Wednesday, 2nd November
Something strange is afoot. Back at the soggy end of September, Graeme Swann suggested that West Indies hadn’t bowled well enough to dismiss England for 88. And yet the scoreboard read, “England 88 all out”. Mysterious. And now history has repeated itself. “They hardly got us out,” said Bangladeshi captain Mushfiqur Rahim, after some bowlers or other had dismissed the Tigers for 278.

Every time West Indies roll into town, the home team suddenly and mysteriously begin losing wickets. What is going on? Is it a conspiracy? Have the men from the Caribbean finally managed to incorporate Klingon cloaking technology, making Marlon Samuels invisible to the naked eye? Or could it be that they’ve found a decent bowling attack and the rest of the world is being a little ungracious?

Thursday, 3rd November
Give praise to the god of satire, for Afridi is back! His unconditional unretirement (slight return) means that the cricket world is approximately 10% more interesting in real terms. So how have you been keeping, Shahid?

"I am strong, fit and in good shape to cover the wild period I had lost during the time of retirement.”

Wild period? Sounds intriguing. Tell us more about this wild period. Did you grow dreads and journey across Outer Mongolia in a beat-up multicoloured camper van? Did you have a tattoo of a man eating a cricket ball with the legend “Lala likes leather for lunch” across your upper back? Did you spend some time in the jungles of Borneo, learning how the orangutan deals with the outswinger?

Oh, you played for Hampshire. Well, that’s pretty wild, I guess. But his return to the one-day squad was not a formality and as always, the Pakistan selection committee carefully weighed up the pros and cons in an objective and dispassionate manner.

“He is like a son to me,” said interim selector Mohammad Ilyas, “And his selection is not unfair.”

Friday, 4th November
Colossal fiscal incompetence is everywhere it seems, so we shouldn’t be surprised to see cricket boards following the fashion for financial stupidity. Our old friends, SLC built a lot of grounds that they couldn’t afford to run and so, naturally enough, have handed them over to the military. I’m not entirely sure what the military would want with cricket stadiums, though if the SLPL ever happens, I guess Ravi could have fun spotting sponsored Abrams tanks and F16s rather than the accursed blimp.

But it isn’t just the stadiums that SLC are offloading. Many of the players are being handed over local businesses as the board can no longer afford to run them either. Kumar Sangakkara will be working for a Mrs De Silva of Market Street, Colombo, shouting out the prices at her fruit and vegetable stall; Mahela Jayawardene will be employed as a street sweeper by Galle District Council, tidying up the mess that others have left (similar to his current role) and Ajantha Mendis will be placed in storage at the Kandy Museum of Mystery, though may not be picked for every exhibition.

Wednesday, 26th October
Chris Gayle wants some clarification from the big cheeses at the WICB:

“They need to come clear and say what Chris Gayle should apologise for, and what should Chris Gayle retract.”

Well, for a start, I think he owes us all an apology for continually referring to himself in the third person. If people keep doing that, then Andrew Hughes is afraid that he won’t be able to work out who is saying what to whom. And if the WICB join in, the introduction of the third person plural could take us into new realms of bafflement.

Still, we’ve all been in Chris’ position: your partner makes it clear an apology is due, but you haven’t the foggiest idea what you are supposed to be apologising for. In such circumstances, asking for clarification rarely goes down well. If you want to stay in this relationship, Chris, Andrew Hughes’ advice is to send the WICB a big bunch of flowers with a little note saying: “V Sorry (for whatever). Love Chris. (Gayle).

Kisses are optional.

Thursday, 27th October
Hashim Amla has said that he’d have to think about it if he was asked to be captain again. I don’t blame him. Who on earth would want such an awful job?

It is true that being South African skipper isn’t as demeaning as captaining a club side: Hashim almost certainly doesn’t have to ring around to find 11 fit players, stick his finger into the urn at lunch time to test the temperature of the tea or try to sober up a hungover Dale Steyn. But an international captain has his own burdens to bear: talking to journalists without punching them, constantly monitoring his players’ Twitter feed and trying to avoid Geoffrey Boycott at social functions.

If your team wins, the players get the credit. If they lose, it is because you didn’t have an extra cover for 20 minutes on the second morning, you bowled Herbert from the wrong end when everyone could plainly see that the prevailing breeze had changed from a westerly to a north-easterly, you lost the toss for the 13th time in a row, and both your handclapping and your cries of “Come on lads, let’s get stuck in!” were lacking in vigour and plausibility.

You can’t even measure a captain’s performance. There are no stats for “getting the best out of an ordinary bunch of professionals” or “always being one step ahead of the game”. You might be a tactical genius, an intuitive psychiatrist, a gifted diplomat and an inspirational speaker, but if your team is full of duffers, you’ll never win anything. Don Bradman, for example, was not the world’s greatest skipper, but he benefited hugely from the fact that he was able to call on the services of Don Bradman.

No, to become a captain you need to be part egomaniac, part masochist, but most importantly, you need to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So Hashim, next time AB stubs his toe on the boundary rope while trying to catch a butterfly or sneezes over the grapefruit selection at the hotel’s breakfast buffet, start limping.

Tuesday, 18th October
The War On One-Day Internationals may not involve tanks, camouflaged trousers or iffy occupations, but that doesn’t mean it’s not real. There are people out there who want to destroy our way of life or, at the very least, to significantly reduce the amount of 50-over cricket we are able to watch, which is almost as bad. And these people are not shifty subversives skulking in dingy alleyways. They operate in broad daylight, on our most popular websites (and thecricketer.com).

“It now seems pointless warning the administrators about the proliferation of one-day cricket. They simply are not listening and will only learn when the paying public start voting with their feet.”

Quite so, Mr Agnew. Any idea when this voting-with-feet thing is likely to happen? I only ask, because one-day internationals have been going since 1971 and y’know, they’re kind of still popular and that. At least, they are with the people who matter, which is us, the spectators. We know commentators and journalists don’t like them, but since you don’t even pay to go to them, this is a bit rich. What’s that, Mr Roebuck?

“It is widely believed that the 50-over version of the game has become tired.”

Widely believed? You mean you asked a couple of fellows in the press box and they agreed with you? Come off it, chaps. We like the 50-over stuff. That’s why there’s so much of it. You won’t save Test cricket by attacking the formats that pay for it.

Wednesday, 19th October
Time for a brief word from our sporting ethics correspondent, Mr Tim Bresnan, with his take on England’s rather aggressive approach to their Indian tour.

“As a fast-bowling unit, we can't really use the ball to intimidate as much as we'd like in India, with it not bouncing so high, so we have to do other things to get into the batsman's bubble, whether it's a little bit of a word or a look or a stare. It's all handbags, to be honest. No one really pays much attention.”

So if it’s all handbags and no one pays much attention, why not save your breath, rest your frowning muscles and concentrate on trying to bowl straight?

Thursday, 20th October
Those sensitive dears at the WICB are still refusing to pick Chris Gayle because he said nasty things about them which were only mostly true (you can be sure that if he’d libelled them, they’d be all lawyered-up and dragging him through the courts as we speak.) Clive Lloyd says they are entitled to take umbrage, well yes, but on the other hand, they could just suck it up and do the right thing for West Indian cricket.

Criticising the coach is one thing, and if he hasn’t already, then Big Chris should probably throw a little sorry Otis’ way. But isn’t taking flak part of the WICB’s job description? Has Julian Hunte never been criticised? Does he burst into tears and run out of the room every time a journalist accuses him of something? Does Mrs Julian Hunte have to tread on eggshells every time she raises the thorny issue of the toothpaste tube being squeezed from the wrong end? Get a grip, Dr Hunte, give your ego the day off and pick up the phone.

Wednesday, 21st September
One day, perhaps one day soon, my daughter may come up to me and ask, with the innocent curiosity of the seven-year-old:

“Daddy, why are England playing the West Indies at the wrong end of September in a couple of Twenty20 matches that are entirely without context?”

