I thought he looked a bit familiar, but my friend – an actress, and prone to overwhelming bouts of confidence – was convinced he’d be reading something like Hemmingway, or a book that at least suggested he was above the rest of us. Drinking, laughing, dancing and enjoying yourselves? Go to hell.

Nature called for me, so my friend seized on the poor bugger and demanded to know what he was reading and why. It was Dylan Moran, no less – and he was reading poetry. He looked a little worse for wear – crumpled and world weary, which is what his “act” is – and tottered out, book in hand, before I got back. Which is just as well, as I’d have genuflected, screamed his full name at the top of my voice and probably asked him if we could collaborate on an award-winning book on satire.

If you’ve never seen Moran live, you must. And before you do, just buy this.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

I’ve often wondered how accurate those assessments are: do these players really fear post-2005 Harmison? Or are they trying to trick Geoff Miller into thinking they do?

AB de Villiers, when questioned about England’s bowlers on Cricinfo’s Switch Hit podcast this week, was all set to add his name to a list of public backers which includes Ricky Ponting. “Broad and Anderson… blah blah blah… good, young guys…” Then he paused, who else is there? Um, oh yeah, “Obviously, Harmison – he… wait, is he even in the squad?”

Clearly AB was so worried about Harmy’s threat, that he hadn’t bothered to check the England squad for his inclusion at any point over the last few weeks. There, in a sentence, was how much the world’s best batsmen actually fear England’s erstwhile paceman. Not an awful lot, anymore.

Hywel, see me afterwards.

If you are really clever you will now be able to tell me who played in an England test side with both Colin and Chris Cowdrey.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

Swann is Phil Tufnell with brains and confidence. A slice of Darren Gough’s lust for limelight and Rob Key’s air of indefatigability and swaggeringly self-deprecating dry wit.

Long may he speak in public.

For Simon Mann is the son of George Mann, who captained England on their 1948-9 tour of South Africa and also against New Zealand the following summer. George was the heir to a brewing fortune (think Watney Mann) and the subject of a famous John Arlott witticism.

Back in the 1950s Arlott was commentating on a match in which George was being bamboozled by the South African leg spinner “Tufty” Mann. “What we are watching here,” he remarked, ”is a clear case of Mann’s inhumanity to Mann.”

George’s father (and Simon’s grandfather) Frank Mann also captained England in South Africa – in his case on the 1922-3 tour.

It’s a long shot, but there is a clear family pedigree here. If Andrew Strauss tweaks a hamstring on the eve of the first test, maybe Simon Mann could take over the reins?

And your homework for this week: Who are the only other father and son to have captained England?

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

Graeme Smith

Has captained South Africa since the age of 12. Will be good for at least a couple of heroic centuries. Cancelled his membership of the KP fanclub some time ago.

Hashim Amla

Budding captain. As consistent as his beard is long.

Johan Botha

Bent-arm-bandit, perennially on the run, could be seized by ICC testers at any point during the series. Assuming he’s not, expect polished all-round performances.

Mark Boucher

Someone should probably warn Heino Kuhn, his long-term successor, named in the T20 squad, that Boucher, still somehow only 32, has kept wicket for SA since he could walk, and is likely to continue until he can’t. Kuhn could either give up or become English like the others.

AB de Villiers

Steadily becoming the best batsman in the world. Could have played pretty much any sport for his country, but settled on cricket despite being better at golf than Tiger Woods.

JP Duminy

Guarantees middle order success and sharp fielding, not due to his sound technique and athleticism, but through the assurance of quality that is being known by one’s forename initials.

Jacques Kallis

Expected to open with Smith – something he’s only done four times before and not since 1998. Will score runs, take wickets and get out. His sister will only dance manically during the latter.

Charl Langeveldt

Former prison warden, brought in to revive memories of his Test best 5-46 against England in 2005. May not work on KP and Strauss, but could make Geraint Jones and Michael Vaughan squirm uncomfortably on their sofas.

Ryan McLaren

Former Kolpak, capped by SA at Under-19 level, about to make the unusual step of going on to represent the same national team at the highest level.

Albie Morkel

Owns the trademark to the preface, “big hitting”. Will bat at six and bowl less, apparently. Which is a shame.

Wayne Parnell

Has gone down a route well-trodden by Nigerian footballers in claiming to be much younger than he is. Says he’s 20, is actually approaching 28 and his peak.

Alviro Petersen

Barely a household name in his own house, and has yet to play international opposition other than Zimbabwe and Bangladesh. Pencilled in for five, despite being an opener. Probable man-of-the-series.

