The rumour that Ajmal subs for Rudolph every leap year is completely false. He only does it when Rudolph is picked in the Lapland Premier League © AFP

Thursday, 9th February
What’s the difference between a nuclear fallout and a media fallout*? Well, a nuclear fallout is a deeply unpleasant side effect that lingers interminably, whereas a media fallout is a deeply unpleasant side effect that lingers interminably for which journalists get paid.

Early in the recent series, a few English types tried to launch the Saeed Ajmal crooked arm thing, but like a poorly constructed kite on a windless afternoon, it didn’t really take off, no matter how much they ran with it. In the end it was left to Saeed himself to take pity on the struggling hacks by talking about his special dispensation from the ICC to have a bent arm or something. I forget the details.

And as sure as the doosra follows Ian Bell’s front pad, a little typhoon of tediousness blew up in the desert as journalists and message board trolls desperately tried to fan the infant spark of baby controversy into a toddler-sized blaze. Yesterday, ESPNcricinfo’s own King Cnut, George Dobell, tried valiantly to stand against the waves of silliness by laying out the facts about Saeed’s perfectly legal action.

But no one with newspapers to sell or fellow cricket lovers to annoy is interested in anything as dreary as facts and George’s efforts have not stemmed the tide of preposterous speculation and libellous insanity. So it falls to the Long Handle to sort things out. In no particular order, here are the answers to the questions you wanted to ask, didn’t ask because you were afraid you’d look stupid but then thought, “Ah well, it’s the internet, no one’s looking,” and posted them up anyway.

I heard from the wife of the man who grooms Shoaib Akhtar’s poodle that Saeed Ajmal cannot straighten his right arm as he is half-velociraptor. Is this true?

No. Saeed only spent his summer holidays with the velociraptors who were friends of the family. In fact, he grew up on a ranch in Oklahoma where he developed the kink in his arm from too much vigorous lassoing of cattle as a child.

Ten years ago, in a secret deal with the PCB, the ICC cleared the use of artificial arms with food blender attachments that can impart illegal levels of spin and pace on the ball and, being made of aluminium, never get tired. Is this true?

This is perfectly true, but to date, Mitchell Johnson is the only international cricketer to have incorporated cyborg technology, with mixed results. Engineers are now working on the Midge 2.01, a mechanical arm featuring a safety valve that prevents the bowler from releasing the ball if he’s facing in the wrong direction.

Last August, whilst browsing in the Redditch branch of Sainsbury’s I saw Saeed Ajmal reaching for a tin of pilchards from the top shelf of the tinned produce aisle and I noticed that he completely straightened his arm. Doesn’t this prove beyond reasonable doubt that he is a cheat, albeit a cheat with a high Omega 3 intake?

No. In fact, it is well know that Saeed is allergic to fish, which is why when he was shipwrecked in the Bermuda Triangle with Lady Gaga and the UN Secretary General they were able to sustain themselves by catching sea creatures, whilst our hero lost two kilograms in weight and had to survive by eating pages of Ian Bell’s autobiography. The man you mistook for Saeed was almost certainly Ramiz Raja without the Austin Powers wig that he dons for his celebrity appearances on Sky.

My friend and I were having a disagreement. She thinks the argument about DRS is the most tedious topic of cricket conversation known to humanity, but I’m convinced that the degrees of tolerance debate is so boring it can cause birds to fall out of the sky and fish to commit suicide by banging their heads against the side of their tank just to make it stop. Which of us is right?

You both are.

* Not to be confused with a media falling out, which is what happens when David Gower accidentally treads on Jonathan Agnew’s foot and causes him to tip coffee all over Geoffrey Boycott’s laptop as he’s writing his column for the Whine on Sunday.

Adept sous chef Phillip Hughes shows off his skills © Getty Images

Monday, 5th December
Rotation is, on the whole, a good thing. Without it, merry-go-rounds would be a good deal less merry; our cities would be congested with commuters on horseback*, and we would probably never have heard of Shane Warne.

But for the professional sportsman, rotation has a sinister side. It’s okay when it’s happening to someone else. Michael Hussey, for example, is quite relaxed about the prospect of bowler rotation. Batsman rotation, on the other hand, is quite possibly the end of civilisation as we know it, and The Huss is having none of it.

"From a batting point of view, if you're playing well you want to keep batting, and if things aren't going right, you want to keep playing so you can get that big score.”

Well, quite. But if batsmen in form shouldn’t be rotated and batsmen out of form shouldn’t be dropped, then the only ways out of the team would appear to be retirement, insanity or imprisonment. The Australian batting order is like the mafia, only less efficient and with more silly green hats.

Huss also has the solution to Phil Hughes’ minor technical flaw (his compulsion to play the cut shot regardless of the state of the game, the position of the fielders, the length of the ball or the direction in which he’s facing): just keep swinging, Phil. And if that doesn’t work, it so happens that Mike knows of a veteran left-hander who could step into the rotation-proof opening position at short notice.

Tuesday, 6th December
Like rare flowers, the talents of most professional cricketers bloom for a season, and right now it’s Mohammad Hafeez’s time in the sun. Having earlier opened the batting, Super Prof once again opened the bowling and once again skittled Tamim before the poor chap had had the chance to fully digest his pre-game energy bar.

The tricky thing about facing a ball from Hafeez is that although you know it probably won’t turn, there is always the outside possibility that it will. Today the Bangladeshi batsmen were braced for the one that didn’t, only to be undone by the revs on the one that did. He is my new favourite mystery spinner. (Ajantha isn’t allowed out to play very often these days.)

And it wasn’t just the Professor who was enjoying himself. With 11 twirlers doing their thing, the match was a festival of spin, as one after another, batsmen were ensnared like desperately struggling flies in a spider web.

At 50 for 1, it was Bangladesh’s game; there were congas in the crowd and the home side had just taken the batting powerplay. And then the floodlights failed. Umpires Cloete and Haque took a light reading, though they had to employ the special backlit display setting on their meters in order to read the numbers confirming that it was dark.

Umpires are obsessed with their light meters. If Asad Rauf were to feature in an episode of Scooby Doo, he’d be the one left behind in the spooky corridor of the haunted house because he’d stopped to take another reading. Mrs Bowden frequently has her bedtime novel confiscated by Billy on the grounds that his light meter says conditions are unfit for reading and the bedside lamp is casting dangerous shadows.

Anyway, eventually the lights came back on, Bangladesh remembered that they were Bangladesh, and crumbled to 119 all out.

*Although a world without cars would also mean a world without the television programme Top Gear, so it wouldn’t be all bad.

The PCB's committee that decides the number of Akmals to appear in each game © PCB

Wednesday, 30th November
As Sri Lankan cricket’s temporary cash-flow crisis enters its 214th day, there’s good news for Tillakaratne, Kumar and friends, who have taken to living under the covers at the Premadasa Stadium, eating grass cuttings and burning Mahela’s spare bats to keep warm. The politicians are on the case.

“The sports ministry is making arrangements to resolve this issue,” said a man in a suit. “The players will be paid very soon. They need not worry.”

I suspect that if I hadn’t been paid since April, I would long ago have abandoned worry, worked my way steadily through perturbation, consternation, despair and hysteria and would by now be angrier than Jade Dernbach when he discovered that Craig Kieswetter had stolen the last wildebeest sausage at England’s annual braai.

It’s true that SLC doesn’t have a lot of spare cash at the moment, but that is not the players’ concern. Last spring I was a little short myself as I was waiting on an unpaid debt (I’d confessed to a friend that watching Sky’s cricket coverage often drove me to blasphemy and he’d wagered that he could endure a whole weekend of Gower and Botham without resorting to that kind of language. In the end, he did 20 minutes.)

Anyway, until he could stump up the money from his congregation, I was left in a bit of a hole, gas-bill wise. So I laid it all out to a cheerful sounding chap at the GasCorp call centre, assuring him that payment was most definitely imminent and that he was not to worry. At this news, he lost his call-handling joie de vivre, turned decidedly frosty and began to prophesise all manner of dire consequences of a legal nature.

And with hindsight, I can see his point. So it’s a minor miracle that Dilshan and chums have not yet downed bats, face guards and athletic supports and staged a sit-in, followed by a march around the outfield bearing placards. But then, perhaps I’m missing something. Perhaps their recent on-pitch debacles were a kind of protest and a pretty tasty threat too: pay up, SLC or the defeats keep on coming.

Thursday, 1st December
The first PCB get-together of the post-Butt era was a great success. Everyone who is anyone in Pakistan cricket was there, Ramiz had a new hairdo, and a splendid time was had by all. Many of those present had fallen out with old Ijaz for one reason or another and hadn’t visited PCB Towers for months, so there was much catching up to do, and I have it on good authority that the gossip was of the juiciest quality.

In fact the whole affair turned into something of an epic. It lasted nine hours and we know this because they were trying out the new Alastair Cook egg timer, designed to measure interminable intervals of time. The device was upturned when Mr Ashraf politely coughed to signal play and by the time a third administrator had passed out and the meeting was declared closed, only half of the sand had fallen from the top of Alastair’s glass leg glance into Alastair’s glass boots.

Sadly, there was no time to decide on a new coach but there was an agreement in principle to create a committee to look into streamlining the committee-creation process, and a meeting was pencilled in for next month to discuss the desirability of monthly meetings.

Friday, 2nd December
With a late entry for the 2011 Superfluous Sacrifice Award, Samit Patel has ruled himself out of next year’s IPL auction. He’s not the only one. I’ve also excused myself, as have the Dalai Lama, Newt Gingrich, the racehorse Kauto Star, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Mrs Ethel Makepeace of 17, Elder Grove, Nantwich, who has a lot of knitting to get on with ahead of next April’s trip to Eastbourne and so has had to reluctantly decline an imaginary offer of $2m dollars from Rajasthan.

"... 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.

An ominous hush spreads through the room as Ijaz Butt gets an underling to tick off names of people yet to bring farewell gifts © Pakistan Cricket Board

Wednesday, 12th October
The long-awaited sequel to Bye Bye Birdie may not win many awards, but it will be warmly received. Bye Bye Butty is the story of one man’s slapstick boardroom escapades after he is mistaken for a senior cricket administrator and finds himself running the PCB for three years. A hilarious sequence of mishaps and pratfalls ensues, made all the more poignant by the fact that it’s based on a true story.

But after several scrapes and legal near-misses, the hapless impostor is rumbled and he is forced to clear his desk. The show includes a rousing rendition of “I Did It My Way (Badly)” as the hero is cheered off the stage by an enthusiastic audience and ends with a tearful lament entitled, “What Will We Write About Now?”, performed by a chorus of comedians, satirists and journalists.

So farewell, Ijaz and a big hello to Mr Zaka Ashraf! I’m sure his credentials are impeccable. For a start, he is, er, a banker. But hey, we shouldn’t hold that against him, after all, not all bankers are irresponsible sociopaths. What else has he got going for him? Well, he’s a friend of President Zardari. But hey, we shouldn’t hold that against him, not all friends of President Zardari get top jobs just because they’re friends of President Zardari, although come to think of it, most of them do.

But let’s give the man a chance. I mean, come on, he surely can’t be as bad as the last guy, can he? (That isn’t a challenge, by the way, Zaka).

Thursday, 13th October
Tim Neilsen retired a month ago and Australia still need a coach. But they might not get one for a while. Why’s that? James Sutherland, chief obfuscating officer of Cricket Australia, tried to explain:

“What I've always said is we will step up this process but we're not going to get ahead of ourselves. We understand the urgency but we're not going to compromise the process, because we have to make sure that we go through a rigorous process... It’s clearly a key focus…We’re in a position from today to go forward very quickly with that and roll that out over the next month or so, or whatever it takes…”

It reminds me of that short-lived sequel to Skippy the Bush Kangaroo: Jimmy the Administrative Wallaby. What’s that, Jimmy? There’s a little boy trapped down the well? And you think we need to set up a committee to facilitate a robust process to identify the key elements of the rescue package and ensure effective implementation to bring about a post-well-entrappage situation?

I think what Jimmy is saying is that they can’t choose a coach until the new general performance manager starts work and the new general performance manager doesn’t start work until the back end of November. I only hope he doesn’t choose his festive gifts in the same way as I fear it may be a lean Christmas chez Sutherland:

“I’m sorry dear, but I had to make sure there was a rigorous process in place and unfortunately my Yuletide Project Gift-Enabling Facilitator wasn’t able to take up his post until Christmas Eve, but I am confident that, going forward, we’ll be in a position to identify presents by the end of February or Easter at the latest…”

Billy Doctrove dismisses batsmen by playing a recording of Donald Trump © Getty Images

Sunday, 2nd October
What’s the first rule of Ball-Tampering Club? Don’t talk about Ball-Tampering Club.

In his candid interview on the subject, Umar Gul happened to mention the names of a couple of English players and with a weary inevitably, silliness ensued. Journalists had to pretend that this was controversial, England’s middle captain Alastair Cook, had to pretend to be offended. and then Umar had to pretend that he hadn’t said what he’d said.

But isn’t it time we all stopped clutching our handbags and reaching for the smelling salts every time someone mentions ball-tampering? We’ve coped with players on drugs, slappings on the field of play, routine verbal abuse, various kinds of corruption and Shane Warne’s new hairstyle. Are we really that shocked by the idea of a bowler altering the condition of the ball?

Anyway, I’m with Shoaib on this one. Let’s legalise it. Bowlers need all the help they can get these days, and it’s not as if we’re talking about putting razor blades in the seam or replacing it with an exploding Edam cheese. Let them do what they like with the leathery thing. Although we should probably still draw the line at eating it.

Monday, 3rd October
Daniel Vettori today denied that he was captaining a one-man team. That is true. Technically, there are 11 players in red, they all make a contribution and thanks to their efforts, the Chris Gayle XI are still in with a chance of making the semi-finals.

The man himself was toying with Somerset today. Early on, he was pottering along at a paltry run-a-ball, with all the vigour of an elderly man doing a bit of light weeding. And then he started to bat. He doesn’t move much, just enough to do the job, like one of those street performers who pretend to be a statue before scaring the living daylights out of passers-by. A half step, a vague swat and there goes the ball again.

Somerset are still in it, but experienced Somerset watchers are not going to fall for it this time. Their fans will not be emerging from behind their sofas until the last post-match cliché of congratulation has passed Ravi’s lips and Peter Trego’s cap smells like the inside of a champagne bottle.

Tuesday, 4th October
Cricket and technology have been living together for a few months now, but to be honest, the relationship is in trouble. Having rushed into things, we’re a bit disillusioned since it turns out technology can be unreliable, doesn’t always do what it said it would, and is frankly rather insensitive to our needs.

Aleem Dar today said that we need more consistency from one series to the next. This is true. I’m sure the players must struggle to remember which gadgets are plugged in at any given time; after all, some of them have difficulty remembering the lbw law or that accepting money from random strangers is wrong.

But there’s another problem. A lot of the DRS bloopers are caused by humans. We’ve got the technology; we just don’t know how to use it. So one obvious solution is to remove humans from the process entirely. I’m picturing Terminator-style umpiring devices, able to officiate for hours at a time without forgetting the rules, nodding off during Ishant‘s run-up or worrying about getting their panama wet.

And for entertainment value, they could be programmed with familiar voices. The default setting would be Mr Spock:

“The ball pitched outside leg stump, Mr Ajmal and therefore your appeal is illogical.”

And I’m thinking a Dalek mode for those moments when things get a little heated in the middle:

“Mr Broad! Comply with the Spirit of Cricket or you will be exterminated!”

A cricketer mistakes a blown-up candy-floss flavoured bubble gum for a cricket ball © PA Photos

Wednesday, 7th September
There are many strange stories in our great game, but few are stranger than the Legend of the Pink Balls. Long ago, back in the mists of time, men first spoke of cricket balls that were unlike any other. They were spherical, that much is true. They had a stitchy bit around the middle. You could rub them on your trousers. And if you dropped one on your little toe, you hopped around making strange sweary noises for a couple of minutes, just like with normal cricket balls.

But these balls were different. They were pink. Pinker than a fuschia blancmange served in the back of the Pink Panther’s pink Cadillac. No one really knew why they were pink. But the legend was that one day, perhaps before the next ice age, they would be used in a Test match and that when that happened, the night sky would be lit up by floodlights and the people would come in their thousands to marvel. Will the legend ever come true? Or is just a fairy story for schoolchildren and journalists?

Thursday, 8th September
Life is full of surprises. Who’d have thought that naming a stadium after a brutal dictator would eventually turn out to be a bit of a PR problem? After all, no one complained when Lahore City Council unveiled the Genghis Khan Equestrian Centre or when they inaugurated the Emperor Nero Leisure Centre. But with the man himself currently hiding somewhere in North Africa, disguised as a cactus, it’s probably time to think about a new name for the Gaddafi Stadium.

