Graeme Smith looks piercingly at the ball, with a view to undermining its self-belief © Getty Images

Monday, 5th March
Despite the best efforts of senior administrators to lose the Woolf Report (leaving it in the toilets on the 5:45 to Euston; posting it to Outer Mongolia; taking it ten miles into the desert and burying it under a pile of Alastair Cook’s autobiographies) the perishing thing keeps turning up again, and so now the ICC’s Convincing Excuses Committee has been forced to call a meeting to talk about it.

Many of cricket’s top administrators are unhappy with the Woolf Report. For example, Mr Srinivasan, head of the BCCI, is said to be unconvinced by the pie charts on page seven; the owner of the Chennai Super Kings, a Mr Srinivasan, doesn’t really like the title, and Mr Srinivasan, ICC director, has expressed considerable reservations about the font.

Following the meeting, I understand that the ICC’s contact in the Indian Space Agency (a Mr Srinivasan, no relation) has agreed to put the Woolf Report into a sealed canister aboard their next rocket. The document will then be released into space for wider consultation amongst other life forms and a final decision on implementation of its recommendations is expected sometime in June 2212.

Tuesday, 6th March
With the light speed barrier overcome, scientists are full of optimism and are turning their attention to other phenomena. Take confidence, for example. Confidence is invisible to the naked eye, but if you could see it, what would it look like? Well, Professor Graeme Smith is in New Zealand for some experimental work and has been outlining some of the methods his team will be using to get to the bottom of it.

“Maybe we can dent that confidence… maybe their confidence is not as thick and strong as it was… hopefully we can get into that and open it up a little bit.”

Coincidentally “thick and strong” used to be the chief selection criteria for the South African cricket team. But those days are gone, and whilst they have their share of bruisers, bashers and bulldozers, there is an artistry and subtlety about the South African team these days that is pleasing and also rather moving, like watching a former heavyweight boxer knitting a lamb’s wool sweater for his grandmother.

Another reason to look forward to this series is the prospect of some revved-up bowling action on pitches more helpful to fast bowlers than the butler who brings Mr Steyn and Mr Morkel their raw beef on a silver platter every morning. Former blocker and nudger Mark Richardson has confirmed as much:

“These Test matches are going to be played in slowish, green, seaming conditions.”

Excellent. If that’s the kind of pitch New Zealand come up with, I might even overlook the fact that, like the Australians, they have the bad manners to play their cricket in the middle of the night. But wait, Richardson doesn’t think it’s a good thing.

“I don’t believe seeing batsmen poke and prod or take their chances and slog is a particularly good spectacle.”

Au contraire, Mr Richardson. I don’t mind watching the occasional flourishing cover drive or stylish leg glance, but that’s just what they should be, occasional, like rare gems, so we appreciate their beauty all the more. Most of the time, Test batsmen should be hopping, ducking and wondering where their next run is coming from. As Sydney Barnes would say, that’s proper cricket.

"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.

"Er what, you put your camera phone in my pocket instead? Ha ha, I see, very funny" © Associated Press

Sunday, 9th October
The League of Runners-Up is over and at last Mumbai have won something other than the Best Team In Mumbai Trophy. The injury-prone Indians lumbered to a bruising points victory over the Chris Gayle XI in a scrappy dust-up made fascinating by the flaws of the contenders. In the blue corner: Harbhajan’s half-fit Hamstring-Tweakers. And in the red corner: Daniel’s One-Trick Ponies (or perhaps, Two-and-a-half Trick Ponies, if you count Kohli and half a Dilshan).

But this is Planet IPL and Bangalore can still win this thing where it really matters: in the courts. I reckon they’d have a good case. For a start, there was clear evidence of bias towards the men in blue. After being careless enough to allow several of their players to be injured, Mumbai were granted special permission to play an extra foreigner. Yet when Bangalore asked if their captain could increase his quota of overs from four to 20, on the grounds that none of their other bowlers were any good, their entirely reasonable request was turned down.

And then there is Malinga. Watching him shatter the timber against Somerset yesterday, I began to suspect he is up to something. If my hunch is right, while the Slinger is warming up, Rayudu plants a small explosive charge at the base of each stump and then, at the moment of delivery, Malinga presses the button on his hand-held yorker detonation device. Sometimes he doesn’t even let go of the ball. No wonder his victims look so bemused.

