hand, it isn’t entirely false either. Everything is relative. For example, there are more people who like to watch Test cricket than there are squirrels on the branch of the sycamore tree outside my window*. There are more people who want to watch Test cricket than are running for the nomination of the Republican Party (though it’s a close-run thing).

But there are not enough of them to make it worthwhile for broadcasters to want to televise it, at least not in preference to the really popular stuff; which is why when the ICC tried to get boards to ditch the 2013 Champions Trophy in favour of a Test Championship playoff, it received the kind of response that batsmen used to get from Glenn McGrath if they nicked a mistimed cover drive to the fine-leg boundary.

And who can blame them? They aren’t historical societies; their job is not to preserve archaic and unpopular pastimes. Test venues are emptier than a Sri Lankan cricketer’s bank account and worse still, no one’s tuning in at home. It’s one thing when people wouldn’t cross the road to watch a Test match, but when they can’t even be bothered to cross their living room, then the writing is on the wall.

Purists like to say the five-day game will always survive and they’re probably right. Like re-enactments of the English civil war, chess boxing and the Conservative Party, there will always be enthusiasts who want to keep it going. It just won’t be on television. A hundred years from now, Test cricket will be played by dedicated amateurs in their spare time. Just like the good old days.

* There are two squirrels. I have named them Ivanhoe and Wally. Why? There is a reason and not just that I like giving unusual names to tree-dwelling rodents. The first reader to come up with the correct answer earns themselves a glow of satisfaction, the admiration of their friends and a state-of-the-art emergency DVD-disposal capsule to be used in the event that any of your friends are unkind enough to send you a copy of Swanny In A Spin as a Christmas present. The capsule is made of reinforced concrete and designed to withstand extreme underwater pressures so you can rest assured that, once thrown overboard, you will never have to see the thing again.

Martin Crowe accepts a cool oldster award on behalf of Ray Liotta © XXXX Gold

Saturday, 19th November
Do you believe in fairy stories? Me too, even though over the years I’ve been badly let down by the likes of Santa Claus, the Loch Ness Monster and those leprechauns that my friend said would definitely appear at the bottom of the garden if I sat under the magical oak tree for long enough. After three hours sitting in the wet grass, I learned an important childhood lesson: never put your trust in imaginary little people.

But there’s still one story I believe in, though like many, my faith is being tested. All summer I sat staring at the television, waiting in vain for it to happen. I’m referring of course to Sachin’s hundred. According to the man himself, it’s “just a number”. Well, yes it is, Sachin, but that’s like an astronaut saying Mars is just a planet. And as you know full well, cricket is a number freak’s paradise. In fact, numbers are cricket.

Consider the jellyfish: a beautiful, delicate, ethereal underwater presence. But take it out of the sea and all you’ve got is a pile of squelchy stuff. So it is with cricket. When it goes the way of the dinosaurs, what will be left of it? A few glorious paragraphs from Cardus, the odd faded photograph of Doug Bollinger, and great piles of fossilised numbers. Numbers are cricket’s skeleton, its structure, its substance.

And a hundredth hundred is such a beautiful thing numerically, it is the dot on the exclamation mark, that feeling of inner peace you attain when you’ve solved a sticky piece of algebra, dug the last weed from the vegetable patch or finished wrapping all the presents. So please don’t keep us waiting any longer Sachin, we really need this. I just hope this isn’t the tooth fairy episode all over again...

Monday, 21st November
For those of us who had wagered on an Australian win, the second Test was a rollercoaster, although not one of those tame theme-park affairs. No, this was a bowel-twisting, stomach-churning ride in a runaway mine cart with a wonky wheel, travelling at breakneck speed along a disused underground railway whilst being pursued by savage cutthroats waving sabres and unpaid utility bills.

Naturally, Patrick Cummins is my new hero. Not just wickets, but the endearing grin of a teenager who can’t quite believe he has been allowed to play with the grown-ups; and, gloriously, big, fat timely boundaries. As we know, teenage fast bowlers can let you down, but I’ve every confidence that he is the next Ray Lindwall, or possibly the next Craig McDermott or at the very least, the next Chris Matthews.