To which I will obviously reply that it is because of a man called Allen Stanford.

“Daddy, who is Allen Stanford?”

How should I explain? I could say that he was a generous benefactor of undeniably Texan persuasion with a vibrant tan, a manly moustache and a healthy touch of megalomania. I could say that he was a great friend of English cricket who helped us defy the might of the BCCI. Or I could swear blind I’d never heard of the chap.

But I’m not Giles Clarke, so those options are out. I could refer her to the comments of the US regulators who stated that Stanford perpetrated “a fraud of shocking magnitude” (and they know a thing or two about frauds of shocking magnitude, those US regulators.) Or maybe I could tell her what Andy Roberts, all-time great fast bowler, today said of the egregious founder of the Magic Bank of Stanford:

“He had the money, he had a plan and it was working.”

Which is true to an extent. But the money was other people’s and his plan was not to get caught. It was indeed working for quite some time. And then he got caught. England’s legacy is a couple of extra games a year. In the West Indies they are already talking nostalgically about a man who perpetrated a fraud of shocking magnitude. Which is perhaps the saddest part of the whole sorry episode.

Wednesday, 22nd September
A few days into the job and Kim Littlejohn’s research is going well. He picked up the 2011-12 Black Cap Sticker Album at Auckland Airport and has been seen regularly popping into John Buchanan’s Newsagent and Philosophical Grocery Store to bulk purchase packets of stickers. So far he has 17 Brendon McCullums and half a dozen Ross Taylors, but he’s missing a Tim Southee and he doesn’t know what Daniel Vettori looks like because his pet hamster chewed that one.

But I wish him well and I wonder whether the experiment could be extended. If the national selection manager doesn’t need to know anything about cricket, is it absolutely necessary that the players do? Have New Zealand been missing a trick by restricting places in their national cricket team to professional cricketers? Surely it’s just a matter of identifying transferable skills. Jugglers in the slips, gymnasts in the covers, javelin throwers for fast bowlers, and golfers for batsmen.

Thursday, 23rd September
Well, that was jolly entertaining. The West Indies, in the absence of half a team had sent over some of the members of their inter-island Agricultural XI. Johnson Charles (an excellent take on a rather dull name, like wearing a trilby back to front) had brought his scything blade of thunder and Dwayne Smith his shovel of iron destiny and both swung merrily like drunken farmers at harvest time. Poor Tim Bresnan looked like a volunteer from the audience who’d been invited on stage only to be hit repeatedly over the head with a frying pan.

Bang! Swipe! Crash! Pow! It was like one of those 1960s episodes of Batman, but without the tights. And for the first time ever, I began to wonder whether Australia’s decision to call their own Twenty20 thingy the Big Bash wasn’t just alliterative PR stupidity, but a profound insight. Big. Bash. Doesn’t that say it all? Or have I had one glass too many? But let no one say that Twenty20 is not authentic. Three hundred years ago, long before the Victorians got their hands on our game, this is the cricket Londoners were watching: raw, raucous, chaotic and as subtle as a Dwayne Smith leg-clearing bottom-handed shellacking over midwicket.

Monday, 29th August
When two bitter antagonists decide to climb down off their high horses, throw away those handbags and give each other a big hug, it is a beautiful thing. Two weeks ago I shed a little tear of happiness when I read that the WICB and the WIPA (or it may have been the other way round) were going to get together and sort it all out over lattes and a plate of custard creams. Mr Ramnarine said that people were fed up of the arguing, they just want West Indies cricket back on top. Well, amen to that.

So how have they been getting along? I thought I’d check in today for the latest:

“WIPA to sue WICB for $20m!”

Oh dear. The ordinary cricket fan, who just yearns for the good old days when the West Indies were awe-inspiring cricket gods dispensing nose-breaking, jaw-crushing, leather-spanking justice finds this as bewildering and depressing as the news that there might be a Pirates of the Caribbean 5. The house of West Indies cricket is crumbling and these Lilliputians are sitting in the ruins, surrounded by rubble, arguing about what shade of blue will go best in the bathroom.

I’m not really interested in why the WIPA is suing the WICB, and though I’m not trained in the clairvoyant arts, I strongly suspect that I’ll be equally uninterested next week when the WICB announces its countersuit. As a parent I’ve been through this sort of thing before. It’s not important who started it, all that matters is that you both say sorry and agree to play nicely, and above all that we don’t hear another peep out of either of you, because frankly you kids are driving us crazy.

Tuesday 30th August
Having grown up watching Neighbours (which is, in my opinion, a far superior drama to the rather vulgar Home and Away) I have absorbed a lot of Australian without having to take a course. Bludgers, lamingtons, rellies, grog and stoked are all part of my vocabulary, stored in a tiny anteroom of my brain, gathering dust but ready to be used in the unlikely event that I can afford a week or two in Adelaide, or that I bump into Shane Warne at the moisturiser counter in Boots.

But ever so often I come across a phrase that reminds me that Australia is, in fact, an entirely foreign country and not just a hotter, dryer, wider version of Cornwall. Today, for example, I read this from Michael Clarke, referring to Trent Copeland:

“I’m a big wrap for him.”

I have heard it before, but if I’m honest, I have no idea what it means. An attempt to translate it logically leads to a disturbing conclusion - that Australia’s captain is so enamoured of his new seam-up, wobble-it-about guy that he wants to envelop him physically, as though he were a soft white flatbread and Trent a tasty pile of marinated chicken, onions and peppers. Is that the kind of captain-player bonding that the Argus review recommended? Or have I mistranslated?

Still, while I’ve no idea if he’s any good with a cricket ball, I do know that Australia’s new fast-bowling burrito has a great name. This is par for the course. Antipodeans* consistently outperform the British in this department. Your average Australian cricketer sounds like a tough, borderline-dangerous cove who knows how to operate a leaf blower and could arm-wrestle a dingo into submission if he had to. You’d feel safe if Trent Copeland had your back.

* New Zealanders, for example, usually have cowboy names. It is impossible not to be cool with a name like Jesse Ryder, Brendon McCullum or Dangerous Dan Vettori. Though I suspect Martin Guptil is really a quantity surveyor from Crawley.

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.

Tuesday, 5th July
Chris Gayle and Kumar Sangakkara have a lot in common. They are supremely talented players whose careers have been interrupted by lesser men. But they are dealing with it in different ways. Chris composed a moving piece in 33 paragraphs based around variations on a theme (the theme being “It’s Not Fair”). Kumar looked further than his own future and made an eloquent and impassioned plea for the reform of Sri Lanka’s cricket establishment.

And the response of Sri Lanka’s sports minister to these thoughtful, reasoned and articulate remarks? He stuck to the code of administrators worldwide, cranked up the pomposity dial to maximum and let off some self-righteous steam. The most significant thing he noted about the speech? That Kumar should have sought permission from the board in order to criticise the board.

But this is worse than just a few more puffed-up men in suits and fancy moustaches, stroking their egos. This is corruption we’re talking about, you know, that “very bad thing” that we were all so determined to root out a few months ago. Have we forgotten about that? Or is corruption only a problem when it involves players?

Wednesday, 6th July
Exciting developments, franchise watchers: the Kochi Katastrophes might be for sale! This news had me rooting down the back of my sofa for small change and ringing my elderly relatives to persuade them to invest their life savings. Having supported the purpley-tangerines in their debut season, only to see them blow it in a series of let-downs, flops and disasters, I thought I might as well buy the thing and sort them out.

And they can’t be that expensive. They finished eighth. They barely have any sponsors. Their gate revenue was puny, they couldn’t get a new stadium built and their shirts are revolting. Surely they’ll be going for a knock-down price? What’s that? US$ 333.33 million? Hmm. Well how much for Sreesanth’s head band?

Friday, 8th July
Things are getting out of hand in the shires. The wickets are littered with dummies and the county championship’s traditional soundtrack of four hands clapping is being drowned out by John McEnroe-style protests and language that would make a Premier League footballer’s mistress blush.

