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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”This is what I sacrificed 77 pizza slices over the last eight months for?” © Getty Images

Sunday, 15th May
Former player Akram Raza has been arrested, allegedly for trying to place a bet. If it’s true, then well done the Pakistani police. I only wish the British constabulary offered a similar service. How useful it would be if, as you approached the counter, clutching a hastily scrawled slip, you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder and heard a voice deep with authority and wisdom:

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, is it sir.”

Quite right, constable, don’t know what I was thinking. Worcestershire to win the County Championship? Forgive me, I’ve not been well lately.

Betting is a drug; it distorts your experience. For example, the normally tolerable inanities of the commentary booth become unbearable when the team you backed at 10-11 is floundering, but on the other hand, as the chap you picked to top-score goes to his century with a towering six, the voices of Danny Morrison and Pommie Mbangwa are as a chorus of angels.

Why do we humans do it? Because we want action. Not being involved ourselves, we don’t just want to be spectators. We want our pulse to be racing. We want to feel like punching the air or kicking the turf too. Betting packs the terror and elation of the human condition into one short space of time, a period of living with the illusion that your senses are heightened. Although they say the same about heroin.

If the charges are true, it raises serious doubts about Akram’s judgement. It is not just that he was allegedly trying to place a bet; I heard he was allegedly trying to place a bet on the Delhi Daredevils. Perhaps he was arrested for his own well-being.

Monday, 16th May
This isn’t how it was supposed to end. It looks like Shane is bowing out amid a tawdry farrago of fines, fake tans, skin creams, celebrity dating, furious tweets and absurd defeats. Suitably, the last nail in Warne’s career coffin was delivered by an Englishman, Nayan Doshi, who brought a touch of Tavare to the hit and giggle: 13 balls, 0 runs. His breathtaking subversion of the format was almost sexy.

So Friday it is. I’ll be honest, I’ve started to dip in and out of the IPL. I like it, but I like trifle too, and six weeks of trifle leaves you feeling queasy. But I’ll be tuning in on Friday. It’s the last time we’ll see that menacing amble to the wicket, the beauty of that fizzing legbreak and those well-rehearsed expressions of disbelief. There are only four overs, 24 balls, of Warne to go. I’ll be watching every single one.

Tuesday, 17th May
The chaps still don’t get it. Here’s Scyld Berry in the Telegraph, contrasting the popularity of the IPL with the near-empty stands during the first Test in Guyana:

“Even if it is not what it was, at least the IPL can claim to be not half as desultory as much of Test cricket has been made by its administrators.”

Now I enjoy beating up on administrators as much as the next man with a blog to write and nothing to put in it. But I’m not sure how they can take the blame for the dwindling interest in Test matches, unless their error was to allow more exciting and popular cricket to exist, thus diverting the wayward spectator from the true faith? That appeared to be Peter Roebuck’s argument last week.

But what if the problem isn’t the IPL, the administrators, television, Kerry Packer or the BCCI? What if the problem is Test cricket itself? Before we carry on with our efforts to resuscitate the format, perhaps we ought to ask the big question: Could it be that the era of the week-long cricket match is nearing its end? And more importantly, if nobody wants to watch it, then what, exactly, is the point?

Kids, daddy has to go and rescue a bunch no-hopers from the greatest ignominy of their lives. I hope you understand? © Getty Images

Saturday, August 14th
Today was Friends Provident Finally Finished Day; a thrilling eleven hours of cricket, featuring hovercrafts, cheerleaders and live white-line marking, played out in front of a typically English audience of transvestites, umbrellas and packed lunches.

Naturally, Dwayne Bravo was there; he can sniff a Twenty20 tournament from several thousand miles away and his compatriot, Kieron International was also in attendance, being a Somerset player again.

Neither enjoyed the best of days. Dwayne, unfortunately, had signed up for the wrong team and presumably will be speaking to his agent, whilst KP copped a horrible blow to the face that had the whole ground wincing.

And though the climax of this 151-game tournament was suitably exciting; rather like a Shoaib Akhtar delivery, it is not entirely clear that the final outcome necessitated quite such a long and exhausting build-up.

Sunday, August 15th
Not so long ago the Aussie cricketer ruled the world with a simple philosophy. He had his plans and he executed them. But times have changed and Cricket Australia is determined not to get left behind. Modern cricket is not just about believing in your plans, executing your plans or sticking to your plans: these days, success is determined by how well you plan the planning of your plans.

So today 200 of Australia’s senior cricket bureaucrats met at a top-secret Conference Centre in Melbourne to come up with a blueprint for benchmarking and attaining realisable goals going forwards. And thanks to a well-positioned insider (just behind a water cooler outside the Bryce McGain Seminar Facility) the Long Handle can reveal the seven-point plan in its entirety:

1. Win back the Ashes

2. Don’t fail to win back the Ashes

3. Remember not to forget to go to India in October

4. World Cup, blah blah blah

5. A rolling vote of confidence for Ricky Ponting to be renewed weekly

6. To support the vital work of Team Australia’s backroom staff, their numbers will be increased to 187 and they will be redesignated as the Strategic Unit for Performance Evaluation, Reinforcing Facilitation of Long-term Upskilling Objectives and Underpinning Success

7. Continuing to hold the Tait and Nannes families hostage until Dirk and Shaun accede to Cricket Australia’s entirely reasonable demands regarding their availability for the first Test in Brisbane.