The only whiff of negativity about the thing was the realisation that this was all there was. It was like someone snatching a chocolate bar away from you just as you were getting to the crunchy bit in the middle, or the lights going up just as Hamlet says, “To be…” and the actors asking you to please remember to take your belongings with you on the way out and expressing their hope that you’d enjoyed the show.

Well, yes, it was a corker, I’d just like to see the rest of it to find out what happens.

Tuesday, 22nd November
It was with some sadness that I read that Martin Crowe had retired again. I didn’t see his final game. Despite my badgering the young lady at the call centre, she did not budge from her, in my opinion, rather inflexible stance that my subscription did not entitle me to live coverage of New Zealand club cricket. I wasn’t asking them to fly Gower, Botham and Hussain out there. I’d have settled for Bob Willis with a camcorder. Then I had to explain who Martin Crowe was. I despair of modern youth.

So as I say, I didn’t see the game, but I imagine that even at the age of nearly over the hill, there was more style, panache and gold-plated star-quality in his three-ball retired-hurt duck than all of the rest of us combined managed in the entirety of our willow-swishing careers. Enjoy your second retirement, Martin.

Graeme Swann will feature next in Britain's Top Model © Getty Images

Tuesday, 15th November
I came across Paul Collingwood in the supermarket today. He was in the tinned comestibles aisle, struggling to reach the baked beans, so I picked up a can from my basket, shouted his name and flung it in his direction, expecting him to execute one of his trademark salmon-like leaps. Instead, it caught him flush on the crest of his Sunderland baseball cap and sent him flying backwards, demolishing a display of cut-price DVDs and a cardboard cut-out of Graeme Swann.

“Bad luck, you almost had it,” I lied, as I helped the dazed allrounder to his feet.

“Can you believe this rubbish?” he asked, brandishing one of the much discounted DVDs (was £9.99, now available at £2.50, three for £5.00).

“Swanny in a Spin?” I read the title, none the wiser.

“It doesn’t even make sense,” continued the ginger one, “Why is he in a spin? Is he surprised? Is he drunk? It’s gibberish. If I was still captain I’d sort this out…”

I left him to it. As I queued at the till, absent-mindedly casting my eye over a selection of Graeme Swann Advent Calendars (25 Days of Swanny), I mused on how sad it was that a player like Collingwood could have developed such animosity for the harmless commercial activities of everyone’s favourite offspinner.

By the exits, I paused at the magazine display. Graeme Swann was on the cover of Vogue, The Radio Times, Angling Weekly and the Catholic Herald. And on the front of Time magazine was a photo of Graeme Swann holding a photo of Graeme Swann holding a photo of Swanny. As I left, I could have sworn I saw his eyes follow me.

Wednesday, 16th November
I’ve got the decorators in. Caddick and Russell Ltd. are cheap but progress has been slow. After half an hour I found Caddick reclining on my sofa, dipping digestives into his tea, claiming a bruised toe; whilst Russell spent all morning on the door frame, although I have to say it’s the finest two square inches of paintwork I’ve ever seen.

I suppose I should have known better than to employ 90s rejects. I’m still waiting for Alan Mullally to finish that chicken coop and Dean Headley’s work on the rockery left so much loose dirt, I had to get Mike Atherton in to dispose of it and it’s taking for ever because his pockets are so damn small. I’d let him go, but when he looks at me with that weary, downtrodden, press-conference face, I haven’t the heart.

When I returned from taking Dale Steyn’s pet crocodile for a walk, I found Jack balancing on Andy’s shoulders, painting Trevor Chappell’s moustache onto the dining room ceiling.

“It’s a re-interpretation of Michelangelo,” Russell explained, “I’m calling it the Sistine Chappell ceiling.”

Caddick didn’t get it. I pointed out that it was wrong on so many levels, not least because I didn’t want to look up in the middle of my carrot and coriander soup to find Trevor and Ian leering down at me, nor did I particularly want to behold a naked Greg reclining on a cloud about to touch fingers with a bearded Richie Benaud.