Tuesday, 11th October
That beeping noise you can hear is the sound of the ICC backing up as it slowly reverses world cricket down the same cul-de-sac into which it drove it last year. We were told that DRS was the very thing, the absolute cherry on the technology trifle and that we were heading into a brave new world in which every decision would be the right one, small deer would feed from Aleem Dar’s hand as butterflies fluttered about the popping crease and Simon Taufel’s path would be strewn with rose petals.

But no longer, it seems. The problem is not really with the technology, but the men operating it. Umpires are not good with gadgets. They can juggle little stones to count the deliveries, they’re pretty good with a small pencil and they can read the hands on a clock to within a 30-second margin of error. But that’s about it. Look how they treat the light meter, wielding it as though it were an ancient and mysterious Aztec artefact of great power that no mere mortal can defy.

A new breed of umpire, capable of wrestling with all this data, might be one solution. Computer science undergraduates could do the job and you probably wouldn’t have to pay them very much. But then, a teenager in an unironed shirt triumphantly solving the lbw equation to 17 decimal points just doesn’t have the aesthetic appeal of Steve Bucknor’s slow finger raise or the quirky fun of Billy Bowden’s stick-insect gyrations. Without the man in the white coat it just wouldn’t be the same.

So now that we’re back in technological limbo, it’s time for cricket to ask itself the big questions. Does Hawk-Eye work in the dark? If your bat was on fire, would Hot Spot still be able to detect a nick to first slip? Why aren’t wicketkeepers’ caps fitted with lie-detectors? And is accuracy all that matters? Or to put it another way, isn’t it time to bin the gadgets and let the umpires get on with umpiring?

Andy Flower makes Samit Patel skip rope for a rhino to make him understand the importance of fitness © Getty Images

Thursday, 6th October
England’s official Liposuction Coordinator has had his leave cancelled and crates of reduced-flavour celery drink have been delivered to a certain Nottingham residence. Yes, the game is up for county cricket’s favourite fugitive from fitness and he is at last in compliance with Flower Directive 1.01: You Must Be Able To See Your Toes At All Times (Now Give Me One Hundred Press-Ups, Fatty).

Quite right, Samit, I said to myself, whilst munching on an éclair, about time you put the effort in. And it was, of course, inevitable. You don’t mess with Team England. They’re a cross between a Neapolitan crime family and a Royal Marines boot camp; The Godfather with energy drinks. Paul Collingwood once thought he could retire a little bit. Now his career is wearing a concrete overcoat and has sunk without trace.

Still it is a little sad to hear Samit spouting Flowerspeak. Train harder. Do the work. Put the hours in. Put the work in. It sounds exhausting yet at the same time monotonous, a little too much like working for a living. Some of us cling fondly to the idea that cricket should be played by people for whom a bit of a thrash with the bat is just a pleasant diversion from an afternoon of sipping cocktails, playing canasta with the French ambassador and swimming the Hellespont.

And perhaps in years to come, we will tell our children the story of Samit the Outlaw, the rebel with a paunch who stood up for a man’s right to eat three samosas before breakfast and still call himself a professional sportsman.

Friday, 7th October
There are some aspects of human civilisation I will never understand: television talent contests, line dancing, coats for dogs, the popularity of Sarah Palin. And our peculiar sport has a few unfathomable oddities of its own. Take, for example, the idea that our cricket pitches must be standardised. Has anyone ever asked the ICC why?

I’m not suggesting horticultural anarchy. On the whole it would be preferable if pitches were to continue to be based around the popular soil and grass theme, roughly level from one end to the other and devoid of craters, molehills, water features and sandpits. I accept too, that the grass must be cut from time to time and that herbaceous borders probably add little to the cricket watcher’s experience.

But beyond that, surely we must let the curators have their fun. And if they occasionally come up with a pitch that is dryer than the surface of the moon, then so be it. We don’t ask that our batsmen be of a standard height, or that spinners only bowl googlies on day five. Give the men with the mowers free rein and see how much more interesting these matches could be.