The Imran Khan Stadium has a nice ring to it. Or perhaps a senior cricket administrator might be persuaded to retire in exchange for having a venue named after him: the Butt Bowl anyone? Still, I think we can do even better. I am starting a petition to persuade the PCB to rename the place after Pakistan’s greatest cricket export. No, not the doosra. I’m talking about the Jhang Justice himself, the unflappable arbiter with the immaculate coiffure and the steely gaze. Ladies and gentleman, I give you: the Aleem Dar Arena. Let’s make it happen.

Friday, 9th September
Lots of people don’t understand John Buchanan. They snigger when he gets out his Big Book Of Thinking or when he reads a Klingon haiku. It is often the fate of the genius to be mocked by his contemporaries. Lots of people criticised General Custer and his “charge headlong in this direction and see what happens” strategy. But 135 years on, guess what? No one remembers them and Custer is a household name.

In appointing 50% of New Zealand’s selection panel, Big J didn’t go just left field. He climbed up onto his imaginary unicorn and rode it right the way across to the other side of the left field, skipped through the magical forest where the leprechauns live and followed the yellow brick road over the hills and far away to pixie land. And what were the pixies doing when he got there? They were playing bowls.

High performance lawn bowls, to be exact. But in case you’re worried, New Zealand fans, be reassured. Kim Littlejohn may not be able to pick Brendon McCullum out of a line-up but he is skilled in “performance focussed management” and “cultural change”. And by picking a squad full of players capable of trundling the ball along the ground slowly, he can help the Black Caps to take sweet revenge. Remember Trevor Chappell? Remember 1981? Well, soon it will be payback time.

First came Jason, then Freddie, then Phil © Getty Images

Wednesday, 24th August
We all like to see the cut shot. It’s a fine shot. However, the traditional view is that it is seen to best effect when played at a ball short and wide of the off stump. Well Phil Hughes isn’t having that. He believes the cut shot is the only shot a girl could ever need. He plays it to short balls, straight balls, bouncers, beamers and yorkers. He uses the cut shot to open cans of beer, mix pancakes and dry the dishes, which perhaps explains why his appearance on Masterchef Australia ended so messily.

He plays the cello with the cut shot, flips burgers with it and when he proposes he will go down on one knee in a fancy restaurant, have a waiter toss him the ring and smack it into the dessert trolley with a flashing blade. And now he’s back, to cut the Sri Lankans into ribbons, at least, until they work him out. It’s just a pity that Lasith Malinga has retired from Test cricket and we have been denied the sight of wee Hughesie attempting to cut one of the Slinger’s slow bouncers from a seated position

Thursday, 25th August
Saeed Ajmal has a secret weapon, a new delivery that he is not telling anyone about. These little escalations of the spin-bowling arms race are always fun. It reminds me of the Soviets and Americans trying to outdo one another with ludicrous secret weapons boasts, such as Ronald Reagan’s Star Wars toy or Kruschev’s claim that he had replaced the island of Cuba with a Cuba-shaped cheese that come the hurricane season would blow up to Florida and turn the Sunshine State into the Fondue State.

Anyone remember Shane Warne’s Zooter? It was the Loch Ness Monster of variations; we all wanted to believe it was real, but no one had ever seen it. So what does Ajmal have up his sleeve? I have no idea, but here some possibilities:

The One That Might Do
Looks like it might, but in the end it doesn’t.

The One That Doesn’t
Exactly like the one that might, except that this one definitely won’t

The KP Puzzler
Delivered with a left-armer’s action whilst wearing a Yuvraj rubber mask, this leaves KP looking as confused as a poodle in a hall of mirrors.

The 3D One
A recording of Ajmal bowling a long hop is projected onto a screen in front of the batsman who charges out of the ground only to be stumped by the real delivery. This is tricky to arrange as the batsman needs to be persuaded to wear 3D glasses.

The One That Worked Last Time
(See The Oval 2010)

Friday, 26th August
Ex-pros in the commentary booth are like wine; they mature slowly and may not be palatable for a decade or two. Well I think Nick Knight may need to keep the cork in for a while longer. Last time I saw him, he was reading a sonnet he’d written about Eoin Morgan. On Thursday I found him on my television screen again and he was still talking about Morgan, but now the sonnet had turned into a full blown aria from an opera he’d composed called La Eoin (“Eoin, your tiny Irish hand is frozen”.)

Even footage of Morgan’s extraordinary stance could not dissuade him from his adoration. And when you first see “Crouching Morgan Useful Cameo” in full slow-motion, it is an astonishing thing. He bends, then he bends some more, shakes his back leg like a man doing the Hokey Cokey with a jittery ferret in his trouser pocket, works the ball away for a quick single and repeats till the 50th over.

But Mr Hyperbole is in town at the moment and Nick’s not the only one getting carried away. I caught Simon Hughes in this month’s Cricketer comparing James Anderson to Dennis Lillee. Really? How so, Simon? Because, just like Dennis, he can swing and cut it both ways. That sounds like fun, can I play? I reckon Paul Collingwood is pretty much the new Curtly Ambrose, let me see, yes, Luke Wright is Jeff Thomson and Ravi Bopara is Michael Holding. Hooray! I win!

Someone wake me up when England are rubbish again.

Which one is the human and which is the machine? © Getty Images

Tuesday, 9th August
It seems that Kamran Akmal is being shunted out of the Pakistan team, an incredibly short-sighted move that can only have been taken by the kind of narrow-minded person who obsesses over trivial details like runs and catches. Yes he’s dropped a clanger or seven over the years but he was never dull, and he had an astonishingly brutal cover drive. Like Hot Spot, he doesn’t always function as intended but cricket is less entertaining without him.

Thursday, 11th August
Xavier Doherty has packed a decade and a half’s worth of disillusionment into eight months. A sudden and unexpected promotion, a short but eventful Test career and already he’s concentrating on one-day cricket. In six months time he’ll be restricting himself to Twenty20, applying to go on Masterchef Australia and accepting an invitation to join the crack commentary firm of Heals, Tubs and Slats Ltd.

Being an Australian spinner must be like auditioning for one of those reality talent shows. You rehearse for months, you get a telephone call out of the blue, and then when you’re on the stage, you’ve only got 30 seconds to do your thing. One bum note or unintentional long hop, the buzzers sound and off you go. Bye bye, Xavier, you’re not quite right for us. Come back and try again next year.

He has today humbly suggested that perhaps Australian spinners need to be given longer than say, a couple of sessions, to prove themselves in the national team. Shane Warne took four wickets and averaged 96 in his first four Tests. Would Hilditch, Chappell and chums have given him a fifth?

Friday, 12th August
So England grind on with the relentless efficiency of an automatic coffee-grinding machine set to “relentless”. Strauss and Co are now a byword for ruthlessness and the inspiration for the new film Terminator 5: The Rise Up The Rankings in which a team of deadly androids with sensible hair cuts travel back in time to destroy the careers of leading Indian cricketers by making them look silly.

Now I’m not saying that the England cricketers are soulless killing machines without consciences. But they are freakishly tall. And they often wear sunglasses. All summer long they have been bulldozing through the picturesque and hitherto undisturbed valley of India’s reputation like a gang of construction workers without planning permission building a six-lane motorway.

And now with only seven, or more likely five, or possibly even four days left in this series, India’s chances of being able to go home without having to wear disguises depends on three unlikely eventualities:

1. Rahul Dravid not getting out again

2. Conveniently timed precipitation of Biblical proportions

3. English overconfidence on the brink of victory, of the kind that once enabled the tortoise to win an unlikely 10,000-metre gold medal at the 1904 Olympics.

This last hope is a particularly forlorn one. The English hare has been working with a leaping endurance coach and is on a high-energy carrot-based diet. Having hit the ground running, he’s determined to push on to the line and indeed beyond it, and there appears to be very little chance of him ducking behind a tree for forty winks any time soon.

Ijaz Butt calls up the ICC in a rage to find out if their task team report was a conspiracy to evoke sympathy towards Pakistan cricket © AFP

Tuesday, 12th July
“The best man who walked the face of the earth never did anything wrong, but he was still crucified. And I am nowhere close to that.”

So now we know. Darren Sammy is not the Messiah. He can’t walk on water, but he does at least know how to get to the water and if you asked him, I’m sure he’d borrow a dinghy and row you across. He’s one of life’s triers. He doesn’t boast. He doesn’t score any runs. But he does at least give the impression that he quite likes being West Indies captain, which is always nice for Caribbean fans to hear.

And I know he isn’t quite good enough to be in the team, but there have been some very successful captains who weren’t quite good enough to be in the team. There was Mike Brearley, for example, and, well, the other ones, whose names escape me at the moment. Anyway, good luck Darren, I hope you succeed in your aim of getting West Indies into the top five by 2015, although it might depend on at least four of the other Test nations withdrawing from the ICC.

Wednesday, 13th July
We live in strange times, friends, and on days like these I feel particularly uneasy. But there’s no point shying away from it. Al Gore didn’t want to deal with the inconvenient truth, but he did it anyway. And if Al can do it, so can I. Here goes.

Today I read a story involving the PCB and found myself agreeing with them.

Yes, really. I know, but there it is. I think the PCB are correct. I’m right behind you Ijaz. Excuse me while I go for a quick lie-down.

What could possibly have led me to such a conclusion? Well, the Pakistan Task Team have produced recommendations for reform of the Pakistan cricket system. Jolly good thing, too, you might say. But then you read on. Apparently, only one member of the PTT had visited Pakistan, and that was because he caught the wrong plane. And neither of the two ambassadors for Pakistan have visited the place either.

Pakistan cricket may be poorly. But if you’re going to offer a cure, you should at least go and visit the patient. I’m a big fan of House, but I’m not sure the programme would have caught on if Hugh Laurie had done his diagnosing via email.

Thursday, 14th July
The News Of The World may be no more, but here at the Long Handle, we are keeping up the fine English tradition of sneaking about and getting our grubby hands on information we have no right to possess. Posing as an airline stewardess, I recently infiltrated an AirIndia flight to Heathrow and managed to swipe Duncan Fletcher’s SpongeBob SquarePants carry case.

Inside, I found a copy of Alan Border’s Fitness Programme, “Shed Pounds The Grumpy Way”; a good-luck card from Greg Chappell, 17 pairs of identical sunglasses and a highly confidential dossier, revealing the secrets of England’s top players. With this deadly dossier in their hands, the Indian team are certain to triumph this summer (even though they probably would have anyway). Here is just a selection of big Dunc’s inside info:

Kevin Pietersen: In my opinion, he could struggle against left-arm spin.
Stuart Broad: The lad has a bit of a temper.
Andrew Strauss: Posh. I believe he could be captain these days.
Alastair Cook: Can score a lot of runs if you don’t get him out.
Ian Bell: Short.
Matt Prior: He’s no Geraint Jones.
Ashley Giles:Retired.

"When I'm president of the PCB, nobody will be allowed to criticise Shahid Afridi" © AFP

Sunday, 10th July
One series in and Duncan is already hitting his grumpy straps. After the Dominica Test, he came to the media party, stepped up to the plate, picked up the plate and helped himself to a steaming portion of grumble pie. Old chubby cheeks was in the firing line because his new team had offended a certain section of Indian fandom by settling for a draw. Having explained to the gentlemen of the press that he thought it was the right thing to do, he was most put out to have to repeat himself and it kind of went downhill from there. Good to see that Fletch hasn’t lost his PR touch.

But was a draw so bad? The blessed Australians are often invoked at such times, but I don’t recall AB’s team risking a series win with a brave run-chase. We would all like cricket to be played in the spirit of the Golden Age, by characters out to entertain, for whom cricket is a pleasant diversion from more serious pursuits like fox-hunting, gambling and partying. But we are in the era of the drab professional and results are everything. Those are the rules. It’s not Duncan’s fault.

Monday, 11th July
Shahid Afridi is unhappy and is promising to unmask the people who are running a smear campaign against him. This is a touch melodramatic. And superfluous. When the smearing is carried out in an interview with a major newspaper, unmasking is not required. Even if the smearer had been wearing a Batman mask, and had given his name as Jazzy B Hutt, we would still have known who was behind it.

And besides the odd smear, as you might expect, Mr Butt’s interview had its share of crimes against logic. For example, the man who appointed Afridi as captain (for it was he) apparently thinks Afridi isn’t captaincy material. And then there was this:

“In my opinion, which may be considered by some people wrong,* he is responsible for losses in the fourth and fifth one-day internationals.”

Really? He may not have had the best of games in Guyana and Barbados, but he was ably assisted by at least ten other suspects, all of whom should have been in the frame for the blame. And oh yes, he won the series. Not to mention reaching the World Cup semi-final. Clearly the man was a failure. Let us hope that when Shahid becomes Chairman of the PCB in around 2031, he too has learned the art of logic abuse.

Tuesday, 12th July
Mitchell Johnson doesn’t want anything to do with the BBL. My first reaction to this news was to ask my computer what the Brett Geeves was the BBL? The Big Brother Love-in? The Baked Bean Luge? The Board of Banal Linguistics? Then I remembered. Of course! It’s the Big Bash League, Australia’s answer to the question, “Is there anything we can do to make the world a more irritating place.”

That Johnson has decided to spend time learning how to hold a cricket ball rather than perform for the Perth Ponderers is refreshing, but it isn’t really news. The news is that, apparently, Cricket Australia is encouraging its players to take part in this superfluous franchised-up PR stunt. And why? Because if the top Aussie pros join in, it will help ensure the success of the competition. Clearly the financial viability of the Big Banana League is priority number one for the administrators of the world’s fifth-ranked Test nation.

* Perish the thought, sir

"The club rule book said anyone who bowled above 45mph was welcome to play no matter what their past" © AFP

Tuesday, 7th June
The PCB moves in a mysterious way, its blunders to perform. Not so long ago, Ijaz Butt proposed an amendment to the ICC constitution, making possible the suspension of any cricket board that allowed political interference in its affairs. And a good thing too. Umar Gul doesn’t tell president Zardari who should be foreign minister, so why should El Presidente decide who gets to open the bowling.

It is such a good idea in fact, that the casual observer is immediately suspicious, the proposing of good ideas being not, as a rule, Mr Butt’s modus operandi. Perhaps it was the work of a rogue stunt double, hired to take the flak for Butty at public events. One who bluffed his way into an ICC meeting and went on a common-sense spree, running amok with dangerously sensible suggestions and alarmingly far-sighted ideas.

Anyway there is only one thing to do when your proposal is adopted and you realise you shouldn’t have proposed it in the first place. Sue the Butt off someone. And in the absence of any suitable candidate, the PCB chairman has today issued himself with a showcause notice, promising to drag himself through the highest court in the land if necessary. As a leaked memo from his office reveals, this brings the number of people against whom Ijaz has contemplated legal action into double figures:

1. Mr Shahid Afridi
2. Mr Shahid Afridi’s cat
3. The ICC
4. The ECB
5. The man who made that rotten biryani I ate last Friday
6. The tailor who keeps selling me those shrinking shirts
7. Mr Mike Gatting
8. Mr Henry Kissinger
9. Mr Elvis Presley
10. Mr Ijaz Butt

Wednesday, 8th June
I’d like Mohammad Amir to be given just one more chance. I wish he could be let off with just a tousling of his floppy hair and a proper talking-to, because I can remember what it was to be 18 and sillier than a coach full of inebriated clowns on a day trip to Euro Disney. But really, there are limits.

Club officials told you it was all right to play? By club officials, you mean the collection of accountants, small businessmen and retired farmers whose administrative duties extend to committee meetings once a month and organising the annual fund-raising quiz night? Are these people best placed to judge whether you might be violating your ICC ban? And isn’t listening to glib assurances that everything will be just fine precisely how you got into this mess in the first place?

Now his ban will probably be extended to dice cricket, the reading of Alastair Cook’s biographies and the forward propulsion of any vaguely spherical object, including tennis balls, oranges, pomegranates, rock cakes and ostrich eggs.

And for what? For the grubby thrills of the Surrey Cricket League Division One. For an hour or two running round a badly mown oval, where the claps of fielders ring out across an unpopulated boundary edge; where tailenders take it in turns to don the oversized umpires coat and lunch consists of soggy egg mayonnaise sandwiches, slices of Battenburg and lukewarm tea. Was it worth it?

Maybe it was. Maybe he just can’t keep away. Maybe it proves his love for the game, albeit in a forlorn, not-going-to-help-much-with-his-appeal kind of a way. Maybe it shows he’s human. Or maybe it just shows he’s a fool, after all.