At this point, Caddick bent down to pick up a jelly bean, causing Russell to loose his footing and tumble to the carpet, spilling burnt umber and yellow ochre in all directions. How these people ever represented their country is beyond me.

Thursday, 17th November
Last night I had a terrible nightmare.

I’m lying on a table, looking up at a bright light, when Graeme Swann leers over me, teeth glinting. He’s trying to sell me his DVD and I’m trying to tell him I don’t want it, even at the reasonable price of 99 pence, then he pulls on a surgical mask and I can hear someone strumming an electric guitar. And that’s when I scream.

I thought it might be effect of lingering paint fumes, or possibly that ill-advised second helping of gorgonzola I’d eaten whilst watching my old video of the 1990 Benson&Hedges Cup Final (I blame you, Hick, for that result). But no, I think the dream was brought on by anxiety over today’s events in Johannesburg.

You see, instead of betting on a whim as per usual, I had dabbled with Statsguru, in an attempt to bring science to bear on the art of the gambler. After much clicking, my screen was full of statistics of all shapes and sizes, but after a while, the numbers started to blur together and I became so confused that I forgot where I was or what I was doing. It was like my maths GCSE all over again. And that is the only defence I can offer for betting on Australia to win the second Test.

“And I’ll also be driving the team bus. Coach... bus, get it?” © Getty Images

Friday, 11th November
Andy Flower says that cricket boards are piling up fixtures with the same alacrity with which Samit Patel used to fill his plate at Nottinghamshire’s end of season charity buffet (“All you can eat for a fiver, bring your own plate and indigestion pills”) and that this global scheduling gluttony is all about the money.

So why this fixture frenzy? Where does all that money go? Well, some of it is invested in vital tools for hard-pressed cricket administrators: velvet sleeping masks, embroidered executive aromatherapy hand towels, and posterior-pressure-relieving cushions for those long afternoons in the boardroom.

But to take just one cricket board at random, an awful lot of the ECB’s money is shovelled in the direction of Team England: to keep Kevin Pietersen stocked up with silly sunglasses, to fund James Anderson’s twice-yearly cosmetic frown surgery and, without wishing to be indelicate, to retain the services of a certain Mr Andrew Flower.

So perhaps, in order to help the ECB kick their one-day cricket habit, Andrew and Andy could cut down on the expenses. How about asking the players to hand-wash their own whites? Replace the team of nutritionists with a weekly text message reminding their chaps to finish all their vegetables and lay off the chocolate éclairs?

And next year, rather than lounging around in business class, issue them with a map of Asia, a stout pair of walking boots and a tent and let them make their own way to Sri Lanka. As an incentive, the first 11 to arrive in Colombo will be guaranteed a spot in the first Test (unless one of them is Ravi).

Saturday, 12th November
Kamran Akmal likes the idea of cricket boards nosing around in players’ bank accounts, presumably on the look out for suspicious deposits under the name “A Bookie”. It’s an excellent idea, though I think the investigations should also extend to mattresses, recently dug herbaceous borders, and the inside pockets of new leather jackets.

Of course, some boards will find it easier than others. Sri Lanka Cricket, for instance, would smell a rat if they found that their chaps had any money at all, as they haven’t been paid since April. By definition, therefore, any income must have been obtained nefariously (although allowances would have to be made for Kumar Sangakkara’s earnings from his new part-time dog-grooming job – “Call Kumar for Kool Kanine Kuts!’ - and Angelo Mathews’ paper round.)

Monday, 14th November
According to assistant coach Justin Langer, Ricky Ponting is still a vital wingnut in the rickety suspension system of the rattly old banger that is Australian cricket.

“Ricky is great for morale; he makes Huss feel young, he keeps us entertained with stories of the old days when we used to win sometimes, and he knows how to read the racing form. Plus, he’s our regular poker dealer, ‘cause some of the other blokes aren’t great with the hand-eye co-ordination. I mean, you should see Mitch spray the cards all over the shop. And he’s the only one who can say, “Ah look…” with conviction, because between you and me, when Pup tries to do it, he sounds like Dame Edna Everage’s younger sister.”