Instead, Sri Lanka Cricket has been reprimanded because the Galle surface helped to create dangerously high levels of entertainment and batsmen were required to look for their runs rather than have them brought out on a silver platter.

Munaf Patel was understandably jubilant, having dismissed Ravi Bopara by virtue of knowing the 16 times table by heart © Getty Images

Sunday, 11th September
The forces arrayed against India this summer have been formidable. The fixture list, the England team, the fragility of the human body, and the weather have all conspired to make this the least successful visit to these islands since Julius Caesar spent a late summer break shivering in a tent on the Sussex coast.

And now even mathematics has turned its back on the tourists. Anyone who has tried to dry their washing in England in September knows how umpires Erasmus and Illingworth felt today. Is it really raining? It is just spitting? Is it worth fetching your underpants in again? Is it brightening up over there?

But amidst all the traipsing in and out, the shaking of umbrellas and the holding out of rainfall-measuring palms, India appeared to have won. That was, until maths jumped out from behind the scoreboard and yelled “Surprise! You got it wrong!” before stamping all over their victory cake and high-fiving Alastair Cook.

I know how they feel. Maths was always doing that to me. No matter how hard you think you’ve studied the equation, there is always something you’ve missed. It wasn’t quite as wince-inducing as Shaun Pollock’s numerical faux pas in 2003, when he failed his maths GCSE live on national television, but you had to feel sorry for India.

Now personally I like Duckworth Lewis. Its very complexity is reassuring. After all, something that complicated must be accurate. And it has succeeded in making precipitation entertaining - a godsend for a game so frequently plagued by the wet stuff. But this messing about with bits of paper full of numbers is all a bit old school.

What we need is an entirely separate scoreboard; the Duckworth Lewis-ometer. It could be concealed below ground, rising like the Lord’s floodlights should it be required, to keep us all updated, ball by ball, on the D/L situation. And Ravi Bopara could even have the numbers beamed directly onto the inside of his helmet so he could choose just the right moment to play that pointlessly risky match-turning slog.

Monday, 12th September
Today’s ICC awards were, quite rightly, dominated by the modern game’s titans of crease-occupation, Mr Trott and Mr Cook. Despite an apparently shaky microphone technique and uncertain podium footwork, the England vice-captain kept up a dogged acceptance speech and proved difficult to remove, though after two hours, officials did finally persuade him to leave by tricking him into believing it was the tea interval.

Having kept the audience waiting while he scraped an immaculate line in the carpet, Trott’s speech was a risk-free affair, featuring no expansive verbiage, just a careful accumulation of thank yous and platitudes. He left the stage to enthusiastic applause, as the rumour that KP was on next brought people back from the bar .

And amidst all the high-profile winners, it is worth mentioning some of the unsung heroes. The Sir Humphrey Appleby Award for Administrator of the Year was announced towards the end of proceedings, though it was delayed for several minutes as Haroon Lorgat had to ask the cleaning lady to turn off her vacuum cleaner.

Sadly none of the nominees for the award could be present. Dr Julian Hunte had caught the wrong flight and ended up in London, Ontario. Mr Ijaz Butt had accidentally locked himself in his pantry, and Mr James Sutherland was detained in his hotel room, having caught his Cricket Australia tie in the executive trouser press. In the opinion of the judges, there were no winners in this category, only losers, and the award was held over.

Wake up Ravi Shastri, there’s a new screamer in town © Andy Zaltzman

Saturday, 23rd July
Steve Waugh says that 56 players have come forward to report approaches by bookmakers in the last year, compared with five for the previous year.

“That suggest the players have confidence in the system and confidence it will work.”

Absolutely. Or it might suggest that what happened to Salman Butt and chums has put the wind up every player in the game and they’re not leaving anything to chance. But let’s not be uncharitable. The important thing is that they are coming forward.

Haroon Lorgat agrees. But he didn’t get to be where he is today without finding something trivial to disagree about. He doesn’t know where Steve has got the figure of 56 players from. So what’s the real figure, Haroon?

"There's one individual in the Anti-Corruption and Security Unit that maintains such records and he does not even know the figure himself, simply because he had not compiled it.”