Monday, August 16th
Following the unfortunate nocturnal difficulties of renowned cat lover Graeme Swann, it has emerged that Jesse Ryder has signed up with the RNZSPCA. A spokesman for Jesse claimed that the big left-hander had always been an animal lover and was prepared to go to any lengths to rescue his furry pals, regardless of his own or anyone’s else’s safety and no matter how tired and emotional he may be at the time.

Tuesday, August 17th
As India prepare for their 700th game of the year, the BCCI has denied that any of the team’s fast bowlers have written to them complaining about the schedule. A BCCI spokesman said that bowlers are free to ask for time off, providing they are prepared to accept the consequences. Pressed on what those consequences might be, the spokesman arched one eyebrow, adopted a sinister voice and explained that once you have entered Team BCCI, you don’t leave. He then cackled maniacally for several minutes.

Saker: that spells mole © Getty Images

Friday 30th July
Breathe a long, deep sigh of relief, crack open a bottle of champagne or offer a prayer of thanks to the appropriate deity; the second Test in Colombo is over! I didn’t see the game myself, although I hear there was one man in a village somewhere near Kandy who watched every ball on television but was struck dumb shortly after tea on the third day and has not been able to speak since.

I wonder what the ICC pitch report for this game will say? Day One: Flat. Day Two: Flat. Day Three: Flat, hint of turn. Day Four: Flat. Day Five: Enormous cracks. Ball turned square. (Just kidding. It was flat.) Yet whatever the report says, you can be sure that no sanctions will follow. We may, therefore, have to take matters into our own hands. I suggest strapping the groundsman into a slightly uncomfortable plastic chair, without a cushion, and forcing him to watch the whole thing again. Twice.

Sunday 1st August
England have another Antipodean bowling “coach”, no doubt planted at the ECB by the Australian Secret Service. He has been busy ingratiating himself with the English bowlers, compiling a dossier on their weaknesses (embarrassing school nicknames, food allergies, where Stuart Broad is most ticklish). When the team arrives down under, he will defect to the motherland and hand over his secrets to Cricket Australia. Just like the other guy. (I mean, what kind of name is Troy? Clearly a spy.)

There were subtle clues for those of us eagle-eyed viewers who get twitchy about the old enemy during an Ashes year. For a start, when interviewed by Nasser Hussain this morning, Coach “Saker” seemed reluctant to talk about coaching. Suspicious. When asked who he wanted to win the Ashes, he said “England”, far, far too quickly. And then he claimed that he had been “upskilling” the English bowlers. This appears to be just harmless gibberish, but I suspect it to be some kind of code word that only his handlers back in Melbourne can decipher. He has to be stopped.

Monday 2nd August
Today I managed to catch highlights of the weekend’s Caribbean climax. It was a sweaty, drizzly, nervy affair. Barbados first gave the game to Guyana. Guyana had it for a while, but didn’t really know what to do with it, so gave it back. Barbados found themselves with the prize, but polite to a fault, returned it to the men in green, just as the music stopped. With two needed from two balls, Big Benn fumbled around at mid-on as though he were trying to catch an oiled-up frog, and Guyana celebrated.

Teenager of the match and the tournament was Jonathan Foo, the only batsman who played like it was a Twenty20 game, levering long-limbed sixes and fours with a wristy flourish. A few years back, his career would have involved rapid promotion to the West Indian team, failure, re-selection, failure, re-selection and so on, until retiring with an average of 25. At least these days, thanks to the IPL, he might make a few dollars along the way.

Tuesday 3rd August
Diminutive genius Sachin Tendulkar has asked for advertising hoardings above one of the sightscreens at the P Saravanamuttu Oval to be covered up. This is a good thing. I’m all for the covering up of distracting adverts. I’d suggest that during the next IPL someone could throw a blanket over Ravi Shastri, so viewers can concentrate on the game. Still, Sachin’s request might not have been successful if it had come from a lesser player. I believe that when Mohammad Ashraful made a similar request during the 2007 tour, he was told to wear higher shoes.

	'Right lads, winter's over in Narnia. I'm needed there for a spot of cricket' © Getty Images

If I were paid by the word I would write Ryan ten Doeschate as often as possible. Sadly, I am not and so I will refer to him as RTD. Before Wednesday’s televised Twenty20 game, RTD said that whilst he was flattered that some were talking up his chances of playing for England, he felt he was South African. There then ensued a debate between Charles Colville and Robert Croft that was a pleasant conversational excursion through the thorny maze of cricket nationality. It went a little like this.

Croft: I find it refreshing that he’s said he doesn’t want to play for England, that he feels South African and only wants to play for South Africa.