Afridi: you can call him Mr Muesli © AFP

Saturday, 28th May
Watching Cook and Trott bat today it occurred to me, in those brief moments between naps, that the medical profession is missing a trick. Such is the anaesthetic potential of England’s most prolific run-gatherers that it can’t be long before doctors are prescribing a dose of Trott and Cook for insomniacs, and anaesthetists are playing unedited highlights of their exploits to patients about to undergo minor surgery.

How to describe them doing their thing today? It was like watching two brick walls, each recently painted a different shade of grey, in order to find out which would dry first. And when they weren’t dull, they were annoying, particularly Trott, whose excavatory habit has reached the outer limits of screamingly irritating. Watching him is like sitting on a train next to someone who continually drums their fingers. Or listening to Danny Morrison commentate for more than 45 seconds.

Sunday, 29th May
IPL viewing figures are down. This is not surprising. There has been much talk of a tipping point in audience interest, but I think it’s not so much a tipping point as a choking point. For example, I think I’d enjoy being hand-fed from a bowl of peeled grapes but not if 74 grapes were shoved into my gullet in rapid succession whilst someone was pinching my nose and holding my jaws open. It would be even less pleasant if the forced grape-gorging were to be accompanied by Siva shouting in my ear that I was experiencing a Citi Moment of Indigestion.

Monday, 30th May
What a silly match. Some argue that this is the beauty of Test cricket, that for four days nothing occurs, then, long after everyone has gone home, something happens. This isn’t much of an argument or a selling point. It’s like promoting a package holiday tour and promising that 80% of the time you’ll be bored out of your skull, but things will really pick up just before you catch your flight home. Fine, well, in that case, let’s just cut to the chase. One afternoon, 20 overs a side. We could even give it a catchy name, like “Twenty20” or some such.

The final day’s high jinks were not the only silly thing about this Test. A year ago KP was undone hilariously by Shakib Al Hasan, and in Cardiff his contortions against Herath were similarly comic, his limbs flailing in all directions, like a giraffe learning to ice skate, as he contrived to discover hitherto unseen menace in one of Rangana‘s slow straightish ones. But like the punchline to your favourite comedy sketch, the fact that you know it’s coming doesn’t make it any less amusing.

Tuesday, 31st May
I’m not sure how many times Shahid Afridi has retired. Statsguru is no help on the matter, since it fails to list this or many other statistical player essentials, such as number of breaches of the ICC Code of Conduct, pages in autobiography, tweets per day and so on. This latest Afridi sabbatical would require a new column in the records as it is a “conditional” retirement – conditional, that is, upon the entire PCB being replaced. I love Shahid, but he is flakier than a crate of breakfast cereal, and he has now achieved the remarkable feat of making Ijaz Butt look like a reasonable man for five minutes.

Misbah-ul-Haq uses a hand-sign to illustrate his point about the cyclical nature of fashion © AFP

Saturday, 21st May
Though the market for Ashes literature may be more crowded than an elevator at an obesity convention, it seems there’s always room for one more, hence the existence of Andrew Strauss’s new effort, Winning the Ashes Down Under: The Captain’s Story. Described by one reviewer as “another bloody Ashes book”, it is a stirring tale of how a team of professional sportsmen battled against the odds to beat another team who weren’t quite as good. This epic rollercoaster story is told in three parts:

Part One: Arrive in Australia
Part Two: Beat lower-ranked Test opponents
Part Three: Return home

Sunday, 22nd May
It is a peculiar thing, this Morgan situation. A man makes himself available to play Tests for England, flies all the way back from India to take part in a trial game to demonstrate his readiness to play Test cricket, and then has to answer questions about his priorities. It seems quite straightforward. He wants to test himself against the best players on the biggest stages, so he spends his early season time playing high-pressure cricket in the IPL rather than pottering around in the shires accumulating easy runs. What’s the problem?

Tuesday, 24th May
Pakistan’s visit to the Caribbean has come to an end with a 1-1 Test scoreline that left the viewer wondering whether these teams were equally good or just as bad as each other. An intriguing if peculiar little tour also threw up the following thoughts:

1. That the captaincy of the Pakistan cricket team is as inconstant and unpredictable as the world of haute couture. Right now, it seems that thirtysomething veterans are back in, Misbah is quite the thing and suddenly that hand-clapping, floppy-fringed look that everyone was raving about a few months ago seems to belong to a quainter time, like bell-bottomed trousers and responsible investment banking.

2. That West Indies is the new south Asia. As it happens, I like low, slow, crumbly result pitches that take prodigious spin. I just don’t like them in the Caribbean. That’s the wrong place for them. What chance have the next generation of Ambroses, Walshes and Marshalls got when they charge to the crease, let fly and watch the ball splat into the earth with a sigh and trundle towards the batsman at knee height?

3. That two Test matches is not a series, it is a pair of isolated incidents.

Stuart Broad uses a pair of sunglasses craftily to protect his valuable brain © Getty Images

Saturday, 7th May
Shahid Afridi is a little boy, albeit a boy with a handsome beard and a mild case of media Tourette’s, but a boy nonetheless. He fidgets, he shouts, he claps, he swings wildly, he poses, he gabbles incessantly to his bowlers whether they like it or not. Life is a birthday party and he wants to open all his presents at once. Sometimes he gets a little over-tired, turns into Shahid Huffridi and stomps off in a sulk.

Naturally he wants to be in charge of picking the team. I’m sure he’d quite like to drive the bus too, and given half a chance, he’d take the kit home to wash, although he’d probably overdo the detergent, flood the kitchen, dismantle the washing machine, storm out of the house, come back half an hour later and try to eat one of the pipes before fixing everything with one hand whilst trying to break the world yo-yo record with the other.

Sadly it seems that Shahid is outliving his welcome in some quarters, which is a shame, so perhaps he should do the sensible thing and let Waqar have his say selection-wise. Besides, given some of the peculiar selections that Pakistan have come up with in recent months, you’d have thought a degree of plausible deniability would be useful to a captain. Don’t blame me, it was Waqar who picked the team…

Sunday, 8th May
It did not occur to me last week, when the elevation of Broad jnr was announced, that there wasn’t in fact a vacancy for him to be promoted to. It had completely slipped my mind that England already had a Twenty20 captain, which is unforgivable, because he was rather a good one too. Wee Colly may not be pretty, but then in the credit column, he rarely pouts on the field of play, and he did bring home a trophy.

The old ginger stonewaller talked about his successor’s “fast-thinking brain”, which was decent of him, but it doesn’t really tell the whole story. The newest England captain does have a brain, we can be sure of that, but it’s a brain that throws up a range of thoughts, not all of which are absolutely top drawer, and some of which, if acted upon, can lead to a string of detentions and a severely reduced pocket money allowance.

Monday, 9th May
Peter Roebuck has written an article in the Hindu criticising the scheduling of only two Tests between South Africa and Australia. It is a shame that these great cricket nations will not be playing more Tests, although the layman might humbly suggest that if people were interested in turning up to watch these matches, Cricket South Africa would be staging them. But then his article took an odd turn, thus:

“Cricket is not in its right mind. Instead it has been taken over by apologists whose thoughts turn to the frenzied mob and the bottom line.”

Hmm. Frenzied mob? Well no one likes a mob, and frenzied mobs are just about the worst kind of mob you can get. Shame on them, I thought. And then I started to think. How can we spot these mobs, so we can avoid them? Who are they? Where do they come from? And then it struck me. He means us. You and me.

But not all the time. Let me explain. If you troll along to a Test match in your best slacks, spiffing tie and panama, you’re a connoisseur of all that is noble and fine in the game and good luck to you. Well done. However, if the following month you take your seats in Bangalore to watch a Twenty20 game then you (yes you!) are a frenzied mob in the making. Frankly, you should be ashamed of yourselves.

Kapil's perfect logic: Just by walking the ramp you don't become a model so just because Fletcher coached England doesn't mean he's er a coach © AFP

Tuesday, 26th April
Today Alastair Cook called our attention to the plight of dozens of downtrodden cricket professionals, some of them earning as little as £100,000 per annum, who are forced to fly first-class, to train to a peak of fitness at someone else’s expense and to spend days at a time in five-star hotels. Comrade Cook complained that the modern cricketer doesn’t have enough say and implied that something ought to be done about it, whilst playing John Lennon’s “Power To The People” through his iPod speakers.

As a mood of militancy swept the golf courses, top-quality gymnasia and exclusive nightclubs of the nation, there were rumours that the England team might be about to go on strike. But after urgent talks, the Association of Stodgy Top-Order Grinders, the Federation of Flashy Cameo-Makers and the Union of Bowlers and Twitterers all agreed to cancel the planned industrial action on the grounds that actually they were rather well-paid, had lots of time off and really had very little to complain about.

Thursday 28th April
The news that bookmakers have been arrested and some may have confessed to making death threats against Zulqarnain Haider has not gone down well at the PCB. Officials are being instructed to exercise extreme caution in opening newspapers, and in the event of being exposed to suggestions that the match-fixing problem is widespread, have been taught advanced emergency techniques, such as carefully inserting one finger into each ear and making, “la la la la la” noises.

I have had some personal experience in dealing with bookies. Not the kind you might find hanging around a hotel bar, offering leather jackets and well-stuffed envelopes to gullible young sportsmen. No, I’m talking about a different breed. In Pakistan, the bookies may be illegal, but they will at least take a bet. Here in Britain we have the opposite problem. Perfectly legal bookies who are reluctant to entertain the idea of taking your money if they think you might win. Prison’s too good for ‘em.

Friday, 29th April
Kapil Dev doesn’t think Duncan Fletcher should be Indian coach on the grounds that he doesn’t really know who the man is and doesn’t remember him doing much as a player. Fortunately, India don’t select their coaches on the basis of whether Kapil has ever bumped into him at a social event or what kind of batting average he ended up with. Greg Chappell was one of the greatest batsmen of all time and Gary Kirsten wasn’t. But which of them is the better coach?

If there is a policy of deliberately not picking an Indian coach, then that of course would be absurd. But since we have no evidence that is the case, we have to assume that the BCCI has fallen back on the old-fashioned method of picking the best candidate from among the applicants. What counts against Fletcher most of all is not his sometimes gruff demeanour, his playing career or the fact that he doesn’t speak Hindi. It’s the fact that John Buchanan thinks he’s the right man for the job.

Be afraid India. Be very afraid.

Two legends star in a “name that fruit” line-up © AP

Saturday, 23rd April
So what is burnout, exactly? Is it that feeling you get some mornings, you know, when you’re dog tired, you lack any motivation, you can’t face another day working with the same old people and you wonder if you’ll ever get a break.? Is that burnout? No, of course it isn’t silly. And why? Because you aren’t a professional cricketer, that’s why, so get out of bed and get to work, you idle layabout!

Proper burnout is what happens to the top sportsman when he decides he wants some time off, perhaps because his golf handicap is slipping or he really wants to get started on that house extension. Or sometimes because his contract is up. And burnout is such a powerful phenomenon that it can even be cited before it’s happened. For example, we read today that Andy Flower might be at risk of burnout in the future and so will need a really good deal from the ECB. Unless, of course, he gets the India job.

I suppose fast bowlers like Lasith Malinga might be entitled to complain about burnout, or more accurately, the gradual disintegration of their more important limbs. If Larwood, Hall, Lillee or Lindwall had been forced to tear in, jam their foot into the dirt and twist sideways at speed in three different formats all year round, they’d be retiring from Test cricket in no time. But how exactly do coaches burn out? Laptop strain? Press conference fatigue? Selection anxiety?

Sunday, 24th April
What’s the big talking point in cricket at the moment? Chris Gayle versus the WICB? The make-up of the 2015 World Cup? The identity of India’s next coach? All of that is very interesting, I’m sure, but the Long Handle is more interested in the human angle. We want to know about the people behind the news. Specifically, we are fascinated by the incredible smoothness of Shane Warne’s orange face.

The story of his complexion is a modern version of an Oscar Wilde classic. The Moisturiser of Shane Warne stars an ageing but virile spin bowler who is offered the chance to stay young forever, and even to look a little bit younger, if he will sell his soul to a cosmetics company. No worries, says Shane. He agrees to promote a tub of cold cream and uses the money he gets to pay for a bit of facial renovation.

Of course that’s just a fairy story. It couldn’t actually happen. Still, the fact remains that he is becoming spectacularly multi-coloured. The white teeth, the tangerine face, the electric blue shirt; it’s quite a sight. And he can still bowl a bit. On a dusty day in Ahmedabad, he took Kochi apart. They were like unwary purple and orange sheep who had wandered into a tiger enclosure. And, provided you didn’t sit too close to the television and wore protective sunglasses, it was lovely to watch the old boy in action.

Monday, 25th April
Kamran wants to play for his country again. Referring to his less than splendid performance against New Zealand in the World Cup, he complained:

“I have one of the highest dismissal rates among all the wicketkeepers who have played for Pakistan.”

That may be, but he benefits from the fact that the stats do not include columns for “Oopsie daisies”, “Sorry, skipper she just didn’t stick” and “I was sure I had that one”.

But then, it isn’t Kamran’s fault that he kept being picked despite the mounting evidence that entrusting him with the gloves was a little like asking your rollerblading-addicted seven-year-old nephew and his pet macaw to mind your porcelain shop for the afternoon.

And having finally de-gloved him it would be a shame if Pakistan decided to dispense with his batting. The Kamran cover drive is something spectacular; it hits you like a slap in the face from a good friend. It is a stunning piece of batsmanship. It would be a shame if that shot were not to be seen again in international cricket.

"I welcome Zulqy's return to Pakistan. And if I am really, really, really out of form, I'm sure he'll stand a chance to keep for the team" © AFP

Saturday, 16th April
The WIPA are not happy and have filed a notice of dispute against the WICB, only the third since breakfast. This time they are properly riled up. They think the selection of the West Indies team was influenced by issues other than “performance, potential, playing conditions and preparedness” though they don’t elaborate. Perhaps they had run out of p words. Not that it matters: for all the difference it will make, they might just as well have cited pumpkins, pineapples, prestidigitation and parachutes.

The decision to ditch our old friends, Cool Chris, Shiv the Crab, and Hamstring Ramnaresh was many things. It was baffling, bizarre, and more than a little bonkers. But that’s how they roll at the WICB. They get to pick the team and that’s that. The WIPA say the selection process was not fair or transparent. In the long history of our game, has there ever been a fair and transparent selection process? It’s always smoky rooms, old men in suits, names in a hat and “My nephew is quite a player you know.” Fair and transparent selection policies? Whatever next? Accountability? Integrity?

Sunday, 17th April
Zulquarnain Haider is to return to Pakistan, having grown bored of waiting for his asylum application to be processed. Chalk another one up to the Home Office. Their next step would have been to claim that they had never received it in the first place, find it, lose it, find it then lose it again and it would eventually turn up next August in a small filing cabinet somewhere in the Outer Hebrides.

Now obviously, a talented young cricketer fleeing abroad in fear for his life can count upon the full support of his country’s cricket board. Unless, of course, that board is the PCB. As you remember, they conducted a fact-phobic fact-finding investigation into the affair and concluded that, besides the death threats, they couldn’t find any reason for his giving up cricket and flying to the UK. No doubt they will be doing everything to help him rebuild his career upon his return.

But he will face some stiff competition. They aren’t short of wicketkeepers at the PCB, thanks to their ongoing contract with Akmal Glove Logistics, the family firm that promises never to take their eye off the ball, even when it’s lying on the turf by their feet.

Monday, 18th April
Graeme Swann has today criticised “rollers”. For a moment I thought he was having a pop at those large iron wheels with the big handles. But it turns out he’s taking a swipe at our proud English tradition of spinners who don’t turn the ball. For a time in the 1990s, “rollers” were the fashion. Every county had four and most of them had England caps. Unsurprisingly, the General Secretary of the Amalgamated Union of Rollers and Trundlers has already bashed out a stiff email rebuttal to Mr Swann.

And as a roller myself I can tell Graeme that there is more to it than waddling up and putting it there or thereabouts, although admittedly, not much more. For example, you might be a “spear-it-in” kind of roller. Or you might be a “shuffle-up-and-turn-your arm-over-with-minimal-effort” kind of cove. Perhaps you might wear a flashy wrist band or cultivate a distracting hairstyle. But whatever the method, the philosophy of the roller is a simple and a dignified one. A cricket ball can be floated up, fired in or flung down, but it must never be spun. For spinning a leather sphere would be an unnatural use of finger and opposable thumb, a gift of evolution that was designed for manipulating small pieces of sharpened flint, rolling cigars and picking your nose.

