Even the NASA's assurance of foolproof technology and the use of death-rays on erring umpires could not convince the BCCI to agree to the lunar Twenty20 © Getty Images

Wednesday, 22nd June
You might think that whole ICL business was just a lot of fuss about nothing. But former Cricket South Africa big grapefruit Norman Arendse was on hand today with a timely history lesson. Back in 2007 premier league proliferation was a deadly threat. The cricket world stood on the very brink of chaos. There were fears that it would be like Kerry Packer all over again, only without the flared trousers.

“Actually, with money, they could start a league on the moon and it would work.”

A figure of speech surely? Maybe. Or maybe not. Leaked documents from the BCCI’s Committee on Fantasy Scenarios reveal that at the time the organisation was deeply worried about the threat of lunar Twenty20. Working closely with NASA, they had begun construction of Megalomania 1, the world’s first Interplanetary Premier League Detection Satellite, capable of seeking out and litigating against unsanctioned franchise-based league forms anywhere in the solar system.

Thanks to their unhinged paranoia, the deadly threat was averted and the world was kept safe from the horror of unofficial limited-overs cricket.

Thursday, 23rd June
So finally, New Zealand have a captain. Sensibly, they appear to have gone for the one with the fewer tattooes. As far as I am aware there has never been a successful, extensively-tattooed international cricket captain, although in this case “as far as I’m aware” isn’t very far at all. Still, I think we can be fairly sure that Don Bradman’s biceps were not plastered with the names of his nephews and nieces, nor did Clive Lloyd have “Made in Guyana” scrawled across the back of his neck.

As protracted decisions go, this one was the daddy of them all, weighing in at a hefty 84 days. General elections don’t usually last that long, although admittedly, they aren’t usually as important. It would be unfair to criticise too much as I don’t know the precise details of the selection process, but I do have it on good authority that it was John Wright who flipped the coin and Mark Greatbatch who called.

Friday, 24th June
So the BCCI is not going to play ball. Indian players cannot play in the Sri Lankan Premier League, not even if they really really want to, not even if they get handwritten permission from their mothers and book their own flights. FICA are okay with it. The boards of Pakistan, Australia, South Africa and New Zealand are okay with it. The ICC is okay with it. But the BCCI say no. Why should this be?

“The Indian Board told us they couldn’t send their players for SLPL,” said the Sri Lankan minister for sport, “because they felt Modi is involved in this event.”

Modi.

Yes, the super villain is back. Somewhere in a top-secret lair, the founder of Modi Industries is plotting. To be honest, his latest scheme for world cricket domination is quite similar to his previous scheme for world cricket domination. But it’s a good one. Unless the BCCI accede to his demands, he will launch a deadly series of Twenty20 leagues on the world, starting with the SLPL. Can nobody stop him?

An appropriate though delayed reaction from Mike Hussey after he's told Australia are indeed playing England © Getty Images

Wednesday, 24th November
It’s the Ashes! Finally, the big day had dawned and SKY were beside themselves with excitement. Their pre-game package appeared to have been put together by a producer who’d overdosed on sugary sweets and espresso. Rushed interviews, curtailed opinions, frantic ad breaks, an orchestral crescendo, more ads, a chat with Graeme Swann, a few bars of thumping music, a fast-forward two minute review of the 1986-87 series, another advert and oh my god it’s the Ashes! The Ashes!

The whirlwind of hype reached a shrieking frenzy at around 23:45 GMT with an uptight Nasser and a rudely tanned Sir Beefy breathlessly chanting, “The pressure’s on Australia, never write off the Aussies, the pressure’s on Australia, never write off the Aussies…” whilst both looking as though they really badly needed to go pee. And when Strauss was out in the first over, the coverage moved into the higher registers where only bats, dolphins and highly sensitive dogs could enjoy it.

And then it got a bit dull. Admittedly, Test cricket isn’t designed for late-night television where constant stimulation is necessary to keep your audience from slipping into unconsciousness. But there’s another problem. Let’s be honest, this is a mid-ranking tiff between two unremarkable teams squabbling for the right to be considered not quite as good as Sri Lanka. By 00:20, my snacks depleted, I had begun to scratch a Trott-style line in my sofa. By 00:35 I was taking an interest in the shopping channel. By 00:45 I was asleep. It’s the Ashes! Wake me up when it’s over.