So what is going on in snoozy-time land? Are they putting something in the tea? Are there bonus points available in the championship this year for petulance, swearing and generally carrying on like a three-year-old on a long car journey? No. The Professional Cricketers Association believes the problem is twofold. First, the DRS is to blame. The players, having watched cricket on telly, want to emulate their heroes, but when they make those cool T-shapes in a county game, nothing happens. Naturally, they become disillusioned.

The second problem is slightly duller and has to do with some kind of umpiring feedback thingy. The PCA’s head Nursery School Supervisor explained:

“I think it's important that the players have a mechanism for giving feedback and that they have the confidence in it so that they don't get frustrated.”

The poor dears.

But why exactly are players commenting on umpires? Do schoolchildren fill in questionnaires rating the performance of their headmaster? Umpires are not in the service industry; they don’t need to be sensitive to the needs of their clients. They are enforcers. They are there because: a) the players can’t be trusted to play nicely and b) the players don’t know the rules.

I suggest that, in addition to fines, bans and stiff talkings-to, errant pros should be forced to write, “I must not undermine the umpire’s authority,” a hundred times on the pavilion blackboard. And an hour or two on the naughty step wouldn’t hurt either.

Sunday, 3rd July
Tillakaratne says he’s disappointed at how his chaps went about pulverising England at Lord’s. Absolutely right. Poor show Mr Mathews, you made Cook and chums look awfully silly.

On the other hand, it was quite funny. And it did bring a little pulse quickening to the closing overs of a one-sided encounter. You could hardly blame Chandimal and Mathews. They are entertainers. If England weren’t going to put a fight, they had to do something to give the spectators their money’s worth.

And I don’t know what England’s problem was. That Sri Lanka could have won in 44 overs but instead they won in 49? Really, they had nothing to complain about, but that didn’t stop them. Led by Peter Pietersen the Petulant Pouter, they managed to extract maximum sulkage from the situation. Their expressions at the end of the game were so sour they could have curdled milk.

How has this happened? Losing with dignity used to be the only thing England were any good at. Now they’re rapidly climbing the ICC Whining Rankings. And their most exciting young complainer is Stuart “It’s Not Fair” Broad, the man with the fastest whinge reflex in the modern game. Has losing half of his match fee at Headingley caused him to reflect? Nope.

“I’m certainly not going to lose my passion for the game…”

No one is asking you to lose your passion for the game, Stuart. Just stop swearing at umpires. And fielders. And pigeons.

Monday, 4th July
Like an empty stomach the Katich Controversy rumbles on, but not everyone thinks that the decision to axe Australia’s most reliable batsman was a catastrophically short-sighted one. Coach Tim Neilsen isn’t party to the mystical goings on in selection land, but he fronted up today and said that he thinks the Katichlessness of the list of contracted players is probably a sign that the team is being regenerated.

Probably.

Of course, there are alternative explanations for his absence, all of them, in my opinion, just as plausible as the regeneration hypothesis:

1. The 17-year-old intern charged with filling in the Central Contract Software Wizard sneezed and accidentally deleted Katich’s name. He couldn’t get hold of anyone in IT so he just went with it.

2. Hilditch and Chappell have never really been happy with their spelling of “Katich” and so avoided the whole tricky business by going for Fil Huges instead.

3. The selectors wrote down the names of every vaguely talented Australian player they could think of on scraps of paper torn from a copy of Steve Waugh’s autobiography, put them all into Skippy the Magic Bush Hat, gave it a shake, chanted the magic words, (“Bowling Shane”) and awarded contracts to the first 25 names out of the hat.

4. They don’t like his crispy salmon. Who the hell wants their salmon crispy anyway? And his salads are just well, a little bit too tomatoey, you know?

Tuesday, 5th July
Good news for those of you living in the Caribbean. Things must be going pretty well domestically, because apparently your prime ministers are able to take time away from managing the economy, public services, transport and crime in order to tackle some of the region’s more trivial problems. And top of the agenda is the row between some incompetent suit wearers and Jamaica’s millionaire sulking champion.

After sorting out the Gayle squabble, I believe they will be tackling other important issues such as why do dogs eat grass, why can we never find our car keys and why are chocolate bars are a lot smaller than they used to be.

Saturday, 18th June
The ECB today confirmed that the recent unseasonal downpours have revealed a significant leakage issue associated with the roof of their head office, with the potential for unsightly stains and long-term damage to structural integrity. In order to address this problem, they have arranged a friendly game between the England cricket team and the Easy-Fit Roofing Company XI, for which tickets will soon go on sale to the public (£75 for adults or £74.50 for under-16s).

They have also let it be known that the England team is available at a reasonable rate for weddings, bar mitzvahs and impromptu barbeques; Jonathan Trott will spend the autumn on loan to the British Archaelogical Society, helping with their excavations at Stonehenge; Chris Tremlett is to assist the Hampshire Fire Service with their tree-focused kitten retrieval programme, and Kevin Pietersen will be treading the boards this winter in the touring production of 2008’s popular farce, Oops, Mr Stanford!

Monday, 20th June
Out in the Caribbean, the war of the abbreviations is turning ugly. The WICB have alleged that at their latest meeting with the WIPA, President Ramnarine lost his temper, turned into a green-skinned tower of muscular rage, splitting his shirt in the process and threatened senior WICB executives with an easy chair. The WIPA dispute this version of events, claiming that Mr Ramnarine merely got out of his seat prematurely during a game of musical chairs.

We can’t be sure which version is correct and to be honest, we don’t really care. I’d like to imagine that the chair in question was one of those little red plastic ones you find in kindergartens. And, since the chair is the only participant at that meeting to have emerged from it with any dignity, perhaps it could take over at the WICB, with the table being voted in as WIPA leader. Their press conferences might not be very entertaining but they might bring some stability to West Indies cricket.

Tuesday, 21st June
Like a low-fat, sugar-free dessert, this soggy Sri Lankan series has been unfulfilling and rather bland. The tourists were mostly ordinary without being completely awful, and England continued to do a reasonable impression of a very impressive team without actually achieving an awful lot. Indeed, had Dilshan and chums not developed an unfortunate case of collective agoraphobia on the last day in Cardiff we’d have been left with a stalemate staler than an ex-cricketer's after-dinner anecdotes.

Perhaps I’m just sulking because I’d been looking forward to watching Mendis and Randiv and instead I got Lakmal and Perera (and a limping Fernando). But really, why bring three spinners if you’re only going to use one? It’s like taking three hairdryers on holiday. And somehow at the end of all that rain and tedium, England have ended up as the second best Test team in the world. The ICC’s ranking system doesn’t lie, but it is perhaps a little economical with the truth.

Tuesday, June 14th
I’m not sure that cricketers should be allowed to talk too much in public, but I’d make an exception in the case of Graeme Swann because every now and then he comes out with something that causes me to stop chewing my cereal in surprise. Like this statement, for instance:

“If there’s an uglier top three in the world than Strauss, Cook and Trott, I don’t know of it.”

This is the kind of thing we want to read. Signs of cracks in the depressingly immaculate team spirit of Team England. They may be all huddles and embarrassing dances on the field, but secretly, they loathe each other. Still, I did think he was being a bit harsh. After all, Strauss has a certain square-jawed charm and his deputy possesses the most immaculate set of eyebrows in the county of Essex.

But it seems I got the wrong end of the stick. He wasn’t assessing their physical attributes. He was admitting that he finds watching England’s top-order trio doing their thing to be a less than stimulating experience. He did go on to explain that the sedative effect of their batting, with the attendant risk of nodding off and falling from your chair on the team balcony, is a price worth paying because it helps keep the show on the road and the win bonuses flowing.

Sadly, the rest of us don’t have that consolation. It isn’t their fault of course. They do what they do and they do it very well. But here’s the unspoken truth of Test cricket. When it is played very well, it can sometimes be, well, quite dull. We all enjoy watching KP thrash the ball around, or Sachin battling against the odds on a dodgy track. But well-drilled, efficient grinders accumulating steadily on flat pitches? That’s ugly.