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.”

Afridi and Waqar contemplate with distaste the unprecedented outbreak of sobriety in the Pakistan ranks © AFP

Saturday, 19th February
Shahid Afridi thinks that Pakistan are dangerous. I disagree. A tamer set of green-clad cricketers you will rarely see. Shoaib Akhtar is an ageing rockstar, Younis Khan and Misbah ul-Haq are as sensible as a stout pair of brogues and even the captain is on his best behaviour. They’re about as dangerous as a Sunday afternoon in Bournemouth. And frankly, all this harmony, discipline and focus is dull, dull, dull; we get more than enough of that from the other teams. Loosen up, Shahid, and do something silly!

Monday, 21st February
As a species we have achieved much. We have travelled to the moon, carved railways through the sides of mountains, discovered supersonic travel, and eliminated the need to take two bottles into the shower. And yet it appears that, given 2000 years’ practice, four years’ notice, a potential audience of a billion and pots of money, we are still unable to satisfactorily arrange an efficient method of ensuring sufficient people gain entrance to a sporting event in exchange for a small fee.

The range of ways the authorities have found to deter people from attending World Cup games is impressive. Set up websites to handle public demand that then crash due to public demand. Refuse to tell anyone where they can buy a ticket. Don’t advertise where the games are happening until the last minute, like illegal parties. And, thanks to a suggestion from the Mumbai CA’s marketing consultant, a Mr Wonka, the public allocation of 10 golden tickets for the final have been hidden in bars of chocolate to be sold in sweet shops throughout India.

Tuesday, 22nd February
I don’t agree with this idea that Associate Members are cluttering up the World Cup. For one thing, it is a dangerous precedent to start excluding teams from competitions on the grounds that they haven’t got a hope in hell of winning them. Where do you draw the line? If such a rule was in place, England might never play in a World Cup again. Ditto New Zealand and West Indies. A few years from now, we could be looking at a tournament featuring just India, Sri Lanka and South Africa. Which might be better, but rather misses the point.

Anyway, you don’t always need a close game to be entertained. Today’s match, for example, had everything. There was an impressive display of formation politeness (“Would you like to catch the ball?” “No sir, I couldn’t, possibly. After you.” “No, you go, I insist”) a coconut shy in the covers, some hilarious clowning around on the boundary, and a lovely rendition of the traditional “Four Men in the Circle” dance. All that was missing were the silly hats, tinkly ankle bells and waving handkerchiefs. This troupe of English folk dancers are sure to be a hit on their six-date Indian tour.

And there was KP, continuing with his tradition of celebrating left-arm spinners. As heroic flaws go, this helplessness in the face of a ball heading towards him from a slightly wider angle is baffling. After all, it took a rare glowing green rock from outer space to bring Superman down. Though, to be fair, Clark Kent’s mission was easier: save the world whilst maintaining anonymity. KP has a lot more on his plate. He has to open the innings in the World Cup but doesn’t quite know how. Do they want him to be Kevin Boycott or Kevin Botham? As sportsmen would say, it’s very much swings and roundabouts being a superhero.

”What, no Gucci trainers? Right, I’m off” © Getty Images

Friday, 4th February
Our humble sport is more than just a game; it is a lifelong education. Through cricket we can discover so much about the world around us. For example, thanks to the alleged misdemeanours of cricket folk around the world, we have been able to sample the rich variety of legal systems that our planet sustains. From the Lalit Modi saga alone I have learned lots of sexy new legal phrases such as “show-cause notice” and “recuse” and “massive financial irregularities”.

Well, today I was introduced to a dusty nook of English law with which I had hitherto been entirely unfamiliar. Apparently, right here in Blighty, you can be sent to prison for cheating! Who knew? I’ve lived here all my life and I had no idea that the c-word could land you in front of a judge. If only I’d known I was risking a criminal record all those years ago when I scribbled formulas on my arm before my maths GCSE, I never would have done it! So let this be a lesson to you kids, the law is on to you and cheating doesn’t pay. Unless you get away with it, obviously.

Saturday, 5th February
This is a sad day for cricket. The wait is over, our fears have been realised and now we know the truth. We all need to take time to reflect on what this means for our sport. No doubt in time we will get over it, but for the moment the loss is palpable. We must face facts, everyone: Sourav Ganguly will not be playing in the IPL.

Why is this? How could it be allowed to happen? In an act of pure cricket vandalism, the IPL has ruled that no franchise can sign him, which means, barring an unlikely appearance in the Birmingham and District Premier League (where I fear the absence of gold taps in many of the pavilion washrooms could be a deal-breaker) I will never again see Sourav on a cricket field with a bat in his hand and a glint in his eye.

Never again will we witness that snort of derision from haughtily curled nostrils as he lets the ball go by; that lordly patrician glare of disapproval as the bowler whizzes one rather too close to the Ganguly cranium; that natural god-given ability to irritate Australians without really trying. And, lest we forget, the most entertaining press conferences in India that don’t involve Virender Sehwag. Farewell, Sourav.

Sunday 6th February
More disappointing news. It appears that Shaun Tait will not be used at the World Cup after all. The experimental cricket ball-propelling device had become a popular addition to the sport this winter but Australian authorities have refused to grant it an export licence. Apparently the special extra-strength sticky tape used to hold the Tait together is a crucial component in the Australian air force and so cannot be taken out of the country. The Johnson will not be used either as there are some concerns that its malfunctioning target-location system may render it a threat to local birdlife.

Monday, 7th February
After a closely fought campaign between the Silly Party, led by “Crazy” Shahid Afridi and the Dull Party, fronted by “Sensible” Misbah ul-Haq, the result of the first Pakistani Captaincy Election 2011 was declared at the weekend and it was victory for Afridi with a 100% swing to Silliness as the electorate, a Mr Ijaz Butt, cast his vote by carrier pigeon for the man with the nicest hair.

Afridi celebrated his victory with a 57-run defeat in Auckland and after the match promised to bring back the World Cup and to do something silly along the way. Conceding defeat on behalf of the Dull Party, Misbah declared that whilst the result was disappointing, he and his friends would rally behind the new captain and offer him their fullest support until just after they lose their first game.

Bob Willis was not best pleased about the notice from the SPCA giving him two days to get rid of the small dog he had grown used to carrying about on his head © Getty Images

Friday, 21st January
Yet more avant-garde administration from the wacky pranksters who gave us the self-rescinding lifetime ban and the incredible vanishing allegations. The PCB have gingered up the yawnsome selection ritual by flinging down a conceptual doosra.

Yes, we have bowlers. Batsmen we’ve also got. Wicketkeepers too (ish). But check this out: there’s no captain! That’s right. We’re sending a World Cup squad to India and we’re so crazy we don’t even know who’s going to lead them!

Reactionary old Waqar doesn’t get it. He thinks it’s preferable to have a captain than not to have a captain. He used to play a bit and he still wears a tracksuit from time to time, so he’s probably entitled to his opinion. What he’s not entitled to do is express it. You concentrate on lining up the post-nets energy drinks, W, and leave the rest to the experts. Or they might just decide to send the team to India without a coach either. Maybe Chairman Butt will do the coaching. Who’ll be laughing then, eh?

Sunday, 23rd January
Only extensive hypnotherapy, blind fear or a cocktail of powerful hallucinogenic drugs can induce the English batsman to play in an attacking vein for any length of time. Andy Flower achieved the apparently impossible in the Caribbean last year, by artificially stimulating their slog glands. But since that EU ruling outlawing the use of sub-cranial electrodes, it’s back to normal for the men in shady blue. And normal means stodgy with occasional showers of recklessness.

Let me explain. In different, distinctly un-English climes, where the bounce is true and the sun shines, fledgling willow wafters grow up trusting their swing. But hereabouts, where everything is the colour of damp, grass and soil are the batsman’s natural enemies. This is the home of the wary nudge, the stifled clip, the sneaky glance and the dead bat. A classically correct drive to the cover boundary may be possible on a sunny day at Lord’s in early June. But that’s about it.

So when the England captain pledges that our chaps will continue to attack, I fear the worst. Attacking, like drinking in moderation, doesn’t come naturally to us and we tend to overdo it. Whereas our most famous military victories, like Waterloo and Agincourt, were based on the forward-defensive, when required to take the initiative we end up with the Charge of the Light Brigade: a reckless headlong attack that had very little prospect of success. Which could well be England’s World Cup motto.

Tuesday, 25th January
People have some funny ideas about what a cricketer should look like. Andy Flower thinks a proper cricketer should be able to look down and see his toes. Australians seem not so bothered by the dimensions of a man’s paunch and even have no problem if he’s blond. But blond, pretty and a celebrity? That’s too much. Hence the opprobrium heaped on Michael Clarke for using Twitter when he should have been beating himself about the shoulders with birch twigs in penitence for his lack of runs.

And then there’s wannabe Indian bowling coach Fanie de Villiers, who has taken against Ishant Sharma.

“First thing I would ask him is to cut his hair short. He does not look like a cricketer to me. You need to look like a cricketer first. Batting or bowling comes after that.”

Piffle times codswallop squared. Dennis Lillee looked like an angry scarecrow with a stick-on-moustache and averaged two buttons per shirt from 1975 till 1979, whilst Bob Willis appeared to be balancing a miniature poodle on his head for most of his career. I seem to remember they did okay. Out of solidarity, every single member of the Indian bowling attack should grow their locks until they could pass for a heavy metal band. Apart from Sreesanth, obviously. That dude really needs a hair cut.

Shilpa Shetty can’t contain her excitement at the launch of her new venture: Big Brother: Airborne, in partnership with Kingfisher © AFP

Saturday, 8th January
I’m not sure the PCB have quite got the hang of this anti-corruption thing. The dial on their administrative machinery appears to have two settings: “suspect no one” and “suspect everyone”, and at the moment it is stuck firmly on the latter.

Danish Kaneria has not been charged with any crime and is not under investigation by the ICC. And yet he is persona non grata in Pakistan selection circles, as likely to get a game as Barack Obama, Rolf Harris or “President” Asif Ali Zardari, veteran spinner and connoisseur of the cut.

Why is this so? I have a theory. The PCB, having been late converts to the benefits of fighting corruption, are now zealots in the cause and, like all zealots, have to take things that little bit too far. And what’s the only surefire way to prevent players from fixing cricket matches? Simple. Don’t ever let them play in any matches!

Sunday, 9th January
The work of conceptual artist Lalit Modi continues to make waves. This weekend, the Situationist collective known as “The IPL” staged a live “auction” at which cricketers were led onto a stage one at a time and “sold” to “franchise owners”, who threw sacks of gold coins at the mediocre players but completely ignored the good ones.

Said one leading art critic:

“The way they subverted cricket’s outmoded patterns of talent hierarchy was breathtaking in its artistic vision. I particularly liked the bit where they put $400,000 next to Michael Yardy’s name. That was hilarious.”

Sourav Ganguly was unavailable to comment (although he is now available for after-dinner engagements and pantomime at very reasonable rates.)

Monday, 10th January
This winter’s disagreeable turn of events for Ricky P has caused a certain amount of introspection in the little fella. He wants nothing less than a review of the whole structure of Australian cricket. Next month Merv Hughes and Jeff Thomson are to lead a fact-finding mission to ECB headquarters to find out just what kind of futuristic, state of the art, next-generation set-up we’ve got in England that has enabled us to produce players of the calibre of Kevin Pietersen and Jonathan Trott.

To help speed the process along, I’ve summarised the key changes that the Aussies will need to make if they want to be more like us.

Break up those large, uncompetitive states with their concentration of resources and streamlined scouting and coaching networks and replace them with 18 or so smaller teams who will not be accountable to anyone.

Ideally, incorporate the word “shire” or “sex” into the titles of Australian teams. For example: Victoriashire, Queenslandsex, South Australiashire etc.

Quadruple the amount of cricket played domestically and introduce two new tournaments, at least one of which should be in an irrelevant format, such as, say, 35 or 43 overs.

Ensure that most of the money generated by Cricket Australia is shared amongst the chairpersons of the 18 teams, who in turn are advised to spend it on foreign cricketers, ugly new pavilions and luxury trouser presses.

Identify the 10 most promising players in South Africa and send them complimentary Australian passports.

Obviously there is a little more to it than that. Cricket Australia might also find it useful to try doing absolutely nothing for 20 years, and if questioned, explain that these things have a habit of working themselves out and that it’s all cyclical anyway.

So don’t worry Ricky. Just follow our example and before you can say “Allen Stanford!” the plastic replica of the Ashes urn will be back in Australian hands.

“... When he started on my brand of hair mousse, I knew things had gone too far, it had become personal” © Getty Images

Tuesday, 28th December
Today we were granted another guided tour of the murky ethical underworld of the modern cricketer. Apparently Sreesanth had been rude to Graeme Smith during the day’s play. The big man took exception to it and, Miandad-like, brandished his bat as though it were a weapon. This seems as good a use for it as any, since the lump of wood was not performing in its main capacity as a run-scoring device. But what can Sreesanth have said that so riled the statuesque South African?

More pertinently, what can he have said that has not already been said on a cricket field? Enter Paul Harris, in his post match seminar on the ethics of gratuitous abuse. He conjured for us a metaphysical line that no player should cross. How do you know when you’ve stepped over the line? When things get “personal”. But this only raises more questions. For a start, what does non-personal sledging sound like? How do you hurl abuse at someone in an impersonal way?

I’ve no doubt there is a line. It goes something like this: I call you names, that’s sledging; you call me names, that’s personal and unacceptable abuse. Maybe we could do with another of those Spirit of Cricket declarations, outlining just what a chap can and can’t say on a cricket field. We could even have an extra chapter explaining for how long it is acceptable to argue with an umpire. Alternatively, players could just be told to stop their silly name-calling and behave like grown-ups.

Wednesday, 29th December
Even as the dregs of his captaincy swirl around the plughole of fate, Ricky still has a lot to offer. His many years in the game have brought him great wisdom. This, for example, is how he summed up the Australian effort at the MCG.

“We didn’t do anything different than we did last week, we just haven’t played well.”

I think that would be the thing that you did differently, Ricky, the bit about not playing well. Still, you have to feel sorry for the little fella. There is a mood for change in Australian cricket, but changing captains on the basis of moods or hunches is not a good policy. Lest any Englishman forget, we still hold the record for most discarded captains in a Test series - the Gatting-Emburey-Cowdrey-Gooch-Pringle summer of 1988. And it all started because we ditched the incumbent in the absence of a viable replacement, because, well, it kind of felt like the right thing to do.

Thursday, 30th December
Champions of Chutzpah, the PCB have outdone themselves. They have set up something called an Integrity Committee. Yes, really. And who is to lead this fight for integrity? Why, Mr Ijaz Butt of course. First up for the committee is a serious investigation into the affairs of Shoaib Malik, Danish Kaneria and Kamran Akmal, three men who haven’t been charged with anything and against whom there is no evidence. Perhaps when they’ve finished grilling these players, the No-Smoke-Without-Fire Committee could ask their illustrious chairman a few questions?

Friday, 31st December
Against advice, Kevin Pietersen has been talking in public again. He has explained that it was a good thing that he brought down the previous coaching regime, because under Peter Moores there is no way England could have won the Ashes. At first glance, taking time out from a victory celebration to have a swipe at the previous coach two years after he was sacked might suggest a certain amount of bitterness on the part of KP. But that would be unfair. He goes on to offer an unflinching analysis of his own leadership skills.

“I got rid of the captaincy for the good of English cricket and we would not be here today if I had not done what I did then.”

Quite.

"And I hereby officially blame the aliens for all my bad hair days" © Getty Images

Friday, 24th December
Normally, here at the Long Handle we enjoy a good fact-hunt. What could be more stirring than middle-aged men in suits crouched in the metaphorical undergrowth, diligently tracking their prey through thickets of hearsay and forests of misinformation? But the PCB’s latest fact-finding expedition into the Haider affair, wasn’t much of a hunt. It was more like a fact-foraging trip, in which facts that had already been left lying around were gathered up, dusted down and rearranged.

In trying to get to the bottom of things, the three wise men seem to have relied entirely on casual conversations rather than written submissions. Perhaps they were trying to save the rainforests. Yet surprisingly, although this fact-finding report is light on, er, facts, it does find plenty of room for insinuation, gossip and innuendo. Thus they are able to inform us that Haider is “a person who is easily convinced into believing whatever is said to him”. Perhaps they should offer him a job at the PCB?