Hang on. If you don’t know what the figure is, how do you know it isn’t 56? And more to the point, why don’t you know the figure? What kind of spreadsheets are you using at ICC Towers? Is your chap in the Anti-Corruption and Security Unit not trained to use a calculator?

So until Haroon sorts it out, let’s all join in and play ICC Corruption Bingo. Steve’s already bagged 56, so I’m going to go for 42. Pick a number, and if you guess right, you’ll win a leather jacket, a brown envelope and the phone number of a good lawyer.

Monday, 25th July
Something terrible has happened to Test Match Special. I’d heard it was poorly, but dear me, I wasn’t quite expecting this. Jonathan Agnew has gone all grumpy; Geoffrey Boycott’s monologues sound like a recording of Churchill’s speeches played too slowly through a dodgy speaker: you know that what he’s saying is quite important but it still makes you want to chew your own ears off; and Phil Tufnell appears to have only the vaguest idea what is going on at any given moment.

And then there’s Michael Vaughan. Listening to him is like having an audio feed from the England dressing room. He has two modes of broadcasting. He’s either telling you what he did at the weekend or he’s giving you his England team talk, in which the phrase “the boys” appears distressingly often. The nadir of his contribution was when Tendulkar was dismissed and he screamed “Yeeeessssss!” into the microphone so loud I could swear I felt his spittle in my ear.

Tuesday, 26th July
There are many approaches to picking a cricket team. Here in Blighty, due to European Union Human Rights Regulations, the paperwork involved in dropping anyone from the England team is so onerous*, it is easier to just cut and paste the same XI from the game before. Indeed, the only chance a player has of breaking into the team is if one of the incumbents retires, resigns or has an affair with the prime minister.

But they do things differently in Australia, where Andrew Hilditch is known to favour the Lucky Dip approach. Before each series, he reaches into his Bag Of Unlikely Candidates and pulls out something unexpected. This time it’s another new spinner, Nathan Lyon. I’ve never heard of him, and to be honest, there’s probably only a 50-50 chance that Digger has heard of him either, but then that’s the thrill of the Lucky Dip!

* For example, I believe the Deselection Trauma Counselling Referral form (known as the “Hick 1A”) runs to 17 pages and has to be countersigned by the chairman of selectors, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the player’s mother.

The restroom at the ICC conference exclusively for those who believed they had won the DRS battle © AFP

Wednesday, 29th June
So farewell then, Daryl Harper. He had popularity issues, but then he wasn’t paid to be popular. He was paid to stand there and make snap decisions. When it comes to the men in white, I’m afraid I’m old-school. The umpire is always right. Of course we know that he isn’t always right, that he occasionally blinks at the wrong moment, forgets whether he counted that last no-ball and gets the laws mixed up.

But knowing this and still not whinging when you copped a shocker was etiquette worth preserving; a golden thread in cricket’s tapestry. I quite like the DRS. I enjoy the drama of the slowly unveiled replays; it’s like being a detective in the final scene of a murder mystery, discovering the identity of the miscreant (with a 2% margin for error). It’s entertainment. But I can’t quite shake the nagging feeling that the effigy-burners and the tantrum-throwers have won.

Thursday, 30th June
I like to think I’m a reasonable sort of chap. And, aside from the occasional brief lapse of judgement, such as my wager on Worcestershire to win the County Championship, I’m relatively compos mentis. But I’m struggling to fathom the latest bit of ICC logic. Apparently, if we increase the number of teams in the World Cup, that means we have to decrease the number of teams in the World Twenty20.

Why should this be so? Money, according to the ICC’s Chief Executive Obfuscator. So tell us, Haroon, just how much more would it cost us if we were to have a 14-team World Cup and a 16-team World Twenty20? He can’t say. Perhaps he considers it commercially sensitive information. Perhaps he’s worried that one of the many rival international cricket organisations might be planning their own event.

We did learn elsewhere that it would cost roughly US$3million to put back the missing four teams in the World Twenty20. If only there was some way to economise to raise this sum? Maybe not having a five-day junket including a gala dinner and a council meeting at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in Hong Kong’s tallest building might be a good place to start? Have you people not heard of teleconferencing?