Thursday, June 16th
There was much talk about the poor crowds in Cardiff and we can expect more as the five-day rain festival at the Rose Bowl gets underway. The reasons for the empty seats are not clear, but hacks and pundits appear to be in agreement that it’s a jolly poor show and reflects badly on the part of the British public that they are not flocking in their droves to these poky little venues at the extremities of the island in order to pay £70 for the privilege of sitting in the rain all day. Shame on you, Britain!

Friday, June 17th

The legends of Caribbean cricket must grow weary of being asked to explain the inexplicable. In an interview in the Guardian today, Viv Richards had another stab at it, pointing out that the talent is there but that the players, selectors and management are all pulling in different directions. He’s right, of course, but will anyone listen?

Take the Chris Gayle stand-off. We know he’ll be back. The WICB know he’ll be back. Otis Gibson knows he needs him back. But it isn’t going to happen just yet because all parties need time to extricate themselves from the situation with dignity, like contestants at the end of a game of naked Twister. Then next month, they’ll do it all again. Players sulk, administrators posture and nothing changes.

Saturday, 30th April
So it turns out that the West Indies selectors can, after all, just about find room for Ramnaresh Sarwan in their exciting new team of all the talents. And who knows, if the young fella applies himself, he might one day be a regular, like those stalwarts, Marlon “Misadventure” Samuels and Devon “Disappointing” Smith.

Ramnaresh’s return from the naughty step does not, though, imply that his fellow troublemaker Shivnarine Chanderpaul will be forgiven. He is currently engaged in a duel by letter with Ernest Hilaire, and though the details of the spat are too wearisome to go into, it is vaguely charming in this electronic age to see two men slugging it out the old-fashioned way: via the postal service.

Sunday, 1st May
Indian pitch in “spin-friendly” shock! Yes it’s true. The wicket in Jaipur was so constituted that it enabled spin bowlers to cause the ball to deviate sideways more easily than might otherwise have been the case. Scandalous. Mumbai have complained, or not, depending on your point of view, and Shane Warne has hit back at the unwarranted slur/non-existent accusation.

So what happened to the Jaipur pitch? I tried to find the answer on the internet. As far as I can gather, the moisture is being sucked up by a giant invisible alien tree planted in the outfield by Martian gardeners with links to Pakistani bookmakers, in exchange for crates of counterfeit brandname sports gear, stolen iPhones and pirated copies of Yuvraj Singh’s debut album, Yuvi Love.

Probably.

But what’s the problem? So what if the surface at Jaipur was dryer than a packet of sand-flavoured crisps? Who cares if Kochi’s pitch was crustier than the rejects bin at Pies Pies Pies Plc, the world’s leading pie and pastry purveyor? Pitches, like wine, should reflect the character and soil of their locale. India is a generally dry and dusty country, ergo most Indian pitches will be dry and dusty. And if that sometimes makes life harder for lazy sloggers, then splendid.

Monday, 2nd May
Watching too much top-class sport can be a drag. Real Madrid versus Barcelona is all very well but too much of that kind of thing and you start to yearn for the gritty pleasures that come when the mediocre take on the ordinary. What do I mean? Well, take today’s game between Delhi and Kochi. The Daredevils, as we know, are all top hat and no trousers and Kochi do as well as a team can be expected to do whilst dressed like the Muppets on a trip to the seaside.

When two not-very-good cricket sides go to war, a half-decent score is usually enough and so it proved. But just to put the purpley-orange cap on the thing, up stepped Irfan Pathan, to remind us all that the key to being just short of top class is a thrilling and unpredictable inconsistency. His opening over provided a benchmark of inaccuracy with some delightfully curving leg-side wides that the wicketkeeper hadn’t a hope of stopping.

Keep this up Kochi and sixth place is yours!

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.

Wednesday, 13th April
I’ll be honest. I’m fast falling out of love with Kochi. First there was that business with the shirts. I mean, orange? Really? They said nothing about orange when they bought the franchise. Perhaps that was what all the squabbling was about. But there was no clue on the logo. I was expecting a regal purple outfit, with cool embroidered silver tusks. What did we get? Bilious tangerine. They look like fast-food servers on their lunch break, or street marketers promoting a new brand of orange juice.

And then there’s the not-being-very-good problem. This is a real hindrance to the committed supporter, particularly those of us who got carried away pre-IPL and had a little wager on the orangey ones to win the thing. We are in a for a rollercoaster ride, of the kind you get at illegal fun fairs, where the track isn’t quite finished and it all ends in disaster. Today, for example, when Yuvraj fell, I was leaping up and down like Javed Miandad on a trampoline doing his Kiran More impersonation. But a few balls later, I found myself committing an act of violence upon an innocent cushion as Jadeja completed his spell with one of those innovative “hit me” full-tosses.

Perhaps it’s the shirts, perhaps it’s the name, perhaps it’s presence of Sreesanth, but I am afraid there is no other word for it: Kochi are flaky. In fact, they are the new Kings XI Punjab. Yes, it’s as bad as that.

Thursday, 14th April
We’ve all been there. You’ve finished washing your baby. But there’s a problem. The bath is full of both baby and water. What to do? Do you carefully extract your baby then tip away the water? Or do you throw the whole lot out of the window? Well, kudos to the WICB. In dropping Gayle, Sarwan and Chanderpaul, they have shown us that there is a third way: lose the baby and keep the bath water. And if anyone carps, you answer them by saying that the door is not closed to the baby, he can always make a comeback, but it’s time we had a look at what the bath water can do.

Friday, 15th April
Exciting news for the nation of New Zealand with the arrival of Australian philosopher and motivational spreadsheet guru, John Buchanan. Professor B enjoyed great success across the Tasman Sea with his innovative five-point strategy:

1. Pick Warne
2. Pick Gilchrist
3. Break for tea and scones
4. Pick McGrath
5. Leave inspirational Post-it notes at the bottom of players’ cereal bowls

“I’ve learnt a lot from my time in Australia,” said the man himself, “Specifically, that Post-its can go a bit soggy if you pour milk onto them. So my first step as Emperor of New Zealand Cricket will be to scour Ebay for a decent Post-it note laminator.”

And the man they call John enthralled a snoozing press corps by outlining his belief in the transformative power of talking at length without really saying anything.

“Philosophy has a lot to offer our sport. I think it was Socrates who said that a small kiwi can down a kangaroo if it knows how to use a gun. Or it may have been Aristotle. Now I come to think of it, it could have been Groucho Marx. Anyway, my aim is to intellectualise the New Zealand cricket collective with a series of lectures on the Impossibility of Existence, a visit to Michel Foucault’s favourite hardware store and compulsory Esperanto lessons for anyone with a central contract.

“After that, it will be a simple matter of identifying three players exactly like Warne, Gilchrist and McGrath and the renaissance of New Zealand cricket can begin.”

Saturday, 15th April
Yesterday Kochi beat Mumbai. This might suggest that they are quite good. But I'm not fooled. I've been here before with Kings XI. One day they're thrashing Tendulkar, the next they're all out for 57. It's the essence of flakiness. Don't get sucked in, people, they'll let you down when it matters.

Friday, 18th March
Despite Old Mother Hilditch’s protestations to the contrary, it does appear that the Australian cricket cupboard is, to put it diplomatically, some way distant from being in a state of fullness. During the glory years, if you wanted the selectors to know who you were, an average of 60 was de rigueur. But these days it seems a couple of cheeky 30s is all you need to get your name into the selection tombola to win a baggy green.

In another era Phil Hughes and his extraordinary limbo-dancing, backward-shuffling, fly-fishing style might have been a backwoods curiosity, a minor provincial spectacle, an offbeat conversation piece on the side table of domestic cricket. But this is 2011 and Phil Hughes is not an eyebrow-raisingly unready rookie; he is the messiah. And judging by Mr Hilditch’s comments today, we can soon expect the third coming.