Thursday, 25th November
You’ve got to hand it to Mr Modi and I’m not just talking about legal notices. The great man has been speaking to his people via Modivision, his personal Youtube channel.

"Of course we made some mistakes, but if we hadn't made some mistakes, I wouldn't have corrected them and made it better and that is why we are the world's hottest league".

Nice work, Mr M. A lesser man admitting to his mistakes might suggest as a defence that yes, he did a few things wrong, but that he’s learnt his lesson. But that is not the Modi way. Here the blessed Lalit is suggesting that without his mistakes, the IPL wouldn’t be as good as it is and so really, he should be thanked for instituting those vital mistakes and can he have his job back please? I’m not sure if he has a lawyer, but then again, I’m not sure that he needs one.

Saturday, 27th November
Ajantha Mendis is a bowling machine set to “random”. Trying to pick him must be like trying to work out what kind of liquorice allsort will be next out of the packet. A googly without the turn. A kind of offbreak. A carrom ball. One that sort of hangs there. A range of loopy ones that look like they might break left or right but don’t. A straight fast one. A curvy straight fast one. A slightly slower straight one.

But in the end, liquorice allsorts all taste like, well, liquorice. You can have enough liquorice is what I’m saying. Watching him bowl is exhausting to watch, faintly hypnotic, but also a little infuriating. He’s like a magician performing the same trick over and over again. “Ta-da!” says Ajantha as he pulls yet another new breed of rabbit out of his top hat to polite but dwindling applause. “Look at this one though,” he protests, “It’s got slightly longer ears than the others!”

”No, I don’t know what a &%$*@ Asha Bhosle is, you #$%@^” © Getty Images

Wednesday, 27th October
I’m enjoying the action from the UAE. Pakistan may be depleted but today they were the clear winners in two important areas. Their fans had the best costumes (top marks to the man in green and white feathers) and their batsmen had the silliest dismissals. Akmal minor managed to detect some ambiguity in Misbah’s fairly unequivocal shout of “Nooooooo!”, Afridi once again attempted to be the first man to launch a cricket ball into space, and Imran Farhat, attacked by a mosquito, sent the wee beastie hurtling over the pavilion, missing the ball in the process but teaching that particular insect a lesson he won’t soon forget.

Inevitably, though, there’s always someone who has to spoil things for everyone else. The otherwise estimable Ramiz Raja breached UN Resolution 2101 (Deployment of Prohibited Clichés) by bringing buckets into proceedings where no buckets were required. After one edge had not quite carried to Graeme Smith, Ramiz informed us that he was “…surprised to see the ball miss his bucket-like hands”.

This particular simile is not only as irritating as an armchair stuffed with thistles, it is also vaguely insulting, implying that a player has an unfair advantage on account of the enormous pail-shaped receptacles on the ends of his arms.

Thursday, 28th October
Fugitive from justice Lalit Modi today issued a global broadcast. Sitting in a leather armchair whilst stroking a reluctant cat, Modi invited the BCCI to come and get him if they thought they could find him. It is believed that he may be hiding in a top secret headquarters built into the base of a dormant volcano, or possibly even an underwater complex constructed in the shape of Ravi Shastri’s head. Intelligence agencies had warned that the evil genius may be plotting to throw the world into chaos by launching a series of deadly domestic Twenty20 competitions. However, when this was put to Modi, he said, “Nah, already done that.”

Friday, 29th October
As the old proverb says, “Four’s company, five’s an insufficiently cost-effective utilisation of human resources.” Yes, it appears that our antipodean friends need to lose one of their national pin-stickers, and in keeping with their ongoing mission to sex up the sport, Cricket Australia eschewed the traditional committee meeting and opted for a talent contest. Each of the three candidates for the chop was forced to perform before an invited audience and the public got to vote for their favourite. CA had originally threatened to ask the contestants to recite some of their own poetry, but after an intervention from Amnesty International, settled instead on a disco theme.

First up was Merv Hughes, whose expletive-laden version of a Gloria Gaynor classic, “I Will F****** Survive, You F******” was performed with characteristic gusto, although the judges felt that the high heels didn’t particularly add to the ensemble. David Boon hadn’t fully grasped the rules, choosing to belch the first four verses of the national anthem before being helped from the stage, and Jamie Cox opted for something by Norwegian thrash metal combo Toxic Death, admitting afterwards that he had probably chosen the wrong tune for the occasion.

