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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

	Insert “balls” joke here © Clare Skinner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Christopher Martin-Jenkins?” I guessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Indeed, Colonel.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Dear Mr Modi…”