Admittedly the first and second comings didn’t really work out. But the Australian selectors have a useful little saying: “If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it’s probably the beginning of a long and successful Test career.” So the fact that Phil Hughes has now scored some runs in a state game pretty much guarantees that he’ll be seen all at sea again in a Test match near you, soon.

Sunday, 20th March
Sadly the Kenyan team are flying home without winning a match. Despite a fantastic new logo, heavy monetary investment (a games console and a copy of Steve Tikolo’s Knocked Out Cricket) and some of the finest sunglasses you’ll ever see on a cricket field, they did not live up to expectations.

“Yes they failed,” explained a senior cricket official, “But we feel that their failure represents a real failure. We had hoped for a slightly disappointing failure. Instead it was a very disappointing failure. This level of failure is, quite frankly, disappointing.”

Cricket Kenya have already conducted a thorough review and have identified the three key factors responsible for this not entirely unprecedented lack of success:

1. Batting: Not very good
2. Bowling: A bit rubbish, really
3. Fielding: Needs work

Conclusion: Disappointing.

Monday, 21st March
Good news for Darren Sammy and chums but bad news for the vehicle glaziers of Dhaka. The Bangladeshi government have promised the men from the Caribbean top-level security ahead of their defeat to Pakistan. For a start, all the residents of Mirpur will have to don blindfolds as the coach passes, the thinking being that if they can’t see it, their chances of hitting it with a projectile will be significantly reduced.

And in an unprecedented effort, thousands of policemen have been busy confiscating every single stone, rock, boulder, pebble and boiled sweet in the Mirpur district. Keen stone-throwers will still be able to obtain their missiles, but only from approved flinging-supplies shops. These retailers will only be licensed to sell rocks made of foam and fitted with a Donald Duck squeaker so that the West Indies players will be entertained as they are bombarded on their way out of the ground.

“We are taking this very seriously,” chuckled a Bangladeshi government spokesman. “In fact, you could say that no stone has been left unturned.”*

* I understand that the official in question has since been sacked, for violating the “excruciating wordplay” clause in his contract. Firm, but fair, I think you’ll agree.

Wednesday, January 5th
Four walkovers and a stalemate. This has been the dullest Ashes series in living memory and still it goes on. I feel like a tourist whose long-awaited dream holiday has turned into a nightmare, trapped in a dingy hotel above a 24-hour Barmy Army karaoke bar, suffering from ear-ache and chronic disillusionment and counting the days until it is all over. It has been the triumph of the competent over the shambolic. England have done well, no doubt, but they play cricket like Oliver Cromwell might have done, if he hadn’t thought it the devil’s work. It’s been so dull that even Paul Collingwood has had enough.

And throughout, there has been the insistent drumbeat of patriotic bias, as welcome in the commentary booth as a nest of scorpions in your biscuit jar. Chief cheerleader is Ian Botham. Listening to his gratingly one-sided contributions is like being hit on the head repeatedly by a white and red inflatable hammer. When Phil Hughes half-heartedly claimed a catch today, Beefy exploded. Clearly, Hughes was a cheat. A lesser man might have reflected on some of the other examples of sharp practice in recent years, from the unorthodox use of Murray Mints in 2005 to Strauss’s “catch” at Lord’s in 2009. But not Beefy. This is the Ashes. It’s us and them. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. God Save the Queen! Pass the earplugs.

Thursday, January 6th
The BCCI do not want to use the UDRS system and have refused an invitation to go and watch it in action in Australia, reminding us that sand-based full-cranial immersion remains as popular amongst sports administrators as it does in the ostrich community. Loathe it or tolerate it, UDRS has become part of the cricket experience. Watching the game without referrals, HotSpots, traffic lights and snickometers already seems an antiquated pastime, part of cricket’s yesteryear, like the days when TV companies couldn’t afford a camera at both ends and the viewer spent 50% of their time watching to see which way the batsman’s bottom moved.

So what’s the BCCI’s problem? The suggestion that they can’t afford it is entertaining, but not particularly credible. They have said that they have serious doubts about its accuracy, but that’s not the point. Accurate or not, if everyone else is using it, so should India. We need a level playing field of inaccuracy. Besides, lots of things that aren’t completely accurate are still an integral part of the game. Take Sreesanth for example. The poor chap was beside himself in Cape Town when a couple of appeals went against him. If you won’t embrace UDRS for any other reason, Mr Srinivasan, then do it for the sake of Sree’s blood pressure.

Friday, January 7th
I read puzzling news from the Caribbean. Apparently, there is to be another Twenty20 competition in those parts, only six months after the last one. It is the kind of overkill that the ECB would be proud of. So who’s going to win this time?

“The Red Force is going to wipe everything away in front of them,” says Trinidad’s manager, Omar Khan.

“Last year we were accused of leaving coffee stains and isotonic energy drink spills in the Queen’s Park Oval canteen. So I have issued the players with rubber gloves and absorbent wipes and I can guarantee that the players will not leave the ground until all the work surfaces are spotless. As for the cricket, I expect that we will go out in the semi-finals again, but it doesn’t matter because everyone knows we are the best.”

Wednesday, 20th October
Shane Warne, in his attempt to break the world record for pre-Ashes sound bites, has today found a new angle by offering us a zoological perspective on the merits of the current Australian captain:

“I think Ricky is at his best when he shows his Tassie devil side, which is aggressive, with a dash of flair.”

It transpires that Warne was referring to the Tasmanian Devil or Sarcophilus harrisii, a carnivore of the family Dasyuridae. Wikipedia has this to say about the apparently Ponting-like marsupial:

“It is characterised by its stocky and muscular build, black fur, extremely loud and disturbing screech, pungent odour and ferocity when feeding.”

It seems a bit harsh at first glance, but then again I’ve never seen Ricky eat a meat pie, or indeed stood close enough to him to offer an informed opinion on the pungency of his odour. Still, he might be forgiven for thinking that this is not perhaps the most felicitous of supportive pre-Ashes mammalian comparisons, particularly given that the Tasmanian Devil was declared an endangered species in 2009.

Thursday, 21st October
Under intense pressure to do something about the bloated county fixture list, the ECB structure group have made their long-awaited recommendations. In a bold move, they have proposed an initial period of inaction, followed by inactivity in the medium term, leading to further inertia going forwards. They have tentatively suggested the possibility that something might be done in 2012, but have sensibly not committed themselves as to what that something might be.

As they explained, change cannot be rushed into without a proper review, and given that county cricket has only been running for 150 years, it would be far too risky to draw precipitate conclusions. They were able to report, however, that they have taken action in one crucial area. It was proposed that the tea served at future committee meetings should be Darjeeling rather than Earl Grey. A working party was appointed and is expected to report on the matter by 2015 or possibly later.

Friday, 22nd October
In another triumph for the “names in a hat” method of captaincy selection, the WICB has chosen Darren Sammy to be the team’s next skipper, on the grounds that a) he wants to do the job, and b) he isn’t as good as the last chap so they won’t have to pay him so much. He is taking on the task with the touching naivete of over-promoted captains of dysfunctional teams everywhere, promising that he will be both bold and frank and referring to himself in the third person:

“That’s what Darren Sammy wants to do. Bring back the joy.”

However, the WICB were quick to issue a statement today reprimanding the new boy for his unguarded comments:

“We wish to make it clear that, as stipulated in his captaincy contract at Paragraph 127, subsection 17a, boldness and frankness are prohibited behaviours. We will also be monitoring levels of joy in Caribbean cricket, to ensure that they remain within acceptable levels, and would remind Mr Sammy that his remit does not extend beyond his core responsibilities, namely: taking the blame, doing what he is told and standing at second slip with his arms folded.’

Saturday, August 21st
The conclusion of the third Test at The Oval was an exciting affair, but not without controversy. As England pressed desperately for wickets, Matt Prior’s imaginative appeals were recorded at 9.7 on the Moin Scale* and resulted in umpire Tony Hill being taken to hospital with a strained incredulity gland. As a result, the shiny-headed Sussex glove-warmer was fined 50% of his throat-sweet allocation and warned that future infractions could result in the fitting of an ICC gag.