Saturday, 25th December
Disturbing news from Kerala, where there appears to be a kerfuffle about the building of a new stadium. Some people are objecting on the flimsy basis that the area contains mangrove swamps and important wetlands. Well, what nonsense. The world is amply supplied with land that is wet, but what we are really short of is enormous concrete bowls with plastic seats, ample car parking and floodlights. Crack on with the building, chaps, and if the crocodiles give you any trouble, offer them free IPL tickets.

Sunday, 26th December
There has been a reshuffle in New Zealand cricket and Kyle Mills is not happy. He knows who to blame, too. No, not the players. Apparently, it’s our fault, for being stupid and gullible.

“…the media think they have all the answers and express this to the public and the public buy into it.”

Ah, the public. He means us. You and me, the plebs who pay Mr Mills’ wages and turn up in our thousands (or in the case of New Zealand, our dozens) to watch him play cricket. We are to blame for the abandonment of the previous regime, for the installation of Mr John Wright, and above all for the 11 consecutive one-day defeats that poor Mr Mills has had to endure. We should be ashamed of ourselves.

Monday, 27th December
Bad news for parents with cricket-loving kids. The manufacturers of the bestselling pint-sized interactive cricket doll, Lil Ricky, have announced an urgent recall of this popular product. We have reprinted the press release in its entirety:

“It has come to our attention that there are one or two technical issues that could affect your enjoyment of Lil Ricky and so we are advising parents whose children own one of these items to return them to the factory.

The problem appears to involve the ‘Disgruntled’ setting, in which the doll is supposed to walk round in circles for about 30 seconds, grumbling semi-audible expletives, before settling back into a slip-fielding position. Unfortunately some of the dolls are malfunctioning. One concerned parent has reported that instead of switching itself off, her son’s Lil Ricky stood remonstrating with him for eight minutes, then had an argument with the family cat before stomping off into the garden, shaking its little round plastic head.

Our technical department are aware of these problems, which seem to be as a result of the product reaching the end of its working life. We would ask people to return their Lil Rickys and in exchange we will send them our latest toy, ‘Captain Pup’, a loveable little chap with a cheeky green cap, who can yelp the Australian national anthem. Comes with free grooming kit, tattoo transfers and detachable credibility.”

"That's right, the urn and the Queen have to live in the same country" © Getty Images

Wednesday December 22nd
Has anyone seen SKY’s objectivity? I could have sworn it was there this summer, or perhaps I only imagined it. Anyway, it’s been missing a long time now and I just thought it might be a good idea if they started looking for it, because frankly, without our old friend objectivity, their cricket coverage is as appetising as a bowl of sandpaper and gravel muesli.

Today I watched their review of the Ashes so far. A slightly fatuous exercise, like pausing coverage of the men’s Olympic 100-metre final at the 60-metre mark and debating which of the runners looks the most tired. Still, I’m a sucker for men in suits moaning about English cricket, indeed, that was what made up most of the BBC’s cricket coverage between 1986 and 2003, so I’d recorded the whole thing.

But I was mistaken. It wasn’t a review of the Ashes so far. It was a series of mock-team talks for the benefit of the English players and for those viewers who don’t particularly like the sport but do grasp the Botham principle of cricket, which is: England win equals good; foreigner win equals bad. Isn’t cricket about more than this? Is that all our great game boils down to?

The only saving grace was the comedy due of Bob Willis and Angus Fraser, who could be the Waldorf and Statler of SKY’s cricket coverage. Fraser still hasn’t yet quite hit his grumbling straps, but he brings a jowly downbeat shtick to the show, which beautifully compliments Willis’s impersonation of a pessimistic soothsayer. And throughout the programme, Long Bob was clearly itching to explain why England’s entire bowling strategy was a complete disaster, but he was kept on a tight leash by the presenter. Don’t worry, Bob, your time will come. It always does.

Thursday, December 23rd
Predicting what is going to happen on a Pakistan tour is a little like trying to pin down the weather during hurricane season. We know there will be one or two disasters, a fair few dramatic collapses and the possibility of a wreck or two, interspersed with interludes of astonishing calm and beauty. But which will happen next?

Well, I hope you had your “Pakistan Bingo” cards handy, because Shahid’s chaps ticked off the box marked, “unpredictable collapse” by being skittled for an imaginative 91 against Auckland, a total that the home side reeled in with seven overs to spare. Nice work, chaps, plenty of time left for some sightseeing.

Still, at the post-debacle press conference, coach Waqar wasn’t worried.

“You forget,” he joked, “I’ve seen these guys play before. 91 all out is nothing, believe me.”

But irrational optimism, along with a healthy sense of paranoia, is one of the key attributes required by any Pakistan coach and Waqar has plenty of it.

“I think they’ve learned the lesson and hopefully in the next game it will be a different ball game.”

Unfortunately for Waqar, I have checked with the relevant authorities in New Zealand and apparently it’s the same ball game, the one involving the bat, the ball and the sticks that keep falling over.

US law-enforcement workers tattoo "Rotten Egg" on Allen Stanford's back so innocent cricket boards aren't taken in again © Getty Images

Saturday, 18th December
In their ongoing attempt to ensure that as few Pakistan fans as possible can see their team play, the PCB are apparently considering holding some of their games in China. The advantage of a Chinese adventure is clear: Chinese newspapers are unlikely to be interested in investigating the off-field activities of cricketers, and even if they were, they probably wouldn’t be allowed to tell anyone about it! Nice move, Ijaz!

Sunday, 19th December
A bigger IPL requires a fresh format and those hip young administrators at the BCCI have come up with a sexy new schedule that is sure to draw in the crowds. And responding to criticism that it looked a tad complicated, they have, for the benefit of us laypeople, produced this Dummies Guide to the arrangements for IPL4:

“Each of the participatory sporting entities will be engaged in a schedule of commitments commensurate with preceding editions; to whit, a quartet of reciprocal hosting arrangements in addition to a fourfold non-reciprocal fixture agreement, with the residual participants engaged on a home and away basis, followed by a meritocratically structured eliminatory interregnum, upon the conclusion of which, the venture will be considered to have satisfactorily attained a state of termination.”

Let the party commence!

Monday, 20th December
Ricky Ponting is a doubt for the Boxing Day Test after going down with a nasty bout of shock on the second day at Perth. Michael Clarke remembers what happened.

“Yeah, well Mitch had just taken a wicket and I remember looking over at Ricky and the guy was like, open-mouthed, like he was in shock or something. He just froze in that position and we couldn’t shift him.”

The spasm of surprise was so bad that for the rest of the game the Australian captain had to be carried out onto the field like a statue and moved around on Michael Beer’s skateboard. Cricket Australia remain concerned at his condition.

“The biggest danger in a case like this,” explained Doctor Hilditch, “Is that with the mouth frozen in the open position, he is at risk of swallowing a fly and because he’s still in shock, he won’t know why he swallowed the fly. Perhaps he’ll die.”

Tuesday, 21st December
Wikileaks has revealed that there were suspicions about the egregious Allen Stanford as long ago as 2006, including rumours about bribery, money laundering and political manipulation. But though this is embarrassing for Stanford’s former chums, the ECB, they have introduced measures to ensure they are never caught out again, as shown by this leaked internal memo:

Procedure for Satisfactorily Establishing the Bona Fides of Johnny Foreigner

1. If a chap you want to do business with appears to have a lot of cash, it is jolly important to ask him first how he came by it. I am aware that this is terribly bad form, but it isn’t Henley or Glyndebourne, this is the ruthless world of modern cricket. You must shake the fellow firmly by the hand, look him squarely in the eye and ask him straight out if he is a bounder. Write down his answer on your ECB memo pad.

2. Your second and final question must be equally blunt. Brook no argument or prognostication, but incline your head quizzically, finger your tie and ask him where he went to school. You may find the following table helpful:

Eton: Sound chap
Harrow: Good egg
Winchester: Decent fellow
Radley: Treat with caution
Other: Oik and potential bounder, be wary
State school: Probably an intruder. Call security.

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.”

"I'm warning you, if you don't use my haircare tips you're destined to end up getting rugs like Bollinger" © Getty Images

Saturday, 27th November
Kochi are in. Rajasthan were out but they might be in again. That said, Kochi might still be out. The head of the BCCI said he would need some time to study the latest developments. I don’t blame him. I’ve put some of my brainiest brain cells onto the job and I still can’t make any sense of the thing. Then again, business talk always numbs my neurons. Share options, equity, consortium… excuse me, did I nod off there? Most of these IPL stories could be repackaged as lullabies.

Besides, I much preferred the old IPL, the one where all the dodgy stuff was done behind the curtains. You knew it probably stank, but they at least had the decency to keep the mess out of sight. No one wants to go and watch a play in which the director spends the first hour explaining why the set is a bit rickety and the plot is full of holes. All this openness and probity is a big yawn. Let’s get back to what it’s all about: silly hype, silly money and silly cricket. With fireworks. And blimps.

Sunday, 28th November
“Owww!”

What on earth could that be at three o clock in the morning? A night prowler falling foul of a well-placed bear trap? Mitchell Johnson striving for extra accuracy and catching the square-leg umpire on the ankle?

Nope, it is the sound that David Gower makes when Nasser Hussain drives a chair leg into his toe. I’ve every sympathy for DG. No one wants to be woken up suddenly like that, especially not when they’re at work. Of course it could be that the chair thing was just a fabrication, to cover up the true reason for Gower’s existential yowl: the realisation that he might have to watch Alastair Cook bat for three days.

Monday, 29th November
A tricky time of year for those of us obliged to take part in Christmas festivities has just been made a whole lot easier. Got a cricket-loving adolescent in the family? Then they’ll love the new James Anderson book, Sledging for Beginners. Page after page of barely audible insinuations, surefire pouting tips and lower-lip workouts. Aimed at 10-year-olds, or possibly eight-year-olds with attitude, it is set to be a bestseller.

As a little taste of what the reader can expect, stump microphones in Brisbane picked up this exchange during Australia’s sleepy second innings:

Anderson: “Mumble mumble mumble.”
Batsman: “I’m sorry could you say that again?”
Anderson: “Oh you heard!”
Batsman: “Actually, no I didn’t.”
Anderson: “Yeah right, mumble, mumble.”
Batsman: “I’m sorry, I really have no idea what you’re saying…”

Ouch! Vicious stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Tuesday, 30th November
You might think that getting selected for the Pakistan team is a straightforward affair. A chap only needs to remain out of jail and in possession of a passport and a bat to get a go. But it isn’t as easy as all that. You still need some kind of hook, some catchy selling point. And, if you’re Kamran Akmal, you need a damn good one if you’re going to grab that 17th chance to prove yourself.

So Akmal fans will be pleased to hear that the toothy one has spotted an opportunity.

“Every Pakistan team needs a scapegoat, but at the moment we don’t really have one. So I’ve been working hard on certain areas of my game, like taking the blame, copping the flak and being the fall guy. If I get another chance, I believe I’ve got many years of being called names at the top level left in me.”

Baz and Jesse are impressed when Coney correctly guesses that their faces look red not because of the Indian heat but because of an accident with Dan's DIY make-up kit © AFP

Saturday, 6th November
Twenty-four hours have passed since we last heard from the lad from Pietermaritzburg, so to put that right, here’s KP. What’s happening Kevin?

“I’m on fire right now.”

Don’t panic. He isn’t really smouldering at the edges. He means, “I’m playing really well.” He’s talking in the dialect known as “sportsman”, you see. Still perhaps he’s missing an endorsement opportunity: KP’s Asbestos Trousers. “They keep me safe even when I’m on fire.” Or maybe not.

But even if you’re not married to him, you’ve got to love KP. Firstly, he offers us quotes like this:

“I play like a clown.”

To English ears, that kind of soothing self-deprecation is like a hot mug of cocoa in front of a roaring fire. It makes us feel warm and cosy. Because I too play like a clown and so do all the people I have ever taken to a cricket field with. A proper South African could never say something like that, at least not in public.

And, secondly, he can conjure up profound statements like this:

“I have been working really hard over the last six weeks to get to a place where I am at the moment.”

By which he means Perth, presumably.

Sunday, 7th November
If the PCB were an animal, it would be a lion. It spends most of its time asleep, then wakes to indulge itself in an afternoon of over-the-top savagery before sinking back into a contented slumber. Having done next to nothing for months, this most bi-polar of cricket boards has now begun to lash out in a familiar flurry of edicts, bans, punishments and extra-large stationery requests.

As we all know, the path to a corruption-free sport is paved with good regulations. So, taking his inspiration from the Code of Hammurabi, Mr Butt has listed 271 rules to which the Pakistan touring squad must adhere, on pain of an immediate double-life ban (a new level of punishment introduced just in case one of the life bans is overturned). Here is a taster of the new regime for the men in green:

“…Rule 17: And no player shall permit even a single hair on his head to exceed the length stipulated in the anti-corruption regulations, since it is a well known fact that the longer your hair, the naughtier you are likely to be. The team barber (Mr Afzal of Krazy Kuts, Lahore) will be on hand throughout the tour with his scissors and his PCB comb and has been given licence to snip at will.

Rule 18: We do not want to stop players having fun or talking to people. But unfortunately, we have no choice. You have all shown yourselves to be hopeless judges of character so from now on, all potential friends, hangers-on, casual acquaintances, girlfriends and squash partners must obtain an Informal Relationship Clearance Certificate from the Ministry of Elderly Aunts.

Rule 19: Never forget, my players, that when you pull on those dark green blazers, you are representing something bigger than yourselves. You are representing me. I am your master, that is why my portrait has been embroidered onto the breast pocket of your blazers and that is why you will wear them at all times, even in the shower…”

Monday, 8th November
Few teams have you flicking through the cricketers’ Who’s Who more often than New Zealand, but after five days of intensive study, I am now fully up to date in the matter of Watling, Williamson and Bennett. Of course, the real New Zealand stars are beyond the boundary. Whereas Twenty20 Danny Morrison is an egregious squawking parrot, Test match Morrison is a wise bird who makes fewer but more interesting noises. And then there is Jeremy Coney.

Quite simply, the man is box office. Quirky, unpredictable and prone to outbursts of genius, he comes across like a particularly brilliant detective. He deserves his own series. Watch Inspector Coney as he solves such fiendish riddles as “The Affair of McCullum’s Missing Runs”, “The Strange Disappearance then Reappearance then Disappearance of Tim Southee” and his toughest case yet, “The Curious Incident of the Empty Whisky Bottle in the Nightclub.”

“Elementary, my dear Jesse. Just blow into this breathalyzer please…”

Too late Mickey Arthur realised as his molars cracked that the aliens had tampered with his toffee © Getty Images

Wednesday, 3rd November
The head of some company or other responsible for producing a kind of digital whatchamacallit today tried to reassure reluctant Indian cricketers that there is nothing to be scared of, that everything is perfectly safe.

“We need to spend time with umpires and players, captains of teams, so that we can open up the entire Pandora’s box of the technology…”

I’m not sure this is a great sales pitch. Pandora’s box, as we know, was a container reputed to contain all the plagues, evils and diseases of the world, which, once released, could never be returned. No wonder Sachin wants nothing to do with it.

Thursday, 4th November
According to our chums with the laptops and laminated passes, Marcus North is either clinging on to his Test spot by his fingernails or about to be made captain, or possibly both. Furthermore the Australian dressing room is riven with infighting and yet, at the same time, the epitome of loving harmony; whilst Michael Clarke, depending on which paper you read, is a commanding leader of great sagacity and authority or an incompetent fool who can barely be trusted to arrange his knife and fork, let alone a 5-4 field.

It’s all rather baffling for the humble cricket fan, but fortunately help is at hand. The Department of Frivolous Algebra at the University of Fake Science have today explained this strange phenomenon with a useful formula:

Hype = X (Y*Z)

in which X is an event of no significance*, Y is a variable representing the number of journalists who have blagged a holiday to Australia, and Z represents the amount of time said journalists have on their hands once they get there.

In this case it appears that the operation of the Hype Equation is resulting in the inflation of a mid-ranking struggle between an ordinary yet inconsistent team and their inconsistent yet ordinary opponents into the greatest sporting clash since Ali versus Foreman. Meanwhile numbers 1 and 2 in the Test rankings are limbering up for a three-match series in December. Hype anyone? Apparently not.

Friday, 5th November
It seems that South Africans are not yet fully conversant with one of the great literary genres. A cricket autobiography is supposed to be a tiresome collection of dressing-room pranks interspersed with golfing stories, lists of scores and excuses. It is designed to be a birthday present, a draught excluder, a coffee table filler, or if it is large enough, a useful hurling implement with which to stun a charging rhinoceros. It is not, however, intended to be in any way interesting or readable.