Friday, 1st July
If ever he wants to turn his life into a light opera, Chris Gayle has already written the lyrics. The statement he released today had everything. He started by claiming that he had been keeping his silence (I think he was being ironic) went a little Martin Luther King in the middle (though Chris had two dreams to the Reverend’s one), told a long and not very stirring tale of mild injustice and ended, 33 paragraphs later, by thanking the Almighty.

Now it doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s been treated unfairly. But then he’s hardly the first. If he thinks he’s had a raw deal from the WICB, he should try playing for Pakistan. Yes we all know it is very silly that he isn’t playing international cricket, but to play for West Indies is still technically a representative honour, a privilege; not a permanent contract or entitlement. Other people decide whether to pick you and sometimes they get it wrong. There are few cricketers I love watching more, but I think I’ve reached my sympathy tipping point. Enough already, Chris.

Messrs Pawar and Lorgat: hotel room-trashing, television-flinging, M&M-eating, hard-partying rock stars © Getty Images

Saturday, 25th June
In my experience it’s better to have one really good excuse, than two and a half iffy ones. For example, if you’re trying to get out of a particularly boring social occasion by claiming that your hamster has died, there’s no need to add that your budgerigar has wing rot and that you think your conservatory might be on fire. As Hercule Poirot might put it, one alibi c’est bon, three alibis is the coincidence most suspicious.

Well I’m afraid that Niranjan Shah was guilty of over-egging the excuse pudding today as he attempted to explain why he doesn’t like the DRS. As I understand it, the BCCI’s argument goes like this:

1. DRS is far too expensive and we can’t afford it.
2. And even if we could afford it, think about the poor Sri Lankans and West Indians.
3. Well yes, they all want it, but they don’t know what’s good for them.
4. Besides, it’s not accurate.
5. And even the bits that are accurate are only used a few times each innings. It would be much better if it was used all the time.
6. Not that you could use it all the time, because that would slow the game down.
7. Anyway, it undermines the umpires.
8. And that’s our job.

Sunday, 26th June
I’m pleased to report that the outbreak of success in England’s limited-overs cricket has been contained. Yesterday’s effort at Bristol conclusively proved that the previous captain had been the problem all along and that the recent Collingwoodectomy has enabled a full recovery from the symptoms of disorientation and confusion associated with unexpected and repeated victory.

Monday, 27th June
Never mind Glastonbury, Wimbledon and Ascot. In the Hughes household, there is no doubt about the biggest event of the summer. It’s the ICC annual conference. You’ll find more interesting cricket-related activity in five minutes there than in the entirety of the England v Sri Lanka series. I’ve got my “ICCAC ’11” t-shirt, my “Haroon Lorgat Rocks” mug, and I’ve been tuning in to ICCTV every morning.

It’s been a thriller of non-stop administration. One minute there’s a preliminary committee hearing on the feasibility of amending the bat-handle length regulations, and then before you know it, it’s straight over to live coverage of the afternoon biscuit break. Then there’s the highlights show, presented by Mark Nicholas and Henry Kissinger, featuring all the best bits of the day’s bureaucratic bonanza.

But inevitably the temptation to tinker with 50-over cricket has been irresistible and they’ve fiddled about with the Powerplay. I’m not entirely sure what they’ve done; in fact, to be honest, I’ve never really understood the Powerplay. It’s a little embarrassing, but there it is. It hasn’t been too much of a handicap socially because most of the people I talk to don’t really understand it either.

Why the tinkering? It's part of the ICC’s unhealthy obsession with tarting up the middle bit of one-day internationals, which is a bit of a mystery, considering people still turn up to these matches in their thousands. Instead of fretting about a few dull minutes in a 50-over game, how about coming up with ways to enliven the desolate wilderness of tedium that is days two to four (inclusive) of the average modern Test match?

Kevin Pietersen's ego: never too far from his team-mates © AFP

Tuesday, March 8
It’s been a hell of a summer in Australian cricket. But after a dignified pause for sombre reflection and careful consideration, Cricket Australia have chosen to pretend that Andrew Hilditch is definitely the man for the job and he will remain as ringmaster of the Circus of Selection Horrors until August or possibly later.