Meanwhile, the ECB’s Chief of Spreadsheets, Giles Clarke, professed himself baffled at the poor attendances for some matches this summer. “I really don’t know what else we can do. We’ve set ticket prices at £80 to keep out the riff-raff, and we’ve even laid on floodlights to illuminate the pitch and give the crowd something to look at when the players are off for bad light. Frankly, if the general public don’t up their game, we’ll be left with no choice but to start using smaller grounds, which will inevitably mean a modest 50% increase in ticket prices.”

Sunday, August 22nd
There was a further escalation today in the long-running but never interesting wrangle between the WIPA and the WICB. In a surprise move, a spokesman for the WIPA announced that as the WICB had completely failed in its duty to adequately represent West Indian cricket, the WIPA had little option but to assume this function and was therefore renaming itself the WICB with immediate effect. However, within minutes the WICB retaliated by alleging that the WIPA was not properly representing the interests of players in the region and so the WICB had no choice but to take over this role and change its name to the WIPA. Whereupon the WICB, formerly the WIPA, instituted legal action against the WIPA, formerly the WICB, who immediately lodged a counter suit against the renamed WICB (ex-WIPA) for breach of image rights, and in retaliation… (to be continued)

Monday, August 23rd
In an effort to boost morale, the Australian cricket board have drafted one third of legendary comedy act The Chuckle Brothers onto their selection panel. Greg Chuckle, often regarded as the straight man of the trio, has been working on his own material and this morning had a packed press conference in stitches with hilarious one-liners about how he was excited by the challenge of telling Michael Hussey to retire and how he thought Ricky Ponting was doing a great job.

The Chuckle Brothers were cult heroes during their heyday in the 1970s, when they toured the world entertaining packed stadiums with their funny moustaches and foul-mouthed on-field antics. Since the group disbanded, founder member Ian Chuckle has largely eschewed the world of entertainment, preferring instead to concentrate on his commentary career, but was quick to comment today on his former sidekick’s new venture. “It’ll be a bloody disaster,” he joked.

* The Moin being the internationally recognised unit of measurement for wicketkeeper-generated annoyance.

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.

Monday, July 26
An excess of confidence, like alcohol, can lead a man to do things he later regrets. Intoxicated by the success of my recent Sri Lankan wager, I became monetarily involved in today’s quarter-final disputations in the Friends Provident t20, expressing my certainty to the bemused chap behind the counter at my local bookmakers that the Bears of Warwickshire and the Sharks of Sussex would certainly triumph.

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.

Saturday 24th July
We didn’t really learn anything about Pakistan during this mini-series. Two captains, a big defeat and an unnecessarily nervy win. Same old, same old. Instead I spent most of my time observing the Australians, a breed of cricketer I find fascinating. Why don’t they give up? Every other nation on earth would have gone through the motions this morning. Where does it come from? It certainly isn’t a genetic inheritance. The English way is to give up properly and give up early, before mounting a completely futile rearguard action when all chance of victory has gone.

Australia’s captain, too, is endlessly fascinating, like a piece of abstract art. I have come up with many theories to explain the enigma that is Ricky, and my latest is that his whole public persona is a total sham, a facade. Have you ever seen Ricky smile? It is a lovely thing, a boyish grin that lights up his whole gnarly face. No one seeing that grin could fail to warm to the little fella. Yet he goes about in public wearing a mask of humourless disgruntlement, through which compliments for victorious opponents are squeezed out of the corner of his mouth, and thanks to which he comes across as pricklier than a hedgehog wearing a cactus hat. Smile, Ricky, and the world may smile with you. Or at least they might not swear at you so much.

We were also granted another seminar on Australian sporting ethics. Michael Hussey claimed a catch off Kamran Akmal. Under the rules of the game, the claiming of a catch amounts to nothing. In Aussie World, when a bloke says he caught it, the other bloke has to take the first bloke’s word. Why he should do this is not entirely clear; that’s just the way it is. On the other hand, a bloke is entitled to remain at the crease even if there is a chunk of his bat missing from where the edge was removed and everyone in the surrounding province heard the noise.

The two situations are not entirely the same and there is a thread of logic there, but it is a twisty, fragile thing that can often be mistaken for mere self-interest. Ramiz Raja thought Hussey definitely didn’t catch it. Shane Warne thought that he definitely did. Both reached and expressed their certainty on the matter within seconds, yet both also admitted that the pictures were inconclusive. Meanwhile on the radio Ian Chappell said he liked the idea of accepting a fielder’s word but he never would himself. Perhaps it would be best, after all, if we let the umpires decide.

Sunday 25th July
T&T are the most professional outfit in the Caribbean, which, admittedly, isn’t quite as much of a compliment as it might once have been, but it was enjoyable to catch up with Dwayne Bravo, both Gangas, the indefatigable Dave Mohammed, and one Keiron Pollard, international superstar. Today the wealthier of the KPs was sporting an elaborate coiffure, into which, as an aide memoire, a helpful barber had shaved the names of all five teams he is currently employed by.

The big guy was having a great time. Towards the end of his second over he stood at the start of his run-up wearing an enormous grin. Good on him, I thought, he’s clearly enjoying his work. His captain, however, did not exhibit similar signs of amusement, perhaps having on his mind the 20 runs that had come from the preceding five balls. I suppose, given Pollard’s multiple-contract lifestyle, there will always be some who mutter about his commitment to any particular cause; even to his home island.

Happily, he was able to dispel any lingering cynicism later in the game by smashing 50 from a ridiculously small number of deliveries; a half-century that included a dilscoop, some outrageously nonchalant sixes, and at least one lost ball. More importantly, he rescued his team from what seemed like inevitable defeat. He may not be a proper cricketer, but he isn’t bad.

	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.

	Once I have crossed my arms twice, you shall raise your index finger above your head © AFP

On Thursday, it was the turn of the Port of Spain audience to be wowed by the West Indies Cricket Team’s long-running variety show. It is difficult to put into words the full experience of an afternoon and evening with Chris Gayle’s Travelling Circus. There is comedy for sure and there is tragedy too, not to mention a fair bit of standing around sulking. But the centrepiece of the show is a thrilling escapology act.

Each night, Defeat is tightly gagged; bound in padlocked chains, locked into a trunk and heaved into a tank full of piranhas by Chris and his glamorous assistants. Then we look on in wonder as, against all the odds, at the last possible minute, Defeat breaks free, bounds onto the stage and yells, “Ta-da!” accepting the groans of disbelief, sporadic booing and occasional fruit flinging of a stunned audience.

The verdict of the genial Colin Croft in the Sky studio is that the West Indies have forgotten how to win, a diagnosis of amnesia that might not be too much of a handicap to you or I but which is particularly unfortunate in a collection of professional sportsmen. And there appears to be no cure, other than waiting for your collective memory to return, a process that can take several years. For example, England mislaid the art of winning some time during 1987 and didn’t find it again for a decade and a half. Even now it comes and goes.

And it is hard not to feel sorry for Chris Gayle. The man is clearly doing all he can to ginger up his chaps. He’s even started running quick singles. Throughout the series, the men in maroon have refused extra runs with the profligacy of well-fed diners waving away the sweet trolley. But early on during Thursday’s game, big Chris put his head down and pushed hard for a quick single. It was an unusual sight that put me in mind of an elderly aunt in desperate pursuit of a number 24 bus whilst trying to retain a grasp of her handbag, her hat and her dignity. But at least he was setting an example.

Their fielding was much improved too. Unfortunately, the South Africans were back to their efficient best and it was humans against cyborgs out there. Boucher, reduced to the ranks for the first time in a couple of decades, pulled off an astonishing catch in the 25th over, like a small boy scrumping apples with the aid of rocket-propelled trainers. Fielder of the day though was Roelof van der Merwe who was busy reinvigorating the word "enthusiasm" with a scrambling, hustling performance that left viewers exhausted and his smart green shirt all brown with dust and sweat.