In the end, though, it was big Merv who got the boot, which means that Cox and Boon will now go on to appear in the Christmas special edition of The Selector Factor, where they will be up against Geoff Miller, Mohsin Khan and the man who chose not to pick David Gower for the 1993 tour of India.

	Dizzy G: his Spofforthian glare is now available as a deterrent for hire © ICL

I was returning from my annual pre-Christmas expedition to Harrods yesterday when I happened upon a throng of theatregoers in Shaftesbury Avenue. Nothing unusual there, you might think, but this particular mob of citizens was arrayed in a circle, roaring with laughter at some unseen source of titillation.

My curiosity piqued, I plunged into the fray to establish what all the commotion was about. As I did so I was assaulted aurally by what on first hearing appeared to be a cockerel with a sore throat imitating Gilbert and Sullivan. Imagine my surprise upon reaching the front row to find the ICL’s own Jason Gillespie the centre of attention.

“I feel pretty!” he was roaring, “Oh so pretty and witty and gay. I’m so pretty. That I hardly can believe it’s me…”

Mercifully, he didn’t attempt the la-la-las. I had no idea what had reduced the great Dizzy to making such a prize spectacle of himself but I was not going to allow this exhibition to continue. With the help of my shooting stick and a member of the metropolitan constabulary, I dispersed the unsavoury mob, whereupon Dizzy bent down to retrieve his cap and emptied from it a handful of loose change.

“I say, Dizzy, old chap,” I began. “What on earth has reduced you to this? I haven’t seen you look such a ninny in public since the summer of 2005.”

“It’s the bloody ICL, mate,” he replied, “I can’t get any work.”

He then outlined to me a tale of woe that would make a statue weep. Of cheques that bounced and a back bedroom piled high with commemorative ICL baseball caps. Of small children throwing rocks at him in the street and old ladies setting their dogs on his ankles. Of 24-hour surveillance by the undercover branch of Cricket Australia. Of the clouds of acrid smoke that rose from the nightly burning of his biography Dizzy: Man and Mullet on the beaches of South Australia.

And all because he had dabbled in the ICL. But he wasn’t the only one. I am afraid, dear reader, that I must unburden myself. The time has come to confess. Although I knew full well that the ICL was taboo, forbidden and utterly naughty in every respect, I did on occasions succumb to temptation and sneak a peek at it. I am not proud of what I did. It was a furtive, shady and slightly grubby affair and I had to do it with the lights down low and the curtains drawn, lest any passerby catch me in the act. And afterwards I always had to take a shower, sometimes two.

The ICL was not, to be frank, the most fashionable of cricketing endeavours. The garish uniforms looked like they belonged in an early Beastie Boys video. Some of the players were of a similar vintage. It was Twenty20 without the bling; it was IPL unplugged. But the Gillespies, Kasprowiczs and Halls were multi-coloured polyester trailblazers, rolling bravely into unknown territory, with only a fleeting prospect, a distant dream of being paid. They were pioneers.

So I did what any decent chap would do. I gave the great Dizzy a job. As I speak, he is retrieving golf balls from the guttering of the east wing; without, I might add, the aid of ladders. Later on, he will be positioned in the foyer, turning his Spofforthian glare on any purveyor of window-glazing or offshoots of Christianity who attempt to violate the sanctity of the Hughes afternoon nap.

Naturally, there have been consequences. I have already received a threatening-looking letter from the BCCI but have refused to open it (I find this works just as well with telephone bills). I have also had to face the disapproval of a significant person in my life - indeed in all our lives. Last night, as I retired, I was confronted by the framed photograph of Lalit Modi that I keep by my bedside. I could take his accusatory glare for only so long before I snapped.

“It’s no use looking at me like that, Lalit; you brought it on yourself. You couldn’t play nicely.”

Lalit continued to stare with mournful eyes, and in the end I was compelled to turn his photograph around. But my conscience is clear. I couldn’t let the hero of Chittagong humiliate himself singing show tunes on the streets of London for a second longer. I hope, dear reader, that you can understand.