Explaining their decisive non-decision, chairman Jack Clarke explained that they were all waiting for the result of the Big Review of Everything which is expected in August or maybe November, depending how long it takes AB to type it up and Tubby Taylor to colour in the pictures. But he had this reassuring message:

“We’re looking forward for sustained future success, we’re not looking with rearview mirrors.”

He means metaphorical rearview mirrors, of course. But as any metaphorical driving instructor will tell you, it is important to check your metaphorical mirrors before you change direction, lest the articulated lorry of the past catch up to you again and run your rusty old vehicle of administration off the motorway of sustained future success.

Wednesday, March 9
So Kevin Pietersen is going home and England must find a new temporary replacement opener. But Andrew Strauss confirmed that whilst the big man will be flying back to Blighty, KP’s ego will be staying on in India.

“KP will be a big loss, no question, but it will still be good to have his ego around the dressing room, looking at itself in the mirror, Tweeting rubbish and encouraging the other lads by reminding them how much poorer they are as cricketers.”

Thursday, March 10
Imagine a man who wakes up one day and wonders what would happen if he hit himself on the head with a frying pan. He tries it; it hurts. Fair enough, you live and learn. But then a little while later, he wonders if he made too hasty a judgement. So he does it again. It hurts again. Hmm. Its looking pretty conclusive, he thinks. One more try? Now his head hurts, his dinner is ruined and he is able to deduce from all this that hitting yourself on the head with a frying pan is both painful and pointless. Yet, for reasons impossible to fathom, the Pakistan cricket team continues to beat itself about the cranium with a pan called Kamran.

Friday, March 11
England’s entertaining defeat today appears to have been the final straw for the ICC who have announced that their Implausibility Department will be investigating the string of unusually nail-biting victories and suspiciously thrilling losses that England have produced since they arrived in India. An ICC spokesperson stressed that they did not believe the men in dingy blue had been doing deals with bookmakers.

“It’s much more sinister than that. We suspect that certain England players have been engineering close finishes in order to produce a more entertaining post-tournament review DVD. Perhaps they are hoping for an Oscar nomination.”

Speculation intensified when it was rumoured that Quentin Tarantino was spotted on the England’s team balcony during the brutal post-modernist defeat to Ireland and that Bruce Willis had been seen practising in Matt Prior’s place ahead of the Bangladesh game. But Bob Willis, a leading film critic, was unimpressed.

“The plots are totally unrealistic, the dialogue from behind the stumps is wooden and unconvincing and quite frankly, James Anderson is just not believable in the role of an international fast bowler.”

"... and instead of the World Cup final, we'll show highlights of the tournament as a recap for all those who missed the seven weeks of fun" © AFP

Tuesday, January 11th
What? Postponed? Until February? Did one of the ICC’s crack three-man Judgement Squad have tickets to the opera? Were the seats in the Auditorium of Justice particularly lumpy? Or could it be that this was merely the operation of the oldest of legal principles: why finish today what you can charge for tomorrow?

Officially, the excuse is that Amir’s lawyers wanted the panel’s verdict written up but none of the Trio of Truth can type. At least I think that was it. Salman Butt’s lawyers also made requests, but, frankly, I suspect that their insistence on the verdict being inscribed by Franciscan monks on paper made only from the pulp of the rare Bolivian Sequoia and embroidered with myrrh might have been delaying tactics.

So the ICC can add “inability to stage a courtroom drama” to “failed brewery-based function arranging” and “inadequate administration of a popular bat-and-ball sport” on its corporate CV. Imagine the final moments of the penultimate episode of your favourite legal drama. The judge is poised to deliver justice, the courtroom is hushed and the faces of the accused taut with tension. The stirring theme tune strikes up as the credits roll and then you hear the voice of the continuity announcer:

“The concluding episode of No Ball No Justice will be shown in three weeks time.”

You’d want to throw something at the television. At least I would.