The home side did show that they were capable of innovation in some areas. In the absence of the UDRS, the West Indian vice captain introduced the BRS: the Bravo Review System. The process is a straightforward one. An umpire makes a certain decision. Bravo indicates his intention to have the decision reviewed by waving his arms and glaring meaningfully at the man in the white trilby. Said official, after weighing up his options, decides that in the light of new information, he can after all, revise his decision to the satisfaction of certain parties.

I believe that next year the ICC are looking into the possibility of doing away with on field arbiters altogether and allowing the players to umpire their own games.

	Gayle: astute readers would know from the curve of his eyebrows that he's thinking about marshmallows, axe murderers and interior decor at this moment © AFP

There have to be more games in Dominica. In contrast to some of the windswept new constructions we have seen elsewhere in the Caribbean, which appear to have been thrown up on marshland in the most inhospitable parts of the island, this was a beautiful locale, surely challenging the HPCA Stadium in Dharamsala as the most stunning cricket venue in the world. The camera spent as much time lingering over the tree-carpeted mountains and the port of Roseau as it did pointing at the cricket.

And there was a full house. It took time for the ground to fill up, but then this was Sunday and there was church business to attend to. But by the time Chanderpaul had dropped anchor, the ground was full of parasol-wielding Dominicans, fanning themselves with scorecards and, away from the well-behaved stands, dancing, singing and causing a racket with a range of musical instruments, from a wheezy trombone to what appeared to be a small plastic horn attached to a length of garden hose.

It looked furiously hot out there. The occasional shots of the interior of the island, particularly the ice-cool emerald pool and the teeming waterfalls, were a welcome relief from watching all that perspiration. The South African jerseys appeared to be a mottled affair in three shades: dark green, light green and sweaty green. For a while Jacques Kallis, standing motionless at slip, reminded me of nothing so much as an enormous overfed lizard basking in the sun.

Chris Gayle doesn’t sweat, of course, but he was fuming. How can you tell? It is all in the angle of the head. Experienced Gayle watchers have learned to spot by the inclination of the Gayle cranium whether he is ecstatic with joy or about to strangle someone with his bare hands. Sulieman Benn, unfortunately, has not picked up this useful skill, and so when he refused to bowl around the wicket as outside his competence, he was informed by his captain that his services were no longer required.

Was he within his rights? Is this an anti-Barbadian stance? Or is it just the kind of thing that happens when it is just too damn hot and you’re losing 0-4? The heat gets people riled up, makes them want to lash out. During the course of the afternoon’s play, even the Bish became irritated and, temporarily abandoning his lofty perch of judgement, came down into the valley, fists swinging as he railed against administrators, players, selectors and everyone who has played their part in achieving the squalid status quo.

As ever when these Titans of Caribbean Cricket thunder their condemnation, it was hard to disagree, but equally hard to see what is going to change. The talent is there, it forces its way through, and there are plenty more like Darren Bravo and Adrian Barath. But when these talented youngsters get to the top, just as with England in the nineties, they find they are on their own. When the best thing to have happened to West Indies cricket in the last decade is a Texan fraudster with delusions of grandeur, then the writing is on the wall.

On Sunday the gods of cricket even played a nasty little trick on the home side, luring them into believing that they might, despite their jaded fielding and slow-motion batting, be able to win after all. The crowd, desperate to see a home win, delayed their exit. Incredibly, South Africa still needed one to win off the final ball. Then the inevitable misfield, fumble and act of frustration, as Bravo gave the stumps a good smack. The people of Dominica sighed and mundane normality was returned. They deserve better. They may have to wait a while.

	Kieron Pollard was surprised when a tap of the bat on the pitch resulted in an angry rodent popping out of the earth and flinging his bat towards the third-man boundary © AFP

The World Cup ended as long ago as Sunday and it is clearly a breach of the cricket watcher’s human rights to have to go for three days without some Twenty20 action, so on Wednesday it was back on with the coloured clothing for a tussle between two teams who are politely described as being "in transition". South Africa are in transition from a confident and settled team to a less confident and settled team, while West Indies' own transition is taking them on a journey from ordinary to mediocre.

But the same could not be said for their commentators. It was a pleasure to spend two evenings in the company of men who didn’t regard the English language as an opponent to be bludgeoned to the ground. For the start, there was just the right balance of cricket clergy and lay person. Tony Cozier and Fazeer Mohammed earn their living choosing the right word and this carries over into their commentary, which is informative, restrained and unpadded with cliché.

There is still room for the ex-player of course, they have to earn a living after all and golf clubs don’t come cheap. Pick of the bunch, as usual, was Ian Bishop, a towering force of righteous judgement. He also has a delightful tendency towards bluntness. When Cozier, T made light-hearted reference to the interview technique of Cozier, C, the Bish shouted out, “Nepotism!” We’re all thinking it Bish, but you can’t say it!

We might have been thinking it, but it would be unfair. Craig Cozier is still paying his dues, charged with the thankless task of cultivating the shoots of illuminating comment from the stony ground of the pitch-side interview. His attempt to chat with Andrew Hudson was bedevilled by the clatter of South African wickets and he opened a conversation with a spectator by asking how long he’d been a lifelong fan.

But these are just teething troubles. He was soon warming to his task and is an eminently likeable character. And as a viewer, it never quite seems right to have ex-Test cricketers press-ganged into holding a microphone at various reluctant personages while trying to remember what it was they were planning to ask. Let journalists ask the questions and let Simon Doull be Simon Doull.

Meanwhile, out on the pitch, there was carnage. Scores were eked out at the cost of roughly one bruise per run. Either the pitch at the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium was a tad under-prepared or it had been infiltrated by a family of gophers. Sometimes the ball nestled in a gopher hole and skidded along the ground. Sometimes it rebounded from a gopher head and veered skywards. (Don’t worry, I’m sure the gophers were wearing helmets).

And amid all the hopping about and desperate flailing of willow, it occurred to me that so many of these fellows seem unable to cope with the short stuff. Perhaps the worldwide prevalence of pudding pitches has led to the seizing up of the modern batsmen’s pull and hook mechanisms so that anything aimed in the vague direction of the nostril appears to induce in him an existential crisis and an ungainly dismissal. This will lead, surely to more fast bowlers, which is a very good thing.

There was certainly plenty of chin music in Antigua, along with a healthy dose of actual music. Though the new stadium cannot yet compare with the ARG, there was still a distinctly Antiguan feel about the place, from the clattersome percussion to the carnival girls. And with Steyn, Morkel, Taylor and Roach all steaming in, leather flying past skulls and crowd roaring its approval, it was just like the old days. Apart from the fact that West Indies lost. But you can’t have everything.

	Ray Price: the poor man's Shane Warne © Gallo Images

It is easy to criticise the West Indies Cricket Board and it’s fun too. But say what you like about Julian Hunte and chums, you can’t fault their hospitality. For the visit of the Zimbabweans, Caribbean groundsmen have produced some of the flattest, most lifeless strips of earth seen outside of the Sahara, just to make the plucky tourists feel at home. From Kingston to Guyana, it appears that every yard of soil in the West Indies is crumblier than a Madeira cake, and as an additional bonus for touring sides, none of the local players have a clue how to bat on it.

The result is that an apparently ho-hum affair has been turned into an edge-of-the-seat thriller. I certainly wasn’t expecting to be watching this series still, but as the shadows lengthened in Guyana on Sunday, I was gripped. The batsmen crawled painfully to their target, as though spin bowling was some dastardly new invention. Kieron Pollard in particular was an accident waiting to happen. Launching a ball to long-on, the hapless Mumbai Indian had to trudge back to the pavilion under the dead-eyed glare of his captain. The laconic Jeffrey Dujon suggested that Pull Hard might consider getting changed behind the pavilion.