Yet last week Herschelle Gibbs released his unputdownable tale of sex, cliques and rock and roll. And now we have a taster of former coach Mickey “Micky” Arthur’s contribution to sporting literature, a manuscript so dangerous that it has already provoked the threat of legal action from the PCB. The passage of the book that has stimulated Ijaz Butt’s sue-reflex relates to a one-day game back in 2007, a game Pakistan lost. As we all now know, match-fixing, spot-fixing or associated general naughtiness is the only possible explanation for a Pakistan defeat:

“How else do you explain a batting side needing only 40 runs with seven wickets in hand and still losing?”

How else indeed, Mickey. Of course it could just have been that Pakistan didn’t play very well. But, hey, who wants to pay R154 to read about that?

* Such as, for example, the news that some guy in a hotel bar reckons he heard some bloke say that he had it on good authority from his uncle’s first wife that a geezer who’d been to school with Ricky Ponting’s cousin met a woman who might have been Greg Chappell’s cleaner, who swore blind that she heard Marcus North or someone who looks very much like him say that he’d like to be Australian captain.

”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.

Eoin Morgan and Stuart Broad enact their prize-winning karaoke rendition of “(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight” © Getty Images

Saturday, 16th October
PCB head honcho Ijaz “Asbestos” Butt today held an emergency press conference to respond to the ultimatum issued by the ICC. The Long Handle was in the front row holding a recording device.

“First of all, men of the press, you are wrong to call it an ultimatum. There was more than one ultimatum, so you will see, according to the Latin we should be talking about ultimata, not ultimatum,” he announced triumphantly. “This, in my opinion, is typical of the way the media misrepresent the facts.

“Secondly, as you can see, the paper upon which the ICC has printed these ultimata is from a non-sustainable source. Again, this is typical of the way these shadowy bodies go about their business. How many mahogany trees were felled to produce this paper? Do you know? Do I know? Rest assured, I have launched an investigation and will be handing the file over to Greenpeace or Friends of the Earth, I haven’t decided which.

“Finally, if anyone here doubts that I am doing a good job, they should read what it says on this handwritten note I received from my good friend, Mr President Zardari. ‘Dear Butty. Congratulations on being the most unpopular man in Pakistan. I would be personally delighted if you could continue to fill this position for many months to come or until the next election, whichever comes first. Yours with gratitude, Big Al.’”

Sunday, 17th October
Fast-medium ball-flinger Stuart Broad today interrupted his weekly session with the ECB’s anger management therapist to explain his approach to fast bowling:

“I’m a passionate kind of person. Passion is my middle name. And aggression. Aggression and passion are my middle names. I want to be passionate enough to make the batsman scared, but not so aggressive that I split my trousers; yet at the same time aggressive enough to put myself on the line, but not so passionate that I step over the line; which would be a no ball.”

Monday, 18th October
Excellent news for long-suffering Pakistan cricket fans, but not for those of us who appreciate slapstick comedy. It appears that Misbah’s chaps will be “concentrating on fielding” ahead of their jaunt to the UAE. However, their intensive schedule will not involve cricket balls, running around outdoors or risking nasty little bruises on the knuckles, as coach Waqar explained:

“Practising is so last year. When I say my boys will be concentrating on fielding, I mean they will be doing literally that - sitting cross-legged on comfy cushions with their eyes closed, imagining what it feels like to be Jonty Rhodes.”

“Good fielding comes from within,” said chairman of selectors Mohsin Khan. “Plus, it’s a lot cheaper to imagine being Jonty Rhodes than to actually hire him.”

Tuesday, 19th October
As we all know, the ICC never sleeps in its efforts to root out corruption and they have come up with yet another jolly clever wheeze to catch out naughty cricketers. A dozen of their finest clerks will be seconded from filing duty, equipped with false moustaches and parachuted into hotel bars in key locations on the cricket circuit, where they will sidle up to unwary professionals and offer them cash to fix matches.

Obviously there are certain legal considerations in a sting operation of this sort. For a start, the ICC can’t be seen to be offering cash to players, so the pretend bookmakers will be issued with wads of $500 currency notes from Haroon Lorgat’s personal Monopoly set. And to avoid allegations of entrapment, when striking up a conversation with a player, the undercover ICC agent will be obliged to wear a badge that says “Undercover ICC Agent”.

If Shilpa goes, Chanel goes with her © AFP

Saturday, October 9th
Bangalore is Kumble land and the man himself was in the house, aloft in the stands, looking on like a benevolent cricket god. His every appearance on screen provoked roars from what looked suspiciously like a full house. The faithful were compelled to view their cricket through barriers, which at first I took for another example of the appalling way paying cricket fans are treated in this part of the world. Then I realised these were not nets designed to pen the audience in but an enormous mesh erected to protect the public from the giant marauding insects of the locale.

In an unfortunate piece of scheduling, the Association of Winged Invertebrates (Karnataka Branch) had arranged their annual convention for the first day of a crucial Test match. Insects are, in my experience, a stubborn bunch and so, despite the arrival of 15 men in white, they continued about their business regardless. The effect on the viewer was disconcerting, as an occasional wing brushed the camera and, periodically, enormous creatures loomed into view. I’m sure at one point I saw Mitchell Johnson catch one with his tongue and begin to chew. Always had my doubts about that one.

Sunday, October 10th
You may think it drastic that the new IPL chiefs have expelled two franchises, but when you read the full details of what these franchises were up to, you’ll see they had no choice.

Rajasthan, it appears, had not cleared their headed notepaper with the Branded Stationery Authorisation Committee, and Kings XI Punjab fell foul of the little-known “Apostrophe Accuracy” clause in the franchise regulations, since it wasn’t clear whether the XI belonged to one King or several Kings, or indeed, whether it was a team comprised entirely of kings. They had been given three years to clear the matter up, so they only had themselves to blame, really.

Proper and full implementation of all regulations and a rigorously ethical approach to administration are, as we know, the hallmarks of the BCCI. Still, although we are all no doubt glad to be free of these two evil franchises, you have to feel a little sorry for the television producers. What on earth will they be able to focus on now that Preity Zinta and Shilpa Shetty will no longer be pitch-side? The cricket? Miss Zinta’s antics in particular were the most compelling part of the Punjab effort; she certainly showed more energy in the cause than any of the men in red, white and silvery bits.

Monday, October 11th
Blessed are the peacemakers and few are more blessed than Mr Ijaz Butt. In his ongoing efforts to heal rifts and bring about reconciliations, he has sent a letter to Younis Khan. Claims that Younis has not received the communication are nonsense. I happen to know that Mr Butt personally scribbled something illegible on a post-it note, wrote, “To Younis Khan” on the other side and dropped it out of his office window. Having made all reasonable efforts to contact the batting fugitive, he cannot be held responsible for the failures of the Pakistan Postal Service.

It is not clear what significance we should attach to this letter. Until recently, the words “Younis" and “Khan” were outlawed at PCB HQ and the chap in question was at all times to be referred to as “That Man”. His offence, as I understand it, is that he hasn’t yet apologised for his as yet-undisclosed naughtiness that led to a ban, which was subsequently rescinded for no apparent reason.

If Lewis Carroll were around today he would no doubt be adding a new chapter to his most famous work, in which the heroine wanders into a PCB office by mistake and is reduced to a gibbering wreck by the goings-on therein.

To throw off suspicion, Adil Rashid lugs the Graeme Swann kitty he nobbled in a XXL laundry bag © Getty Images

Tuesday, 21st September
Another 24 hours have passed and still the journalists camped outside Butt Towers maintain their vigil. His morning doughnut delivery arrives on time. A curtain twitches. But nothing happens. Down at Lahore Central Post Office, a team of postal clerks are on standby, ready to leap into action at the first sign of a robustly built silver-haired gent carrying a package for Dubai. The clock ticks on. The head of the ICC’s Anti-Corruption Unit stares intently at his inbox, waiting for an email from Butty@PCB.nogov.pk. Somewhere a cricket chirps. The tension is unbearable.

Wednesday, 22nd September
It is an unpleasant truth, but the fact remains that sporting events become more compelling when there is an element of antagonism between the competitors. Commentators even have a special cliché for use on such occasions: “a bit of spice”. They don’t specify which spice, though they probably have in mind turmeric or something similar, rather than, say, nutmeg. I can’t imagine David Lloyd declaring, “There’s a bit of cinnamon out there today.”

Spicy or not, there was a feverish, faintly ridiculous feeling in the air that after a truly horrible three weeks, today’s match would somehow settle everything, that through the simple method of one team or another winning a game of cricket, all manner of legal squabbles, unfounded accusations and unresolved punch ups would finally be resolved. It’s certainly cheaper than an ICC investigation or a libel case, but not, perhaps, as accurate in its conclusions.

Largely to blame for this, PCB chairmen aside, are certain tabloid newspapers. Having supped heartily from the broth of controversy, the Sun was today trying to dip its bread in the reheated dregs. The “newspaper” reported a “string of incredible bust-ups” which turned out to be a single not-very-incredible bust-up between Trott and Wahab, under the headline “Strauss: Pakistan must not win series”. You will not be surprised to learn that Strauss said no such thing.

Thursday, 23rd September
The announcement of an Ashes touring squad is always eagerly awaited, although if previous English tours have taught us anything it is that this list of names is a mere down payment, an opening gambit. By the time injury, late nights, defeat, verbal abuse and personal indiscretions have taken their toll; the bedraggled bunch that turn up in Sydney will bear little resemblance to today’s select band of travellers.

Conventional wisdom tells us that this is England’s best chance in a long time of leaving Australia with the Ashes. Mind you, conventional wisdom said that four years ago and four years before that. Back in 2006, conventional wisdom told us that Freddie Flintoff would be an excellent captain and a Churchillian leader of men. Conventional wisdom is, in my experience, a deceitful blighter.

Sadly, the chosen XVI was not listed name by name in alphabetical order by a senior MCC man with a plummy voice via a crackly radio. Instead, in keeping with the general mood of make-belief and wishful thinking that characterises this point in England’s Ashes cycle, we were treated to a video montage with each player given a five-second clip, as though we were watching a trailer for a particularly feeble action movie.

Adil Rashid didn’t feature in any of the clips, or indeed in the list of reserves who will be coincidentally holidaying in Australia on a sight-seeing tour of some of the nation’s renowned gymnasia. Short of donning a Graeme Swann mask or kidnapping the Nottinghamshire man’s kitten, it is hard to know what Rashid has to do to get into the England team. Personally, I think it’s a conspiracy. I’ll get back to you with the details.

"I don't know about you chaps but I had a lot of fun this trip. But next time we come, let's really take it to the courtrooms, shall we?" © PA Photos

Friday, 17th September
And so it begins. Not so long ago Eoin Morgan could do no wrong. His captain was calling him a genius and so frequent and nausea-inducing were the tributes from the Sky team that I frequently found myself scrambling to hit the off button in the split second between Morgan’s name slipping David Gower’s lips and David Lloyd’s eyes starting to go all misty. I understand that, thanks to a personal intervention from Nick Knight, the Pope was considering popping down to The Oval to administer a swift canonisation today.

But no longer. Eoin Morgan has played a loose shot and lost his wicket. Cue furrowed brows in the commentary box. What was he thinking? Having seen these English love affairs before, I know the signs. That initial infatuation is starting to fade. Plans to introduce Morgan Studies to the GCSE curriculum have already been shelved and that thrilling reverse-sweep will soon be the epitome of recklessness. The next stage is a little way off, but we’ll know we’ve reached it when Mike Atherton uses the phrase: “I’m one of Morgan’s biggest fans but…” and proceeds to elucidate the 127 reasons why the Irishman should be dropped immediately.

Sunday, 19th September
We have no live footage of the Spanish Armada 1588 or the Battle of Trafalgar 1805, so the Ashes 2005 will have to do. Why is this being shown again? Because it’s Sunday and we haven’t seen it for a few days. Jolly entertaining it was too, though to be honest, KP’s hair doesn’t look any better with the passing of the years. But it was proper cricket, no spot-fixing or mudslinging in sight. Just good old honest-to-goodness verbal abuse and petulance.

Monday, 20th September
And so we near the traditional conclusion of a Pakistan visit to England, a tour with its own rituals, as formal as any state occasion. First there are the pleasantries at the airport, then, after a brief pause for some cricket, comes the official hurling of the first accusation, the counter-accusation, the entrance of the tabloid hacks to general booing, threats to call everything off, wild conspiracy theories and a scuffle or two before handshakes all round and a promise to do it all again in four years' time.

A week ago we had a scandal, now we have a carnival of stupidity in which every internet crackpot, every deluded administrator, rabble-rousing editor and bitter ex-cricketer have brought along their favourite hobby horses and are riding them up and down, waving this national flag or that national flag. I’m sick of it, quite frankly; sick of non-cricketing friends approaching me with a smirk, sick of the name-calling, and sick of being squeezed into a position where I must side with either the Sun or Ijaz Butt. In an ideal world they would both sue each other and lose.

So to hell with the lot of them. What the world of cricket needs now is an entirely uncontroversial series between two teams who between them uphold the best traditions of the great game and who can be relied upon to go about things in the right spirit without any unnecessary animosity. But while we’re waiting for that, grab yourself some popcorn, sit back and enjoy India v Australia VI: This Time It’s Even More Personal. Embassies on high alert? Tabloid hacks ready? Then let’s play cricket…

"Oi, will one of you help me out? His knee is jammed and won't bend" © Getty Images

Sunday, 12th September
No one likes fielding, apart from Jonty Rhodes and one or two Australians who have probably spent too much time in the sun. Fielding isn’t natural. Most players need to work incredibly hard at it just to reach a level where they won’t embarrass themselves on television and even then, they can only keep it up for so long. England started the summer well, but it’s wearing off and they too are back to stumbling and slipping about in the field like newborn foals taking their first tentative ice skating lessons.

It came as something of a surprise therefore to hear the estimable Mr Afridi castigating one of his own players, the genial green giant Mohammad Irfan, for not acquitting himself well in the field.

"I'm really disappointed with this guy," said The Boom, "Cricket is not all about just batting and bowling, nowadays fielding is very important.”

This is rather harsh, I feel. Irfan could be forgiven for complaining that they’d said nothing about fielding being important when he sat through the “So You Want to Play For Pakistan?” introductory video, nor had it featured at any of their training sessions. Pakistan don’t even have a fielding coach, which is just as well, because the poor chap would by now be heavily sedated and occupying a padded cell in one of the nation’s more secure facilities for the terminally bewildered.

Monday, 13th September
An odd little competition, the Champions League, but it was fun to watch Makhaya Ntini loping to the crease again today as some Warriors had a splendid time beating up some Bushrangers. And thanks to British Eurosport, or more accurately, to their accountants, we were spared the experience of a studio full of dull men in open-necked shirts telling us what we already knew. This no-frills, straight-to-the-stadium approach is excellent. Now if we could just get rid of those commentators…

Tuesday, 14th September
The never-interesting dispute between those abbreviated titans of Caribbean cricket, the WIPA and the WICB rumbles on like a persistent cough. Today’s meeting kicked off when Tweedledum, head quibbler for the WIPA, complained about the omission of Ramnaresh “Hamstring” Sarwan from the list of centrally subsidised failures. Tweedledee, official bickerer for the WICB, brushed aside these complaints and suggested that the WIPA were just arguing for the sake of it.

These formalities aside, the meeting turned to further hotly contested issues. There was an interesting discussion about the desirability of cats as opposed to dogs, a stimulating debate on the relative merits of the two gentlemen’s mamas and a most enlightening exchange concerning the correct pronunciation of “potato”. Proceedings were brought to a close after a brief but vigorous swapping of fisticuffs and some open and honest hair pulling. Both sides agreed to do it all again next week.

Shoaib Akhtar is so fast he shakes the confidence of light that it is the fastest thing in the universe © Getty Images

Saturday, September 4th
The events of recent days have brought back some unpleasant memories; memories of an episode in my past of which I am not particularly proud. Since I feel, though, that we are all friends here and since I am fairly sure that none of you work for a tabloid newspaper, I thought it might be cathartic if I unburdened myself.

It happened many years ago, when running around on a hot afternoon still seemed like a good idea. I was playing backyard cricket and with the game at a critical point, I assayed a glorious lofted shot, sending the ball straight over my brother’s head and straight through the glass of our parents' bedroom window.

As you might imagine, there ensued something of an enquiry. My hastily constructed defence rested on the following series of ingenious arguments:

1. I never done nothing
2. You can’t prove I done it
3. Your proof is fake
4. You’re biased against me
5. The Indian Secret Service made me do it
6. I am very young
7. Okay, I might have done it but I’m not the only person who’s ever broken a window with a cricket ball

Surprisingly, despite the fact that I’d been apprehended with bat in hand and that our next-door neighbour had caught the whole thing on video, I was let off with a gentle talking to and a suspended pocket-money reduction. But I’d learned my lesson and from that day to this, I doubt if I’ve broken that window more than a dozen times.