When pressed on how long he thought the former Australian captain could continue in international cricket, Langer was supportive: “Ah look, Ricky will be around for a while yet. Monday I reckon. Possibly Tuesday. Depends if we make it to day five.”

And here Ricky Ponting shows us why the creased look is coming back into fashion © Getty Images

Wednesday, 9th November
We all tend to put off household repairs, and cricket boards are no different. In the 1990s, the TCCB had long chats about what needed to be done around the place, but invariably concluded that rising damp, woodworm and peeling wallpaper were probably cyclical and wasn’t it time for another cup of tea? In India, the BCCI have dealt with the nasty stain on their reputation that appeared last summer by covering it with that portrait of MS Dhoni lifting the World Cup that was hanging in the foyer.

But Australia have set about their renovation with gusto. Having thrown out much of the old furniture, including a rickety old Nielsen that was starting to look a little last decade, they are just waiting on delivery of a new coach. Steve Rixon is the favourite, mainly it seems because he has a strong relationship with Michael Clarke and bonding with the captain is now an essential skill for aspiring national coaches, right up there with looking good in a baseball cap and glaring menacingly at press conferences.

It seems Michael likes Steve’s sense of humour and Steve loves the way Michael says “Obviously, I’m disappointed…” and no doubt they’ll make a fine couple. But I’d give it to Justin Langer. I think he’d bring a wild unblinking, “Are you looking at me?” intensity to the role, as well as extreme martial arts (I’m picturing Mitchell Johnson head-butting planks of wood painted with Andrew Strauss’s likeness) and rose cultivation. Tending to these delicate blooms will help players to develop patience and attention to detail, whilst the thorns will fine-tune their swear reflexes.

Thursday, November 10th
Now that’s proper cricket. Twenty-three dismissals, two umpires with strained forefingers and a blown fuse in the electronic scoreboard. All kinds of records were broken, or at the very least, made to wobble precariously on their stands above a marble floor as these old rivals went all 18th century on us. It was a throwback to the days when a chap with a curved bat drank an ale or two, then went out to have a swipe and was lucky if he managed double-figure nicks.

For the connoisseur of the extravagant collapse, it was a treasure trove of witless batting. South Africa’s innings was more cavalier and reckless than the pink silk hat with ermine trim and peacock feathers that Prince Rupert wore on the morning of the Battle of Naseby, whilst Australia seemed to be trying to re-enact England’s 1994 amnesia-induced Trinidad collapse in which one player after another completely forgot what it was they had gone out to the wicket for or why they were holding a bit of wood in their hands.

There was so much traipsing to the wicket and back that it began to resemble a fashion show, showcasing this summer’s must-have combination of white shirts, extensive tattoos and grumpy expressions (“Ricky is modelling the latest in thigh enhancing body wear with 9lb willow accessory and a scowl”). But it was all jolly entertaining and somehow highly appropriate. What better way to start a frivolously short two-Test series than with an extremely silly two-and-a-half day Test match.

Mike Brearley: a mastermind in cricketing strategy and making razors redundant © Getty Images

Monday, 7th November
Like dragging a piano up the north face of the Eiger or trying to remove a recalcitrant hippo from a swimming pool full of blancmange, building a successful Test team depends on everyone pulling together. Take Sri Lanka. They’ve lost another Test series but chairman of selectors, Duleep Mendis, sees the bigger picture:

"It is not easy replacing players of the calibre of Murali, Sanath, Vaas and Marvan. It will take some time and we will hit some rough patches while in the process.”

Quite so. You’re rebuilding so the last thing you want is for people to start laying into the team just because they lose the odd series along the way. Am I right, Mr M?

“The performance of our cricketers is way below what we expected of them… See the number of players who are injured. I don’t know what our physios and masseurs are doing with the players for them to get constantly injured…”

It seems that Duleep has a Big List of Blame which includes batsmen, bowlers, coaches, backroom staff, cleaners and even the team cook whose biriyani too often lacked bite and whose rice was insufficiently fluffy on the big occasion. Calm down, Mr Mendis! If the chief architect is going to keep panicking like this, that rebuild project could take a while. Oh and it might help if you paid the builders occasionally.