Wednesday January 12th
Graeme Smith, how could you? Eulogising Imran Tahir like that, banging on about how terrific his legbreak is and how you’d always wanted a player like him and how exciting it was to have an attacking spinner in the squad. Did you, I wonder, ever give a moment’s thought to Paul? Of course you didn’t! In the Tests he is always there for you, but no sooner is his back turned than you’re gushing over someone new.

How do you think it makes him feel? He’s given the best years of his trundling career to you, but out of sight, out of mind, eh! If I was you, Paul, I wouldn’t stand for it. Why should you make yourself available for a man who don’t give you no respect, who snubs you in public like that? No one could blame you if you retired from international cricket on the spot. And let’s face it, that might save time later on.

Friday January 14th
John Wright continues to ruffle feathers and disturb tiaras as the new director of the New Zealand Drama and Dance Academy. This time, he has had some harsh words for the troupe who were in such a hurry to depart the stage in Hamilton last week.

“If you’re picked as a batsman, your job is to get runs.”

Ouch. That was harsh enough, but it got worse.

“Whatever we plan, and they’re pretty simple plans…”

This provoked an immediate press release from the International Federation of Backroom Staff and Associated Hangers-On (Auckland Branch)”

“We note these comments with concern. Our members work tirelessly behind the scenes to produce the dossiers, pie charts and colourful graphs without which the modern game would completely grind to a halt. We estimate that a successful Test team needs 17.65 volumes of statistical analysis, featuring on average, 123,000 words, 164.12 diagrams and 17.4 pop-up flow charts. We can assure Mr Wright that there is nothing simple about our plans.”

Wasim Bari (trusty Wrist-Slapper of Doom not in picture) © AFP

Saturday, 11th December
What is the key to defeating corruption in cricket? Tough sentences for those caught and convicted? Full disclosure of cricketers’ financial dealings and assets? Nope. The secret, apparently, is education. So the PCB have assigned to Wasim Bari the vital task of explaining to Pakistani cricketers that it is wrong to take money in exchange for fixing the results of cricket matches.

The PCB have spared no expense in backing Bari with a hard-hitting poster campaign. Designed by Ijaz Butt’s great-grandson and utilising the latest in wax-colouration technology, the poster features a cartoon cricketer receiving a bundle of money from a suspicious looking man in a fedora. Below this startling visual representation of all that is wrong with the modern game is printed the word, “Bad” in bold capitals.

And Mr Bari has an uncompromising message for the cricketers of Pakistan:

“It has never been acceptable for players to get involved in fixing, apart from when it was, but it certainly isn’t anymore, not even if you don’t get caught.”

Sunday, 12th December
Following the revelation that Nathan Hauritz has sold some of his cricket memorabilia in a fit of pique, Cricket Australia have retaliated by putting Hauritz up for sale on eBay, along with an assortment of discarded spinners including a Krezja, a Doherty, a Casson and a McGain.

The full listing describes the job lot of offspinners, left-armers and leggies as:

“Unwanted selections, barely used, some slight wear and tear around the edges. Would make lovely gift for struggling village cricket team. Could also make eye-catching garden ornaments or theatrical dummies for West End. Baggy green caps and lingering feeling of resentment included.”

Monday, 13th December
Michael Beer isn’t the only new face in the Australian squad. Johnson Mitchell is an exciting prospect: a dashing young fast bowler known for his immaculate dental hygiene and uncanny ability to land at least three balls an over on the cut strip. The young lad apparently celebrated his call-up by getting a tattoo of a pitch drawn on his left forearm, featuring helpful arrows indicating where to bowl.

One or two irresponsible journalists have suggested that Johnson Mitchell bears an uncanny resemblance to Aussie reject and all-round no-hoper Mitchell Johnson, an accusation that Andrew Hilditch, wearing a foil hat, was quick to refute.

“Mitchell Johnson is a failed pie-chucker who simply cannot be relied upon in a crucial Ashes battle; he is a luxury we can’t afford. Johnson Mitchell, on the other hand, is a deadly fast bowler who will cause the English batsmen sleepless nights, particularly since we had that radar device fitted to his cranium.”

Tuesday, 14th December
The news that the 96-year-old politician and part-time spinner Sanath Jayasuriya has been selected for Sri Lanka’s provisional World Cup squad has drawn a swift response from the ICC’s Dignity Department.