Sunday, September 5th
It’s Sunday, so it must be cricket scandal day. This whole affair has put the upstanding cricket fan in a tricky position. On the one hand, we want to know what is going on. On the other hand, we don’t want to be seen purchasing a certain publication. Even visiting their website makes you feel rather seedy and warrants a swift deletion of your browsing history. The good news for Pakistan cricketers, though not so good for Premier League footballers, is that the normally sex-obsessed paper’s temporary interest in investigative sports journalism seems to be wearing off.

And the good news for cricket fans everywhere is that the Rawalpindi Express is still chugging along. Good old Shoaib’s misdemeanours seem rather quaint with the benefit of hindsight and there have even been those who suggested that he might have hit Asif rather harder when he had the chance. His run-up has dwindled, he sweats up like a horse having its first canter of the season, but he’s unmistakably a thoroughbred and it was fun to see him blowing Kieswetter away and then blowing him a kiss. Now if he can just get himself fit and not do anything silly…

Tuesday, September 7th
Goodness me, that was dull. A drizzly Tuesday afternoon, a half-empty stadium and the limpest Pakistan batting performance since the last one. Their supporters have had to swallow a lot this week, yet still they journeyed down to Cardiff in the rain to cheer on the men in green. They deserved a spirited performance. Naturally, they didn’t get one.

But my personal lowlight was the interminable, matey post-walkover chat between Ian Ward and Paul Collingwood: England are brilliant; Eoin Morgan’s a genius; you must be very happy, yada yada yada. The problem is that Sky’s ex-pros are perfectly equipped, from personal experience, to deliver in-depth analysis of massive English defeats. When England win, they are forced to grope for superlatives and come across like sycophantic cheerleaders in sensible trousers.

'Boys, everyone expects us to behave like a circus act. So instead we'll behave like the English! Who's with me?' © Getty Images

Tuesday, August 31st
The art of Twittering is so often undervalued. One forty characters are all that the Twitterer has and within these artistic constraints, must make his or her magic. It is not, perhaps, as demanding a genre as the haiku or the tanka but it requires of its practitioners a certain brevity and incision. Sadly, not all Twitterers attain Parnassus.

“Yep.. Done for rest of summer!! Man of the World Cup T20 and dropped from the T20 side too.. Its a f**k up!! Surrey have signed me for l …”

This particular Twitterer leaves the reader perplexed. What might that teasing "l" represent? "Lots"? "Levity?" "Lettuce?" Sadly, the author has no room to tell us more, because he has indulged himself in an orgy of full stops, exclamation marks and superfluous ejaculations, whilst the omitted apostrophe in "it’s" looks as ugly as his dismissal by Shakib Al Hasan.

Wednesday, September 1st
Today we had another entry for the Lord Nelson Award for Blindly and Willfully Refusing to Look Events in the Face. Mr Shahid Afridi is in town, an arrival that often provides a boost for jaded hacks as they clamour for a bit of excitement from Boom Boom. But there are no bored journalists at the moment and Afridi’s pre-series clichés sound like a man blowing a tin whistle whilst a hurricane rages behind him.

“What has happened has gone.”

Technically, from a chronological perspective, he is absolutely right; there is no disputing the gone-ness of events past. But what is continuing to happen as a consequence of what has already happened and, furthermore, what has not yet happened but might happen as a result of what has already happened is all that people are interested in, sadly.

“We’re here to play good cricket.”

Nobody cares, Shahid, nobody cares.

Thursday, September 2nd
These are exciting times for 50-over cricket. If it were human, the 50-over format would be sitting in a consulting room, explaining for the umpteenth time that he felt perfectly well, that there was nothing wrong with him and that tens of thousands of people agreed with him. The consultant, however, is having none of it and he and his team of well-meaning professionals persist with their doom-laden diagnoses and ever more elaborate and invasive surgical procedures.

The meddlers seem to be getting themselves into a frenzy of late, with a spate of new ideas to mutilate the most lucrative form of international cricket and so only today did I catch up with the latest. It is called 5ives. You might think this an unnecessary cruelty visited upon the English language, but it turns out that the name is the best part. It is an idea as fiddly, as complicated and as pointless as the Powerplays. Ah, but why not give it a go? Well why not indeed, but then again, why? Fifty-over cricket is not, repeat, not in decline, unpopular or on its way out. Leave it alone, please.

'Hey Srini, you heard what Bangalore's fans are going to be chanting this year? "Our uniforms may be an ugly shade of red, but at least we ain't saddled with Fred"' © Getty Images

Friday, August 27th
More IPL news, this time about the auction before last. I may not have entirely understood, but it seems that the big cheese at the Chennai Catastrophes attempted to rig the auction to ensure that he didn’t end up with Flintoff. The deal was that the yellows would make a pretend bid of $1.55m but would then graciously withdraw. But the plan went wrong and they were lumbered with the big man with the dodgy ankle. Understandably, Chennai were upset. I think that’s it.

I don’t really know, to be honest. I didn’t realise that auctions, let alone multi-million dollar auctions, were supposed to be the acme of transparency. This whole IPL business looks like one of those blazing rows in a soap opera that conceal an underlying heartache. Any minute now, someone will say, “It’s not about the auction, Lalit, you know it’s not about the auction!” I hope it’s some time soon, because this IPL stuff is like watching the business news. No, it’s duller.

Saturday, August 28th
Pakistan have gone in the brain, says Nasser Hussain. Again. It isn’t an elegant phrase, but we know what he means. Still, as someone who enjoys reading about the golden age of cricket, it was lovely to see a re-enactment of Edwardian fielding including some gentlemanly ushering of the ball to the boundary, a marked reluctance to bend down and a dignified, patrician silence. Shabash, Kamran? No, okay then.

Sunday, August 29th
I’m still in shock to be honest. Couldn’t even bring myself to turn on the television. Who cares about watching cricket? Unbelievable. The kind of thing that makes a man despair about civilisation, no, about humanity as a whole. What are we coming to when an 18-year-old can make a mistake like that, with their whole careers ahead of them? If I’d wanted anchovies on my pizza, I’d have ordered anchovies on my pizza. What is wrong with the youth of today? Give them a moped and a fancy crash helmet and they think they’ve made it.

Monday, August 30th
A second man has been caught on tape, bragging about another spate of fixing dating back 20 years. He claimed to have fixed the results of 52 Test matches and 68 one-day internationals involving England between 1988 and 2000 and to have links with up to 189 English internationals. “You needed to know a lot of players in those days, because they kept changing them. No sooner had I groomed one fast bowler, than a new guy came in. I was always buying new address books.”

“I can’t believe we got away with it, to be honest. As time went on, we had to find more and more elaborate ways to lose, but the press never cottoned on. They kept saying it was cyclical, or blaming county cricket or calling for a new captain. The players were well up for it. Sometimes they collapsed without me even asking them to. Calm down, guys, I had to tell them, you can’t do it every game, someone will start asking questions. But they never did.”

“You know you’re going to have to give me all the licorice ones, don’t you? Else I’ll tell Dad” © Getty Images

Saturday, August 7th
I understand that Pakistan’s representatives at the ICC are seeking to amend the outdated rules on catching. Specifically, they will ask for the whole of Law 32 to be struck from the Laws of Cricket on health and safety grounds. A spokesperson for the PCB claimed that players risked a nasty bruise if they attempted to catch the ball, and abuse from television pundits if they dropped it, and that this constituted a violation of their right not to be laughed at in the workplace.

Sunday, August 8th
Just when you thought things couldn’t get any better for English cricket, it has been revealed that John Buchanan is to help the England players with their Ashes preparations. And big JB is already throwing up some fascinating ideas. For instance, the England management are said to be very keen on his five-captains-per-series proposal and are seriously considering the theories outlined in his bestselling pamphlet, “Setting Your Field the Feng Shui Way”. This innovative approach does away with the traditional method of placing fielders in areas where you expect the ball to go and instead focuses on arranging them at auspicious points on the field, to maximise the flow of cricket energy. Andrew Strauss has already implemented some of these suggestions, refusing to have more than two slips for long periods of the second Test on the grounds that negative energy usually escapes in the direction of third slip. As, from time to time, does the ball.

Monday, August 9th
The fallout from Edgbaston continues. It has emerged that during the tea interval yesterday, England’s prettiest fast bowler approached the ECB’s head nutritionist to ask whether it might be okay if he had some sweeties. Upon being refused on the grounds that f had some sweeties, he wouldn’t want his tea, Sulky Stuart stuck out his bottom lip, stamped his foot and stormed out of the dressing room, insisting that it wasn’t fair, and furthermore that he hated everyone. Broad was later fined half his pocket money and grounded for the rest of the week; punishment that his captain Andrew Strauss feels was over the top. “As everyone knows, it’s the summer holidays and forcing a young lad like Stuey to stay indoors when all his mates are hanging around outside the chip shop is harsh. Adolescent petulance has always been part of his game and if we made him behave like a grown-up, he wouldn’t be able to bowl as fast.”

Tuesday, August 10th
The latest from the Pakistan camp is that coach Waqar is contemplating some radical changes ahead of the third Test. The word is that the top six in the batting order will be dropped and replaced by Mohammad Yousuf. It is believed that top-secret analysis of Pakistan’s performances so far has demonstrated that dropping all these specialist batsmen is likely to have very little effect on the outcome of future games in terms of runs scored or catches taken, whilst it will offer significant savings in hotel and laundry bills and free up much needed bickering space in the dressing room.

Lancashire find a novel way to host matches in overcast conditions © Getty Images

Tuesday August 3rd

Some people have alleged that there is something rather futile, not to say tedious about the Clydesdale Rest Home Tea-Time Under-40s Inter-Regional Shield. Such cynicism is entirely unwarranted. Today’s televised game between a team in red and a team in powder blue was an absorbing affair, although sad to say, I was unable to watch the contest uninterrupted as I’d forgotten to deactivate the boredom setting on my new fangled Japanese television and it kept turning itself off.

I did manage to hear parts of Graham Onions’ return to the commentary booth and he appeared to be doing a sterling job in keeping viewers up to date in the matter of his incapacitation (I forget which Onions appendage is currently inoperable, but I gather it is one of the more important ones). He did though, make the mistake of implying that he regarded the latest architectural innovation at Old Trafford with something less than admiration.

David Lloyd was quick to put him right. I think we can all agree that The Point is the reddest rectangular structure ever to be erected at a cricket ground and as gargantuan scarlet oblongs go, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better one. I understand that future developments will include a day-glo green hospitality pyramid, featuring a rotating restaurant at the apex and, in place of that outdated pavilion, an enormous blue hospitality bean bag, capable of seating up to twenty obese sales executives.

Wednesday August 4th

Dwayne Bravo has expressed his opinion that Trinidad and Tobago are the best Twenty20 team in the Caribbean. It is a bold claim, though I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about. Still, it might be more satisfactory if there could be some sort of arrangement by which we could establish which team was the best. I’m thinking perhaps of a tournament, maybe involving all of the islands of the region, perhaps divided into two groups and culminating in some kind of final? We could call it, “The Deciding Which Is The Best Twenty20 Team In The Caribbean Trophy”.

Thursday August 5th

According to his captain, Kamran Akmal has not been dropped, he is merely resting. Such consideration on the part of the Pakistan team management is admirable and maintains their strong record on staff welfare, coming as it does so soon after the career breaks granted to Mohammad Yousuf and Younis Khan and the Test captaincy work experience scheme that was instigated earlier this summer. By allowing Kamran and Danish to put their feet up, Pakistan are ensuring that they will be fully recharged and re-energised in time for their recall for the fourth Test, by which time Zulqarnain Haider and Saeed Ajmal will no doubt be in need of a little rest of their own.

Friday August 6th

Salman Butt said at the toss this morning that he was batting first because he wanted to get a score on the board. I don’t think anyone can argue that he hasn’t achieved that, indeed, it is definitely mission accomplished as far as getting a score on the board goes. His critics should note that he made no commitment as to the size of the score in question, or indeed the number of digits that it would comprise.

Didn't this guy explode? And not in a good way? © Getty Images

It turned out not to be a great day for zoologically-monikered cricket teams. I should have known better, really. The Bears were so named because of the popularity of bear-baiting in the fair towns of Warwickshire, a sport that didn’t usually end well for the bear. And now I come to think of it, the aquatic stars of the Jaws films didn’t usually finish on top either. In future I will stick to supporting teams with humans in their names, like the Outlaws, the Bushrangers or the Knight Riders.

Wednesday, July 28

The rain in Port-of-Spain made viewing hard to sustain. Nevertheless, I hung around. I rearranged my collection of in order of thickness, then in reverse chronological order, then finally by shades of yellow, from ripe cider to vivid sunshine. Finally, the Trinidad openers sloshed out to bat against Jamaica in front of packed stands. Ten dollars a ticket and a full house. Could there be a lesson here for certain county chief executives?

Trinidad were soon in trouble. Adrian Barath went early and was followed by the hapless William Perkins; undone by the modern mania for inventive strokeplay. We hear a lot about the Dilscoop, but it has an evil twin, called the Dilfail, that brings only mockery and amusement in its wake. Perkins did all the basics right, gave himself plenty of room, got down on his haunches but sadly, neglected to hit the thing and was castled in the reclining position, a most undignified demise.

You see, Twenty20 can make a clown out of any batsman. It is important, therefore, to try to keep one’s dignity in tact. Take Darren Bravo, for example. Things were pretty hot and sweaty out there and in attempting a delicate leg-side hoik, he found his bat slipping from his grasp and hurtling towards the boundary. But Bravo didn’t panic. After a suitable pause, he drew himself up, calmly strolled over to square leg, retrieved his blade and returned to his crease without a word, as though this kind of thing happens all the time. Chris Gayle himself could not have been cooler.

Thursday, July 29

Don’t mention Shakoor Rana. Or Mike Gatting. Or the series before that. Or 1992. Sky’s pre-game montage of exciting previous clashes between England and Pakistan avoided all that unnecessary unpleasantness and began in the dark of Karachi in 2001. It did include The Oval in 2006, but that unfortunate business was brushed over hastily. David Gower, clearly auditioning for a role in the diplomatic corps, wished for an entirely non-controversial series, with which Ramiz Raja was in agreement. But there was a third member of the panel, one MA Atherton.

Athers merrily expressed a wish for lots and lots of lovely controversy. He even scoffed at the Spirit Of Cricket, causing his genial host to splutter; the fixed Gower grin straining under the pressure. One day, mark my words, it will break and DG will go berserk on live television, probably throttling David Lloyd and assaulting Sir Ian Botham about the moustache with the thick end of a microphone. The hope of seeing such a day is the main reason I continue to renew my subscription.

Afridi rues not having resorted to a childish attention-grabbing stunt in his last Test match © AFP

One of the pleasures of the enthralling first Test at Lord’s was listening to Shane Warne. I emphasise the word "listening". On camera, Warnie is a slightly alarming presence, sporting a tan suggestive of a fortnight at one of Mercury’s more exclusive resorts and teeth that could guide trawlers to port on moonless nights. But safely ensconced in the commentators’ booth, he is an uplifting contributor who rivals Harsha Bhogle in the congeniality stakes.

For instance, I have yet to hear the game’s greatest legspinner utter a negative syllable about anyone or anything. All of life’s unpleasantness is encapsulated by the word, "rubbish", a word he occasionally uses to describe such diverse phenomena as inaccurate bowling and negative personality traits, but only to confirm that such things are entirely absent from the make-up of the player under discussion.

Optimism and generosity of spirit isn’t for everyone though, so viewers in need of an alternative had the option of tuning in to Test Match Special, where Ian Chappell was holding court. Gruffer than a billy goat recovering from laryngitis, he seems to have discovered new frontiers of grumpiness since I last heard him; at one point managing to inject bile, belligerence and bad temper into an anecdote about learning to ski.

Still, sometimes only plain speaking will suffice. Invited to assess the performance of Pakistan’s Test captain, Chappell remarked bluntly that he seemed to have gone backwards. Those of us willing the luxuriant-haired one to succeed could only concur as we watched him embark on a cricket-themed suicide ballet. Nineteen balls, 33 runs and then, the crazy icing on the failure cake, a spur of the moment resignation. Top that, Salman.

Still it’s not too late for showman Afridi to sign up for one of the many amusingly-named domestic Twenty20 teams. Yes, like an epidemic that was once briefly in the news, turned out to be duller than expected, but hasn’t yet gone away, the Friends Provident Twenty20 persists. A flurry of fixtures signifies that we are approaching the outskirts of the quarter-finals as those teams who have qualified for the next bit attempt to secure home advantage and those teams who can’t possibly qualify attempt to avoid injury while fulfilling their contractual obligations.