In between the silly shots, the crowd were amusing themselves. Given the blazing heat, some kind of award has to go to the man in the Santa suit, complete with full-length white beard, who marched up and down the stand, playing a musical instrument that looked like it had been knocked up in a shed. Horns were everywhere. At times it sounded like a troupe of performing sea lions had been let loose in a drum shop. All manner of unearthly honks, hoots and bellows were unleashed, particularly when Gayle gave the ball a few healthy taps.

The other sound most often heard was that of clattering wood. The viewer formed the distinct impression that the West Indian players had been practising, so often did they disturb the bails. Indeed, both sides were pretty hot on the ground fielding, with the result that there was more timber demolished at the Providence National Stadium than over a long weekend in the Amazon.

But the best fielder wore red. Tatenda Taibu reminds me of the days when wicketkeepers were magicians. Ball beating bat and bails being removed seems to happen instantaneously, with the little keeper shrieking his celebration from short mid-on before the spectator realises what has happened.

Then there was Ray Price, a man for whom the bowling of a cricket ball is an inconvenience that gets in the way of his sledging. After letting fly, he immediately scurries down the pitch to get up close and personal with the batsman. He then runs through a melodramatic repertoire of glares, frowns, headshakes and insults, before chatting loudly with the umpire, generally behaving like precisely the kind of person you avoid at bus stops. If you haven’t seen him, imagine Shane Warne with less talent. Really, Ray, enough already. Bullying Darren Sammy is nothing to be proud of. The ball boys probably do that during the lunch interval. You have to wonder how the lippy trundler would have fared if he’d tried it on with Viv.

	Hey that's not Viv! © DigicelCricket.com Brooks LaTouche Photography

Chris Gayle walks slow but he talks fast. In fact, he gabbles like a man for whom vocalisation is a chore that gets in the way of his sitting down time. In the time it would take Ricky Ponting to drawl his opening, “Ah look,” Big Chris has already answered the question, outlined the extent of his disappointment, explained what the team are going to do to put things right, ordered his taxi back to the hotel and booked his flight to Jamaica.

So an interview with Mr Gayle is an occasion for intense concentration and possibly some lip-reading. Take this from his post match interview with Ian Bishop on Thursday.

“…intheendtherewegotofftoagoodstartahbutagainyouknowfalteredinthemiddleandyouknow crucialrunoutagainandthenyouknowsomeyouknowIdon’tknowhowtodescribethewordbutahmyou knowsometerribledisplaysofbattingdownattheendthere.”

Quite so, Chris, I agree entirely. The Bish, wearing his best studious frown pretended to understand all that and asked the West Indian captain if these last two performances had surprised him.

“…ifwe’renotgoingtolearnwe’restillgoingtogetbeatenandifwecontinuelikethisZimbabwewillbeatus fivenilaswellsoahmnoexcusetheyplayedbettercricketbutatthesametimeahmlikeIsaiditsaterrible displayandsomeimmaturecricket.”

Hmm. I think I got it, but to be on the safe side, I recorded it and played it back in super slow-mo. And I found that when I studied this verbal avalanche more closely, I could clearly identify the words “terrible” and “immature”. Now these are adjectives that do not usually feature in the post-match airtime filling chinwag. It slowly dawned on me that Captain Chris was not just flapping his gums. He was delivering a dressing-down, a tongue-lashing, what is known in Premier League circles as the hairdryer treatment. And you know what, he was absolutely right.

At 99 for 0, 125 for 1 and needing five runs with four balls to go, they really, really should have won. Instead, when this six-hour session of pass-the-initiative ended, it was the smaller contestants who were left clutching the prize. Yes, Zimbabwe were plucky, they were busy between the wickets and in Ray Price they have a bowler who is sure to have a bat brandished at him before the year is out. But West Indies really, really should have won.

Instead we have another “giant-killing” story, although, frankly it isn’t much of a fairy tale. I’m not sure the fable of David and Goliath would have caught on quite so well if the Philistine had been five-foot six with diamond-studded earrings, an iffy javelin technique and a tendency to go to pieces under pressure. I don’t want to hear about plucky little outsiders toppling West Indies, because frankly anyone can do that, indeed, anyone has.

No, the story I want to hear is of the resurgence of West Indian cricket. Now their decline has had its compensations. The Caribbean game of pinning the tail of blame on the donkey of failure has helped fill many a damp afternoon in the commentary box. There is so much mileage in it, far more than the never-fascinating Tendulkar versus Bradman squabble. We’ve heard all the reasons: baseball, football, basketball, the ill-discipline of youth, the WICB, the WIPA, Allen Stanford, aliens, global warming. There is no end to the possibilities.

And there may even be some people who are pleased that the old days are gone, the same types who spent the 1980s clutching their handbags and tut-tutting about nasty short-pitched bowling.

But so what if the occasional tourist got their nose re-shaped. Mike Gatting, for example, lost none of his boyish good looks and gained a war story to tell his grandchildren. I’m tired of watching this third-rate imitation of the West Indies. I want cricket to be like it used to be, I want to see Viv Richards lashing the ball over midwicket, not Dwayne Smith closing his eyes and missing a straight one.

So have at them, Chris and if you need any more adjectives to hurl in the dressing room, I’d be more than happy to help you out.

	Sure, Adrian Barath got a century on debut against Australia but Zimbabwea's mighty army of ravenous spinners made short work of him © The Nation

Just how bad was the Twenty20 game between West Indies and Zimbabwe? There is as yet no internationally agreed scale by which we can measure cricket awfulness, so instead we must rely on the judgement of the experts. Alec Stewart played for England in the 1990s and so clearly knows a thing or two about staggering ineptitude. He declared Sunday’s game the worst international cricket he has ever seen. I think that says it all.

Both sides were equally dreadful, but in slightly different ways. Zimbabwe spent their first dozen overs swinging and missing, like blindfolded lumberjacks trying to locate something woody. They worked their way through The Book of Thwackery, exhibiting every variation of scything, lunging and groping that you could wish to see on a cricket field. Mr Stewart said it belonged on the village green. It wasn’t that good.

At 40 for 4 after 12 overs, it was all over and the Zimbabwean in the box, Neil Johnson, was expressing disappointment that at this rate, we would not get to see Keiron Pollard bat. But his companion, the legendary Tony Cozier, had been here before, on two or three dozen occasions.

“This is West Indies we’re talking about,” he said, “Let’s not get too far ahead.”

The man is a prophet.

Zimbabwe were noisy, keen and had the word “faith” sewn onto their tomato red jerseys. More importantly, they had spinners, dozens of them.

The spin bowler is the natural predator of the modern West Indian batsman. Apparently, even modest trundlers wreak havoc in Caribbean regional cricket. If Gareth Batty had been born in Port-of-Spain, he’d be on his 100th international cap by now. I understand that Kieron Pollard’s agent has insisted on a clause in his Mumbai Indians contract, exempting him from having to face anyone bowling slower than 70mph.

They tried charging down the pitch. They tried hitting them in the air. They tried missing the ball completely in the hope that it might catch Tatenda Taibu by surprise and sneak past for four byes. They didn’t so much collapse like a house of cards as sink slowly into oblivion like a house constructed on quicksand. At the end of game, the echo of booing drifted across the home ground of the second best Twenty20 team in the world. First Bangladesh, now Zimbabwe. Is there anyone left to lose to?

Bob Willis would have loved the carnival of comedy in Trinidad. Instead, he was stuck in Bangladesh, watching comparatively good cricket. But being a professional, he can adapt his curmudgeonly style to any conditions. I turned on late for Tuesday’s game but within 60 seconds he had already worked in two complaints. First, he bemoaned the effect of the new fielding restrictions on one-day bowlers’ economy rates. Then Stuart Broad had the misfortune to drop a sitter. "Playground stuff,” sighed Bob, keeping his own personal moan rate at a healthy two per over.

This game also produced the best banner of the year so far: “Tigers are hungry. Cook, go to kitchen.” Genius.