Colville: But he’s been playing for Holland

Croft: Well, you can’t blame him for taking the opportunity.

Indeed not. It appears that you can have your biltong and Edam soup and eat it too. Croft of course, is a Welshman who played for England and who bristles at any suggestion that he might be described as an Englishman. It is all rather confusing. Perhaps, since England is a country that in many ways does not exist, we should go further and have it registered alongside Narnia as an entirely mythical realm, thus allowing anyone with access to a wardrobe to be considered for selection.

But whoever he happens to be playing for, RTD is an entertainer, his nimble-footed assays down the pitch and his whirring arms making him Twenty20 box office. In recent times though, the rest of the Essex chorus line have not been pulling their weight. After a thrilling performance was cut short by a calf injury that will stop him turning out for Essex, Holland, South Africa or Narnia for several weeks, Eagles fans, if such people exist, might have expected another disappointing show.

But they were wrong. Essex were "pumped up" as the experts put it, which I understand is a euphemism for "trying really hard" rather than an aspersion that they might be on steroids or wearing inflatable shoes. Kaneria sent Pollard off with some un-Parliamentary language and after taking a catch in the shade of the pavilion, Grant Flower showed off his right bicep in a threatening fashion to a section of the Somerset crowd. At least, I think he was showing off his bicep.

Throughout the debacle, Poor Marcus Trescothick sat helpless in the Somerset dug out. He’d done his bit. Although no longer cutting a dash in the field (his pursuit of one leg glance looked like a middle-aged man trying to catch a runaway puppy) he had helped to lay what is known in the game as a "platform"; a platform from which his chaps proceeded to launch themselves like black-clad lemmings. As the wickets fell, there was even time for a touch of comedy, courtesy of Nick Compton who added to the game’s repertoire of Twenty20 innovations by reverse-sweeping his own bails off.

Still, at the post match sit-down with microphones, even Trescothick was smiling. And why not. Taunton looks a thoroughly lovely place to witness cricket. The game had begun in bright sunlight and every time the ball soared into the sky, we were afforded a glimpse of the sandstone tower of St James Church against various shades of blue. As spectators sizzled, the sun sank and the evening came on by discreet shades so that by the end, the midsummer light had softened to a mellow amber; the colour in fact, of a decent glass of cider.

	New Road in the good old days when the River Severn came visiting © Getty Images

The rainy season is an important part of the ecological cycle, bringing many benefits to the various ecosystems of the Caribbean. It does, however, have certain regrettable aspects, specifically that, in my experience, it is impossible to have a rainy season without a certain degree of precipitation. I suspect that it was the high volume of rain that falls during this time of year that led to it being called the rainy season in the first place.

You and I might think that such a season might not be the best time to stage an outdoor sport. But that is why we are not employed in an official capacity on one of the many cricket boards around the world. It turns out, you see, that a rainy season is precisely the best time to hold a Test series, just as Monday night is ideal for a major international one-day final and nine months is the appropriate length of time that should elapse between one World Cup and its successor.

Watching a Test series during the rainy season does, though, require a certain degree of optimism. The man-in-a-suit in the Sky studio was suitably ebullient; Colin Croft waxed lyrical on the subject of drainage systems and Robin Jackman at the Queen’s Park Oval brushed over damp patches and discounted gloomy clouds. But umpires are made of sterner stuff and upon consulting the lugubrious Steve Davis, it appeared that the men in white coats had followed the umpire’s first instincts on such occasions and yielded to the temptation of an early lunch.

Thank goodness then for county cricket. There is no officially designated rainy season in England, mainly because it would be devilishly tricky to determine which of the four quarters was the rainiest. So the ECB have no choice but to pencil in their fixtures and hope for the best. I say pencil, but a collection of felt-tip crayons would have been required to adequately illustrate the myriad competitions that make up the English summer. This season’s fixture wall-chart resembles an early Kandinsky and requires 3D glasses and a seven-page manual to fully decipher.

Right now, it is Twenty20 time. Now Twenty20 in England is not perhaps Twenty20 as you have come to know it. Thursday’s encounter between the Royals of Worcestershire and the Outlaws of Nottinghamshire was a day-night fixture without floodlights: day-night cricket au naturel, as it were. Naturally, there was music, but it was suitably muffled, as though emanating from a village fete a few miles away. And as a procession of Royals batsmen trod a weary path to the crease and back, the DJ should probably have ditched the stirring "Ride of the Valkyries" for something more appropriate; perhaps "Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now".

There has been lots of talk of "no-fear cricket" in the wake of England’s Caribbean triumph. That may be de rigeur in the tropics but in the damp and clammy land where Twenty20 was spawned, it is not always the best policy, particularly when Dirk Nannes is tearing in on an iffy pitch in the gathering gloom. Wickets fell with unseemly haste and although Vikram Solanki appeared to cast several despairing glances in the direction of the River Severn, sad to relate for Worcester fans, the waters did not swell up and engulf New Road, Nannes and the Outlaws and with the inevitability of a shower in the monsoon season, Nottinghamshire won.