After witnessing all of Thursday’s play at Lord’s, I fought the impulse to switch off the county action and found myself watching a collective, calling themselves The Steelbacks, playing against Lancashire on a pitch that had been laid out by a groundsman with a keen sense of the comic potential of the absurd.

“That’s out of here!” roared the man with the microphone as one batsman lobbed a gentle slog sweep forty yards. In a Test match, such a shot would have resulted in a comfortable catch at shortish midwicket, but on a pitch reduced to back garden dimensions, it sailed over the rope and landed in the acres of space between where the boundary ought to have been and where it actually was.

My daughter is only six and I’m fairly sure that, granted a stiffish following breeze, she could reach that boundary with her size one plastic bat. Earlier during the day, a pre-recorded Clive Lloyd had suggested that Twenty20 is an exhibition. This was more like a family fun day. All that was missing was a coconut shy at square leg and Pakistan’s newest former captain running the tombola.

Mind your elbows, please, this is Test cricket © Getty Images

We English do not summer well. We are designed for living in the depths of soggy forests or shivering in stony cottages on windswept moors. Hot, dry weather turns us the colour of the Zimbabwe one-day shirt and causes us to sweat whilst sitting down, an entirely unsatisfactory state of affairs. Mercifully then, after a distressing interlude, the English monsoon season has arrived in all its soggy glory. Our native moisture is restored and for the next 11 months the dampness of a chap’s shirt will be down to precipitation rather than perspiration.

And who better to celebrate the return of leaden skies and gloomy afternoons with than good old Bob Willis, a man genetically suited to standing in the rain at bus stops complaining about the council? Long Bob was, of course, a fine bowler, but I have often thought that his cricket career was merely a distraction from his true calling: having a bit of a moan.

He was rather restrained during his opening spell on Thursday, but when the umpires took the players off for bad light shortly after lunch, he was soon steaming in off his long run and letting fly with a gloriously downbeat monologue castigating the folly of the men in white coats, an interlude of vintage complaining that was only spoiled by the sight of the players returning to the field just as Bob was hitting his grumbling straps.

English conditions also seemed to suit the Pakistan bowlers. Mohammad Aamer was bruising thighs and brushing bat edges as he tore in Wasim-style in the latest chapter of his extraordinary teenage adventure, whilst at the other end Mohammad Asif was coming on like the reincarnation of Sydney Barnes, removing Clarke, Katich and North in a game-changing spell of loopy swing bowling.

So good was the Pakistan bowling that even their opponents were moved to compliment them. The Australian captain made a particular point of congratulating his young opponent by offering Aamer a few words of encouragement and a traditional Tasmanian elbow rub. All of which confirms the wisdom of the MCC’s decision to brand this double-header as the “Spirit Of Cricket” series.

Of course, it’s easy to be cynical about that sort of thing, but who would argue that the custodians of cricket’s soul could have chosen a better contest to publicise the courteousness and generosity of spirit that underpin our great game? Good-natured Ricky Ponting versus level-headed Shahid Afridi. Mild-mannered Australia against even-tempered Pakistan. What can possibly go wrong?

	The deep-conditioning and exfolliating worked. The big screen loves me © Getty Images

Saturday’s Twenty20 game was an intriguing desert clash between England and a Shahid Afridi XI at a venue that could have been renamed Afridi World for the night. Among the Aztec hats, carnival masks, fluffy toys and inflatable camels there was an abundance of banners and placards, and a brief survey revealed that 99% of them referenced Mr Boom. His appearances on the big screen (approximately once every 30 seconds) sparked waves of jubilation, and the entire occasion seemed to be building to one point: the moment when the man himself arrived at the crease. Time divided neatly into two periods: BA (Before Afridi) and AA (After Afridi).

One of the few banners not proclaiming Shahid-love exhorted the Pakistan players to “captain like Imran, bowl like Wasim and Waqar and bat like Aamer, Saeed and Ramiz”. But until Abdul Razzaq entered the arena, their batting had been more Mr Bean than Mr Raja.

British politician Dennis Healey had a habit of referring to people who behaved foolishly as “silly billies”. This phrase popped back into my head as I watched Imran Nazir set about the task of laying a solid platform for Pakistan’s run chase. The first ball was hit stylishly down the ground for four. The second was blocked. The third was dispatched swiftly to the palms of third man with a mighty forehand smash.

His opening partner proved no more resilient. Soon after Nazir’s departure, Imran Farhat hit the ball straight up in the air and watched the white sphere soar into the night sky, like a wide-eyed child amazed by a firework.

It got worse.

“Don’t do it, Umar!” pleaded Ramiz Raja in the commentary box as the younger Akmal tried to hit Swann out of the ground in exactly the same way that Afridi hadn’t. Umar did it anyway and was caught where Ramiz said he would be. Silly billies.

Once again, the hard work fell to Fawad Alam, the slightly built innings-repairman, who it seems is permanently on call, and Razzaq, who did pretty much what Nazir and Co had tried to do, but better and harder and with more swagger. His mighty timberwork bludgeoned England to the ground and supplanted Kevin Pietersen’s earlier biffery.

Pietersen, of course, provides more entertainment value than just his knack with the willow. He is an absolutely hilarious runner between the wickets, mainly because he does not regard it as necessary to notify his colleague of his intentions. He first collided with Trott when he took the wrong lane, and then a few balls later ran him out. He bats like a magician but he runs like a sprinter with a hearing problem who can’t be sure the starter has fired his pistol but isn’t taking any chances.

But it was Pakistan’s day and though they didn’t bat like Ramiz or bowl like Waqar, they do have an Imranesque captain in the wings, even though technically the little “c” on the scoreboard was next to someone else’s name. But all that Urdu you heard via the stump microphone emanated from Afridi. He was busy, enthusiastic, always on the move. In two or three years, his team-mates may find it annoying. For now, though, his energy can still jolt his team out of lethargy and he sets off little sparks of belief wherever he goes. Welcome to Afridi World.

	Oh pipe down already, or you'll have detention with Shane Watson © International Cricket Council

I’ll be honest. I don’t like teenagers. Their music is dumb, their hair is too long, they are having way, way too much fun and most irritatingly of all, I’m not one of them. So, the Under-19 World Cup, an entire tournament confined to adolescents, was never going to appeal as a prospect. Still, if Sky has gone to the trouble of sending an outside broadcast unit all the way to a field in New Zealand, it is the least I can do to tune in and pretend to take an interest.

So on Saturday, I sat down to watch the highlights of the India versus Pakistan quarter-final. It was a little disorienting. A 50-over game, reduced to 23 overs per side, then squeezed into a half-hour transmission. Take out the ad breaks, the replays and the waffle and it boiled down to a collection of sixes, wickets and the more amusing cock-ups. Every piece of action seemed only vaguely related to what had gone before. It was like watching a French film.

I am not qualified to say whether the teams were any good, although after witnessing a particularly horrendous slog across the line, I had to drape a handkerchief over my marble bust of Peter May, lest it start to weep. But all told, they did a fair impression of a proper grown-up one-day game, albeit with more hair and fewer beer bellies. They even managed a few circus shots (I counted at least two Dilscoops, one of which actually worked).

I could have lived without the cranked-up celebrations though. I haven’t seen that much roaring, posing or strutting since I stopped watching WWF. It is not possible for the sane viewer to watch a cricketer puff up his chest, stick out his bottom lip and howl like a baboon in the mating season without feeling a spasm or two of irritation. When the cricketer in question is a teenager who has just dismissed one of his peers with a long hop, the irritation is increased exponentially. I blame Shane Watson.

Nick Knight was Sky’s man in a suit for this occasion, paying his dues before he moves on to bigger things. He troubles me, that one. It’s the eyes. At first, I thought he was just frightened. But now I’m sure he’s trying to exert some kind of mind control through hypnosis. I haven’t worked out what he’s up to yet, but he doesn’t appear to want to join the Botham-Gower-Lloyd-Hussain-Atherton axis of washed-up old warriors. I can imagine him hosting a Saturday night quiz show or founding a cult in the wilds of Warwickshire. He’s plainly someone to watch, by which I mean, keep your eye on him. Just remember to blink.

	The tri-series: an avant-garde celebration of the essential absurdity of human endeavour © Associated Press

Some have suggested that the Tri-Nations Tournament in Bangladesh is a less-than-gripping addition to the cricket calendar. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Triangular Extravaganza in Mirpur is an avant-garde celebration of the essential absurdity of human endeavour as seen through the medium of cricket.

Just as the abstractionists once stripped the figurative arts down to bare lines, so the Bangladesh Cricket Board has daringly done away with all that is superfluous in our sport. By insisting on playing the second half of every match in a paddy field, the 50-over game has been reduced to its essence: the toss.

So let’s have no more negative talk about this immensely significant, if ever so slightly damp, competition. I have enjoyed every minute of the Isosceles Cup and I have already planned my schedule for the final on Wednesday:

07:40 Secure my seat in front of the television
07:45 Cheer the arrival of the titles sequence
07:50 Whoop enthusiastically as the captains trudge out to the middle
07:52 Shout ‘Heads!’ or ‘Tails!’ as the mood takes me
07:52 Gaze open-mouthed in suspense as the coin hangs in the air
07:53 Listen intently as Dhoni (or it may be Sangakkara) utters those now familiar words, “I think we’ll have a bowl.”
07:54 Turn off television and go back to bed.

The Hypertridimensional Shield has, in addition to rendering overs 1-100 entirely superfluous, enabled me to watch some players I don’t see enough of. Amit Mishra is a case in point. Of the roughly 27 spinners employed by India during Sunday’s game, Mishra was the only one who caused the ball to rotate on its axis, and after a week of plucky tailenders hanging around forever, it made a pleasant change to see the batting duffers flail about like giraffes in a tar pit.

Skittling out the tail, of course, is part of the game that has gone out of fashion, like gentlemanly conduct or employing wicketkeepers who can catch. Which brings us to the curious case of Akmal, K. We learned this week that during the Sydney Test, the hapless keeper had been kept up nights trying to put his baby to sleep. But slow-motion footage obtained from the team hotel revealed some glaring flaws in his baby-rocking technique, described by Channel 9’s lullaby expert Ian Healy as "pretty ordinary". I’m afraid that the time has come for Mrs Akmal to seriously consider drafting in a replacement babysitter, at least for the remainder of the tour.

As for Kamran’s wicketkeeping, I don’t see what the problem is. I’m with the PCB on this. Five thousand dollars to teach someone to catch would have been an outrageous use of public money, money that could be better spent on desk stationery, name badges, executive trouser presses and the like. If absolutely necessary, I’m sure Ijaz Butt could be prevailed upon to give a demonstration. I mean, how hard can it be? Crouch like a frog, watch the ball, catch it if possible; it’s no big deal. And it’s not as if Kamran is getting the important stuff wrong. His chatter is some of the inanest and most annoying on the international circuit and that’s all you can ask for in a modern keeper.

Anyway, I hope the selectors see sense and retain him for the final Test, because he deserves to feature in the inevitable consolation victory. Yes, you read that correctly. By the strange laws of cricket physics currently affecting the game, it is blatantly obvious that Pakistan are going to triumph in Tasmania. I am as sure as if they were batting second in Dhaka. It’s their turn.

It is a lesson in the new cricket realities that the England management must absorb. I was somewhat dismayed at the weekend to see a twinkly-eyed Geoff Miller breathlessly extolling the virtues of his shiny new cricket team, with its multi-tooled bowling attack and devastating batsmen, reminding me of a 10-year-old boy telling all his friends what Santa had brought him. Long experience teaches us that Christmas Day’s glittery new toy is usually defunct by the time the snow begins to melt.

So delicately poised is the international balance of cricket power these days that for those who think they’ve reached the top, the taxi carrying nemesis is likely to be pulling in even before hubris has stepped onto the pavement. It would be far better, Geoff to describe your boys thus: "I believe England have the part-time batsmen to ensure that a likely defeat can be turned into a draw on a reasonably regular basis." Not sexy, I’ll grant you, but it might just satisfy the cricket gods and stave off the inevitable reversal in Johannesburg.

	Bond: stinging sensation © Getty Images

So the conclusion of the ICC Champions Trophy, 2009’s last set-piece occasion, the ultimate chapter of a gripping cricket narrative, when all will finally be revealed to a worldwide audience is to be held on… a Monday. High fives all round for the scheduling committee! Give yourself a pat on the back, Haroon Lorgat (or have one of your people do it), cos you da man! Yes, you’ve gone and done it again, ICC, and if I hadn’t lost my hat in an unfortunate yachting incident at Cowes, I’d be removing it and doffing it in the general direction of Dubai.

Monday. At the precise moment when a sturdy operatic type with a microphone begins to belt out “Advance Australia Fair” or “God Defend New Zealand” at a frighteningly loud volume, I wonder where the cricket populace of the world will be? Well, in South Africa and England they will be at work. In the Caribbean they will be getting ready for work. In Mumbai, Lahore, Colombo and Dhaka they will be coming home from work. And in Sydney and Wellington, they will be slumped bleary-eyed on their sofas or in bed after a day at work. Spot the common theme?

No doubt, in ICC world, where every day is a cocktail party, one day of the week is much the same as another. There may also be the odd weirdo out there for whom the dawn of another Monday is joy incarnate. However, I am with Bob Geldof on the subject of Mondays. It is not a day for finals. It is a day for weary soberness, for 10 cups of coffee before your lunch break, for hauling yourself out of bed and yawning at the futility of another working week. Let us hope those poor souls staying up in Melbourne and Auckland get a decent final, because they deserve it.

If they were watching Saturday’s game, they would have been thoroughly entertained. I found the second semi-final memorable for a couple of reasons. Firstly there was the wince-inducing but compelling fast bowling of Shane Bond, who twice made Kamran Akmal snatch his hand away from the bat in the manner of someone who has been stung by a wasp, and then dismissed Imran Nazir with a delivery that appeared to be heading straight up his left nostril until he wisely got his bat in the way.

Then there was the battle between the Mighty D and baby-faced Umar Akmal. In the 25th over Vettori had already offered up three identical teasers, one of which Akmal had audaciously tickled to fine leg. The next delivery from the bearded one’s left hand fizzed through so quickly that it verged on the impolite. Undaunted, the youngster’s response was to wallop the fifth ball of the over through midwicket with an ungainly lunging sweep. From the other end, Uncle Mohammad Yousuf had clearly had enough. He came down to explain to the rookie the perils of recklessness and the virtues of patience. A smiling and entirely oblivious Akmal nodded at the old man’s advice, then aimed a wild slash at the next one, sending it curving through the air just out of the reach of short third man and away for four. Cricket needs all the teenagers it can get.

	Shahid Afridi does his best Saturday Night Fever impression © Getty Images

Some images from Saturday’s game linger in the mind. There were the ghostly faces of players shrouded in sunscreen. There was Mohammad Yousuf’s grim, expressionless concentration - a man of fortitude and endurance at work. There was the close-up of Harbhajan’s gleaming kara, his hand cradling the green-stained ball that looked like a moss-covered relic from a bone yard. There was 17-year-old Mohammad Aamer blowing Gautam Gambhir a kiss, Sachin Tendulkar’s exquisite square drive, the whirl of Simon Taufel’s finger to signal yet another free hit.

The surroundings played their part. As the stadium resounded with shouts, whistles, drums and music, the fierce light of a Highveldt mid-day seemed to belong to another continent entirely. Then slowly the Indian players’ uniforms began to turn darker shades of blue, night crept up unannounced and the broiling arena was transformed into a clammy, floodlit film-set.

It was compulsive television. And even though by the standards of one-day cricket it was not a nail-biter, you didn’t want to leave your sofa. We owed the players that much at least. They seemed to be walking on eggshells. Every movement, every gesture, every run, no-ball, misfield and stumble brought instant feedback from the crowd. The audience were part of this drama, not mere onlookers. The pressure was evident in the muted behaviour of the players, unleashed in moments of celebration and sometimes in wild, pleading appeals. India were the more inhibited team, made more bad decisions under pressure, and so they lost.

And in the midst of all this sweaty tension, there were some bizarre musical interludes. A failed Harbhajan sprawl and claw at third man was greeted with the chorus to “Come On Eileen”. A short while later, RP Singh had only just begun to wipe the grass stains from his trouser knees after an inelegant fumble when Abba’s “Dancing Queen” blasted out across Supersport Park. Either the DJ was a Pakistan supporter or he had a dangerously mischievous sense of humour.