The only way to investigate such mysterious occurences is to trick them into occurring and then secretly videotape them © Cricinfo Ltd

Saturday, 4th December
It can’t be easy to be a fan of the Royals, the Kings XI or the Kochi Calamaties. Should you bin your Ramesh Powar tea cosy, unstitch your embroidered Graeme Smith underpants and try to learn the theme tune of the Super Kings? Or do you put your fingers in your ears when the IPL news is on and look forward to the player auction (whenever it may be) as though nothing has happened?

We don’t yet know, for example, whether Rajasthan will be involved in IPL4, but they are being allowed to take part in the auction. This is rather like letting your daughter choose some new goodies from the toy shop but warning her that she might not be allowed to play with them when she gets home. At the time of writing, we don’t know how many teams will be taking part, what the format will be or who will be playing for whom. By the time the IPL gets a grip, we may no longer care.

Sunday, 5th December
Congratulations to Darren Sammy and his chaps. Not losing is a significant step forward for Caribbean cricket and not losing in Sri Lanka is almost as praiseworthy an achievement as not losing in India. And though there was more than a hint of dampness around, the West Indians were not, unlike our favourite cousins from the Antipodes, praying for it. The rain merely spoilt the series, it didn’t decide it.

But it is heartening to see that complaining about the weather is just as popular in Sri Lanka as it is England. Speaking for elderly women at bus stops everywhere, Kumar Sangakkara complained that, “The weather’s all topsy turvy these days”. He wants the authorities to investigate rainfall patterns, but to be honest, I’m not sure the ICC will prove any more adept at meteorology than it is at cricket administration.

Monday, 6th December
Australia’s inability to take a wicket is becoming baffling. They’ve tried everything: wide balls, full-tosses, half-volleys, balls that don’t spin, non-swinging balls, slow balls: nothing has worked. Some are suggesting Australia are losing because they are too nice and have forgotten how to be snarly and growly. Cricket is a manly game, for men with hairy chests and incidents such as Ricky’s complaints about the sledging on the first day are a namby-pamby embarrassment.

But, aside from being an interesting insight into the peculiarities of the Australian psyche, this is a misrepresentation of the facts. Ricky was not complaining about the unpleasantness of the sledging, but the feebleness of it. The legacy of the Chuckle brothers and of Dennis, Rod and Jeff was being insulted by the dainty name-calling and wishy-washy chat of Prior, Anderson and baby Finn. Michael Vaughan, on Test Match Special, described it as “chirping”. Chirping is a high-pitched sing-song noise made by delicate little creatures that can become intensely irritating. Sounds about right.

Tuesday, 7th December
The Dilscoop is a circus shot that cannot fail to entertain. If it comes off, it’s an “oooh look at that” moment, like a daring highwire somersault. If it fails, it is funnier than a collapsible three-wheeled-van packed full of clowns. Today’s effort from Brendon, The Incredible Tattooed Man, was of the latter variety. Bravely, he went down on one knee, wafted his bat up and down like he was trying to fan a small fire, missed the ball entirely and finally toppled over into the dirt. It was quite possibly my favourite Dilfail of 2010.

	Not, repeat, not Satan © Getty Images

Good evening. My name is Sir Charles Parasite of legal firm Parasite and Leach (London branch). I am writing on behalf of my client, a Mr Hughes, who wishes me to make the following statement:

In an article published on Page 2 of the world famous (note: check this) Cricinfo site, my client made reference to a Mr Brendon McCullum (henceforth known as “Baz”). During the course of what my client assures me was a hilarious piece of writing (note: check this), he may have unwittingly and entirely without malice insinuated that Baz was an unsavoury character, a troublemaker and a danger to society.

My client had been acting on information received from what he believed was a reliable source, suggesting that Baz had been attempting to exploit a loophole by not signing his Cricket New Zealand contract. It would not be fair to reveal the identity of that source, although we can confirm that the individual concerned is believed to be prominent in the tournament-organising industry and that his surname starts with Modi. Mr Hughes would like it to be known that he now believes that Baz did not delay the signing of his contract and that even if he had done (which he didn’t) it would have been for the good of the game.

Mr Hughes would also like to place on record that the Black Caps are always his favourite losing semi-finalists, would remind the public of his tireless work on behalf of temporarily incapacitated New Zealand cricketers in the wake of the Grant Elliot affair, and above all would like it to be known that he is second to none in his admiration for Baz’s ability to hit a little ball in various directions.

On a legal note, I would like to add at this point that here at Parasite and Leach, we are firm believers in the principle of freedom of speech. Nevertheless, any further comments suggesting that my client is a) incompetent, b) illiterate or c) Australian, will be referred to our Wellington branch and the originators of said comments detained under the Prevention of Irritation to Cricket Writers Act 2009.

	Jesse does the seventies © Getty Images

Let there be no doubt, cricket is men’s work. Women may be able to bat, bowl and field as well as the lesser sex, but there is one cricket skill in which, by and large, men remain pre-eminent: the rapid production of facial hair. And one man in particular, one selfless hero, has just raised cricket’s masculinity bar a notch higher. That’s right. Jesse Ryder has grown a moustache.

At the moment, it is hard to tell which way Jesse’s ‘tache will go. It’s something of a mini-Boon, but by the time the Champions Trophy comes to an end, he may be walking around with a full Zapata under his nose. Or perhaps he might go in for the waxed Hercule Poirot, or possibly even a Salvador Dali. I’ll keep you posted.

Of course, as we all know, the moustache is the nuclear option when it comes to demonstrating one’s masculinity and it brings its own particular dangers. Admirable though it is, this extra infusion of hairy-lipped testosterone into the New Zealand squad could have repercussions. Indeed, I’ve suspected for a long time that we may be approaching a fashion black hole. Consider, if you will, Jacob Oram’s hair. At what point does deliberately messy become just plain scruffy? Before you know it, people will be sprouting sideburns, shirts will remain unfastened and we will be back in the dark, hairy, and above all ugly, seventies; a decade when even attractive cricketers looked like they’d spent their close season living in a ditch.

It was precisely in order to uphold the aesthetic purity of the modern game that I recently launched my latest campaign. I am proposing that tattoos are made illegal under Level 4 of the ICC Code of Conduct. We all know that there are only three kinds of people on whom tattoos look good: Maoris, Bronze Age tribesmen and 19th century sailors. On everyone else they look like the scribblings of someone who tried to cheat in their maths exam, failed and then forgot to wash off the evidence. It can surely be no coincidence that the two biggest troublemakers in international cricket - Andrew Flintoff and Brendon McCullum - are covered in inky dribble

If we don’t make a stand then commentators will be next, and before we know where we are, Nasser Hussain’s pitch report will end with him rolling up his trouser leg to show us something deeply personal. Someone needed to draw an imaginary line in the metaphorical sand. That person was me.

The ICC tend not to answer my emails these days, so I decided to go to the top. The modern globetrotting cricketer is a surly sort of cove and not easy to bring to heel. I needed the help of the only man they would listen to. I needed Lalit Modi.

As you might imagine, His Modiness is a tricky man to get hold of, but I find that if you grab him firmly by the BlackBerry, he eventually stops struggling. He was sympathetic to my request, but replied that he was in no position to take a firm stance on body art. To my mounting horror, he then began to slowly remove his shirt to reveal an enormous, slightly hairy, chest-size Lalit Modi portrait in ink and flesh.

I haven’t been able to sleep ever since.