“Mr Jayasuriya hasn’t reached double figures since 2007 and this selection is a violation of his human rights, specifically, his right not to be forced to embarrass himself in public We all remember watching Mike Gatting lumbering out to bat in 1993 and surely no one wants to see a repeat of those horrific scenes.”

However, a delighted Jayasuriya has stated that he hopes to be in contention for the 2015 tournament and, dodgy hip permitting, the 2019 and 2023 editions as well.

“You’re only as young as you feel,” quipped the elderly bat-swisher, “And I don’t feel a day over 67.”

Customer service professionals the world over, beware, Bhajji's got a bat and we're afraid he's going to use it © AFP

Tuesday, 9th November
Historic news: the ICC have eradicated corruption! Things were looking dicey for a while there, but the chaps in Dubai have pretty much cleared the whole thing up thanks to a non-binding voluntary declaration. The breakthrough was confirmed by a smiling Haroon Lorgat as he descended the steps of his plane waving a sheet of A4. “I have in my hand a piece of paper,” he announced, promising “No fixing in our time!”

The news sparked scenes of global jubilation and long queues of match-fixers anxious to hand themselves in began to form at police stations around the world. One illegal bookie, who did not wish to be named, admitted that it would be all but impossible for him to operate in future, now that the ICC had brought out their declaration, so he was chucking it all in and starting a llama farm in the Andes.

Wednesday, 10th November
Another day, another Ashes news item. Well, I say “news” but I’m using that word in its loosest possible sense. Like lumbering, exhausted boxers in the 12th round, the two sides in the pre-Ashes trash-talk title bout are punching on empty, flailing about with weary aspersions and jaded insinuations in the vague hope of hitting the target.

Today it was Ricky “The Australian Captain” Ponting who lashed out with a media upper-cut. He alleged that England will not be able to adapt to the green and bouncy Gabba wicket. Pow! His comment is even more devastating to the English psyche when you look at their squad and realise that apart from Broad, Finn and Tremlett, it is utterly devoid of tall seam bowlers who might exploit such conditions.

Thursday, 11th November
Brave whilstleblower/cynical attention-seeker/wicketkeeper Zulqarnain Haider has suggested tapping the telephones of cricketers. I’m not so sure. The idea has already been trialled, with mixed results, as this extract from one of the transcripts reveals:

Player X: Greetings, telephone person, my name is Bhaji and I wish to –
Helpline: For complaints, press 1. For technical support press 2 –
Player X: Bloody automated nonsense! There, I pressed 2. Now what?
Helpline: Thank you. If you have a problem with your wrist position, say “wrist”. If you are having trouble with your doosra, say “doosra”. If –
Player X: Doosra!
Helpline: Thank you. You said, “moose”. If this is correct, say “yes” after the tone.
Player X: Moose? I haven’t got a moose!
Helpline: If your moose is unwell, press 1. If your moose is depressed, press 2. If you have lost your moose, press 3.
Player X: Useless piece of junk! I am going to come down there and give you all a damn good thrashing or my name isn’t –
Operator: Hello, I am Ravi, how can I help you?
Player X: At last. I’ve mislaid my doosra.
Operator: That is bad news, sir. If you give me all the details, we will have your doosra back faster than a tracer bullet.
Player X: What are you talking about, tracer bullet? And why are you shouting?
Operator: I am not shouting, sir. I am projecting my voice for the sake of my customer. Don’t worry, I’m sure we can knock your problem into row Z.
Player X: It’s very simple, peasant phone-operating person. I had my doosra. I lost it. Now I want to know what you are going to do about it.
Operator: Have you tried being taller?
Player X: What?
Operator: A lot of our spin bowling clients find that being over six feet tall is a real advantage.
Player X: Are you an imbecile?
Operator: No, I am fully on board with your issue sir. Now let’s get ready to rock! Putting you on hold.
Player X: Wait –

We hear a jazz version of “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor

Player X: Right, that’s it! I am going to slap you to within an inch of your existence, you worthless piece of telecommunication equipment! Take that! And that! And that also! Ah, not so smug now, are you! Wait till I pull your socket out of the wall! Then we’ll see who -