	Insert “balls” joke here © Clare Skinner

Sunday morning is a tricky test for the cricket watcher and I’m afraid that, confronted with the glaring South African sun this Sabbath past, I flunked it. You see, I’d had rather a heavy week, cricket-wise, and was suffering from a bout of post-Ahmedabad fatigue. So with due apologies to the Right Hon Strauss, I excused myself from the televisual revels in Centurion and sloped off for an hour or two’s recuperation at my club. All I required was a plump leather armchair and the sports section of the Times and all would soon be right with the world. Alas, it was not to be.

“It’s a damned disgrace!” spluttered a voice from the armchair opposite. Stirred from my meditative state, I fetched Atherton’s latest piece from atop my weary visage to see Colonel Thrashem-Harde, his cheeks the hue of the West Indies one-day jersey, jabbing a stubby finger at his copy of the Telegraph.

“That’s a little harsh, Colonel,” I suggested, “Yer man Pringle’s doing his best.”

The Colonel regarded me with narrow-eyed suspicion, the same expression, I imagine, that greeted many an unwary tiger emerging from the undergrowth in the jungles of Borneo.

“Ah, there you are, Pugh, thought you’d sneaked off to watch that travesty in South Africa.”

“Certainly not, Colonel, wouldn’t dream of it. Dreadful stuff.”

“Glad to hear it,” he spluttered, “Pyjama cricket, that’s all it is. Disgraceful! Almost as bad as this fellow here,” he growled, stabbing at the paper once more.

“Christopher Martin-Jenkins?” I guessed.

“No, no, no! It’s that blighter Modi at it again,” said the Colonel.

I sighed inwardly. The vice-president of the BCCI was a regular source of torment for some of the older members of the club. I’m sure that since the advent of the IPL, the incidence of apoplexy amongst elderly retired gentlemen in London clubs has increased drastically.

“What has he done now, Colonel?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“I’ll tell you. He’s snatched our pink balls, that’s what he’s done. Damned if we weren’t going to use them at HQ next May.”

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty to go round,” I added, in a spirit of conciliation.

“Don’t be facetious, Pugh! It’s our blessed idea, the first idea we’ve come up with since 1787 and this bounder has stolen it!”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” I replied, scratching my head for a moment. “Well, perhaps you could try a different colour. Sunflower yellow perhaps? Or cerise?”

“Don’t be absurd! I’ve had my staff knocking these things up for weeks. The billiards room is full of the blighters. And of course, if we use them now, it’ll look like we’re copying the Tanzanian Premier League, or whatever they call it. We’ll look second-rate, Pugh, like a bunch of slow-witted amateurs, incapable of an original thought!”

“Indeed, Colonel.”

“That Modi has a lot to answer for. If you ask me, it’s Packer all over again! If I were a hundred years younger, Pugh, I’d….”

At that point, unable to hold back the swelling tides of indignance, the Colonel’s habitual splutter bloomed into a phlegmy coughing fit that required the assistance of two of the club stewards and an emergency dose of Chateau Haut-Brion. Fortunately, the ensuing melee enabled me to make a rapid exit, leaving the Colonel blowing angry bubbles into his wine glass and muttering ominously about Rhodesia.

On my way home, I reflected on the Colonel’s predicament. It is hard not to feel sorry for the MCC. They are doing their best. They only dreamed up this pink ball wheeze a couple of years back, and in MCC time, two years is a mere blink of an eye, a flutter of a butterfly’s wings. After all, this club took 212 years to agree to permit women to enter its pavilion during play.

Then, as I drove through the gates of Hughes Hall, a solution presented itself. Why not invite Lord Modi to become an honorary member of the MCC? Once he had a strip of the old egg and bacon around his neck and a drop or two of decent brandy inside him, I’m sure he’d slow down a bit and then the cricket world could return to a more sedate, manageable, MCC kind of pace. And perhaps then a chap might be able to get a bit of shut-eye of a Sunday without being perturbed by belligerent ex-Army officers.

On the way to my study, I did briefly check on the state of play in Centurion, but for some reason the scorecard was showing a thumping England win. Naturally, I assumed that there was some kind of technical fault, paid it no further thought and settled down with a glass of malt and a sheet of my best writing paper.

“Dear Mr Modi…”