Tuesday, 8th November
With just 39 days left until the Sydney Sausages take on the Brisbane Ribs, the marketing people are working overtime to persuade us that the Big Barbeque League is the most exciting thing in cricket since Mike Brearley started to grow a beard.

We’ve seen these Twenty20 launches before and we know the drill by now: Power Rangers style logos, randomly alliterative team names and some really, really awful shirts. But how can the organisers establish identities for eight teams that don’t yet exist? Simple. With a healthy dose of IPL-style gibberish.

For example, the website of the Perth Scorchers tells us that they are “proudly, defiantly Perth”. I don’t know what this means. I was happy to accept that they were from Perth when I read that they were called the Perth Scorchers, and I didn’t really require any further clarification. Or are they saying that Perth is a state of being, not a city. Are you Perth? Are you feeling Perthy today? Or is that just wind?

Elsewhere, we learn that Melbourne Renegades are vibrant, diverse and progressive, that the Hobart Hurricanes have a passion that is both rugged and yet at the same time purple, whilst The Heat, who rather oddly will be wearing icy blue, are loyal, forward thinking and energetic. By contrast, poor old Sydney Sixers are letting the side down with just the one adjective, a rather paltry “vibrant”.

And is it just me or do the Melbourne Stars seem rather light on stars (with due apologies to Luke Wright)? I suppose they have signed up Liz Hurley’s fiancé and he is most definitely box office, although I am a bit worried about the old boy. It’s not his age, it’s his weight. In my experience people who shed that many pounds are never quite the same. I fear that a lean and slender Warne will be a man much reduced in his powers; like Samson after Delilah had been at him with the scissors.

Lasith Malinga helps out at the macaroni and fusili pasta section of Colombo's gourmet stores © Getty Images

Wednesday, 2nd November
Something strange is afoot. Back at the soggy end of September, Graeme Swann suggested that West Indies hadn’t bowled well enough to dismiss England for 88. And yet the scoreboard read, “England 88 all out”. Mysterious. And now history has repeated itself. “They hardly got us out,” said Bangladeshi captain Mushfiqur Rahim, after some bowlers or other had dismissed the Tigers for 278.

Every time West Indies roll into town, the home team suddenly and mysteriously begin losing wickets. What is going on? Is it a conspiracy? Have the men from the Caribbean finally managed to incorporate Klingon cloaking technology, making Marlon Samuels invisible to the naked eye? Or could it be that they’ve found a decent bowling attack and the rest of the world is being a little ungracious?

Thursday, 3rd November
Give praise to the god of satire, for Afridi is back! His unconditional unretirement (slight return) means that the cricket world is approximately 10% more interesting in real terms. So how have you been keeping, Shahid?

"I am strong, fit and in good shape to cover the wild period I had lost during the time of retirement.”

Wild period? Sounds intriguing. Tell us more about this wild period. Did you grow dreads and journey across Outer Mongolia in a beat-up multicoloured camper van? Did you have a tattoo of a man eating a cricket ball with the legend “Lala likes leather for lunch” across your upper back? Did you spend some time in the jungles of Borneo, learning how the orangutan deals with the outswinger?

Oh, you played for Hampshire. Well, that’s pretty wild, I guess. But his return to the one-day squad was not a formality and as always, the Pakistan selection committee carefully weighed up the pros and cons in an objective and dispassionate manner.

“He is like a son to me,” said interim selector Mohammad Ilyas, “And his selection is not unfair.”

Friday, 4th November
Colossal fiscal incompetence is everywhere it seems, so we shouldn’t be surprised to see cricket boards following the fashion for financial stupidity. Our old friends, SLC built a lot of grounds that they couldn’t afford to run and so, naturally enough, have handed them over to the military. I’m not entirely sure what the military would want with cricket stadiums, though if the SLPL ever happens, I guess Ravi could have fun spotting sponsored Abrams tanks and F16s rather than the accursed blimp.

But it isn’t just the stadiums that SLC are offloading. Many of the players are being handed over local businesses as the board can no longer afford to run them either. Kumar Sangakkara will be working for a Mrs De Silva of Market Street, Colombo, shouting out the prices at her fruit and vegetable stall; Mahela Jayawardene will be employed as a street sweeper by Galle District Council, tidying up the mess that others have left (similar to his current role) and Ajantha Mendis will be placed in storage at the Kandy Museum of Mystery, though may not be picked for every exhibition.

"... and Jessica, where did you go for voice-training? The local Bingo hall? © Getty Images

Friday, 28th October
His Buttiness has gone, but the effects of Buttism linger. Pakistan’s cricketers are currently playing a home series 1200 miles away from home and cricket fans in Pakistan haven’t been able to watch their team play live for two and half years. Thanks to Ijaz’s patented formula for administration (Crisis x Incompetence = Disaster²) who knows how many have given up on the sport altogether?

And since the globalised sports marketplace deplores a vacuum, it appears that the imaginations of Pakistani youth are being seduced by, of all things, Premier League football. Quite why anyone in Pakistan would want to watch a bunch of overrated, overpaid, whining hooligans play-acting, spitting and kicking at each other is beyond me, particularly when they can already get that on the Parliament Channel.

But it seems that the doings of Terry, Torres and Suarez are of increasing interest to the citizens of Pakistan and so now Manchester United are supplying “exclusive” content to their mobile phones. Just imagine that. As well as being able to see Wayne Rooney swearing in slow-mo on your television, you can now take the foul-mouthed moron with you on the train, to the dentist or visiting your grandmother.

Never mind inviting Imran round for tea and gossip, Mr Ashraf, your No. 1 priority should be bringing back international cricket. Do you want the next generation to grow up wearing Chelsea shirts, throwing themselves to the ground Drogba style every time the wind blows or celebrating their exam results by lifting their shirts over their heads and running around like loonies?

No, neither do I. So pull your finger out.

Sunday, 30th October
What is it with the modern cricketer? They get piles of cash, a tempting selection of essential oils in the massage room and all the official tracksuits they can stuff into their suitcase. And then when they’re too old to bend down at first slip, they can retire to the commentary booth, where they will be handsomely remunerated without having to voice an original opinion for the next 30 years.

So why are they so angry all the time?

England’s mini-break to India has been the last word in grouch; a touring exhibition of grumpiness that featured more hissy fits than the opening night at the Paris Fashion Show and finally ended yesterday, with KP performing the now traditional spitting out of the dummy. And it’s not just the English. Today, Tamim Iqbal was in trouble for sledging Marlon Samuels; not a sentence I ever thought I’d have to write.

Now we all like the odd bit of misbehaviour, providing it’s good enough to one day feature in a book of cricket anecdotes. But not all the time. These days sledging and acting out isn’t the result of an entertaining and spontaneous psychotic episode, it’s a tactic, a routine part of the game. I imagine Jonathan Trott randomly swears at elderly ladies in the street, just to keep his verbal abuse reflexes honed.

And the result is so boring. Bowler follows through and glares at batsman. Batsman reminds him he hasn’t taken a wicket yet. Bowler swears at non-striker. Non-striker sticks his tongue out at bowler. Mid-off criticises non-striker’s girlfriend’s choice of curtain-fabric. Non-striker demands mid-off takes that back or he’ll be forced to tell him what he really thinks of his hairstyle. Umpire sighs. Repeat ad nauseam.

Coaches clearly believe it works. Maybe it does. Perhaps the sheer mind-numbing banality of it all eventually causes batsmen to flip and do anything to get out of there. (I find the same thing happens if I’m forced to watch two consecutive episodes of iCarly.) But is that really what we want our game to look like? Are we expecting kids to see these tantrum-throwing sledgers as heroes? Is that what cricket is about?

So I have a suggestion. Since fining the players doesn’t seem work, let’s fine the coaches. A day’s salary for every swear word, a week for every sledge that doesn’t make us laugh and 100 lines every time Craig Kieswetter opens his mouth.

That ought to do the trick.