Dale Steyn

Elaborate plan of pretending to be rubbish in England in 2005 took everyone by surprise as he elbowed his way to ICC Test Player of the Year award last year. Much rests on him as the leader of the attack.

Lonwabo Tsotsobe

Andre Nel’s new alter ego? Not quite. A promising swing bowler and impressive performer on the domestic scene. Presents as much of a challenge to David Lloyd’s pronunciation as he does to England’s batsmen.

Roelof van der Merwe

Samit Patel’s idol. Watches neither what he eats, nor the ball when he’s batting. Copes pretty well considering.

Andy Flower (quoted in yesterday’s Telegraph): “I think there is scope for looking at the statistics side of the game and using it more intelligently. If you look at some of the stats the Americans compile and study – and they have been professional for a lot longer than we have – that is something we have to exploit if we are going to be better than other countries.”

Interesting noises from England’s head coach, and ones which got me thinking about one of the best sports books I’ve ever read, Michael Lewis’s Moneyball. It’s about baseball, but don’t let that put you off – I thoroughly recommend it.

I knew next to nothing about the sport when I read it – couldn’t tell my Babe Ruth from my Barry Bonds and thought A-Rod was a tennis player – but it didn’t matter, because it’s a great story.

In true American fashion, the book boasts a movie-trailer tagline: ‘The art of winning an unfair game’. It’s unfair in that the team in question, the Oakland A’s, could not match the giants of the sport for money or resources, and therefore, results. That began to change when Billy Beane took charge.

He may sound like a member of the Bash Street Kids, but Beane turned out to be one of the most open-minded and influential general managers in the sport’s history.

He was prepared to go against perceived wisdom and the advice of almost all of those around him, and began to employ an objective method of statistical analysis called Sabermetrics. Though originally viewed with suspicion by the establishment, Beane’s success with this new use of numbers has now ensured it a worthy place in the stats-obsessed Baseball Operations departments of the top teams.

For all the databases and number crunching, essentially, Moneyball is a story about a coach who was prepared to think outside the crease, question elements of traditional analysis and remain a step or two ahead of his competitors. Admirable qualities, and – it seems – ones shared by the head coach of the England cricket team.

It used to be said that all you had to do to find one was whistle down a Derbyshire coal mine. Try that today and an industrial heritage interpretation officer will come up.

And they can’t bowl for toffees.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

Boyle’s problem – if it is a problem – is that life, or society, is too bland for him. He doesn’t really admire anyone on the mainstream comedy circuit, believing comedy has become a career – “There’s a lot of banality about” – and, despite his need to promote his autobiography, he rages against the fact that everything has become so PR-driven.

“Everything is so mediated,” he says, and swings into an amusing story about a contribution he was asked to make to The Culture Show.

“They wanted 10 celebrity inserts about ‘what is culture’,” he recalls. “And my thing was culture is a war of ideas. People such as stand-ups and artists and alternative thinkers are on one side and you’re fighting with pea shooters against these giant summer blockbusters that are designed to have this numbing ideology.

“They just looked at me and said, ‘What? We really can’t show that at all.’ So I said what do you want, and they said, ‘We had Patsy Kensit in today and that was good.’ She said, ‘Culture is buying my daughter an ice-cream at the Natural History Museum.’ So that’s what you’re up against. That’s the level of banality that’s desired.”

Good interview at the Indy.

Shep attracted friends and fans for lots of reasons. He looked like a normal, approachable bloke. He grinned at curfuffles in the middle before quickly dissipating them, sometimes diplomatically, often with a stiff wag of his finger. Players would put their arms round him at the close of play, joke about a near lbw decision, but they knew he was boss. The balance between his professionalism and humanity was old-fashioned and correct, and the public loved him for that. He enjoyed his food. And no one with a thick Devonian accent can ever attract controversy or enemies.

My Dad had the massive fortune of spending a few hours with him years ago, when we were at The Oval watching West Indies. He seemed down to earth yet forthright and authoritarian; above all, he loved the game. I remember a few years ago, he flicked off the bails at the end of the second session of play and said to the stump mic: “That’s over, and time…for a devonshire clotted cream tea!”

There’s more on Shep here at his tag, most of which is dull. Cricinfo is not dull, and has a nice package, including the news piece, a tribute from Simon Taufel (who couldn’t be more different a character, frankly), an archive from David Foot that’s worth reading, and a cool gallery.

Patrick Kidd’s clearly been stealing my ideas again, and wonders why we don’t warm to umpires like we did with Shep (and lots of other former officials). Technology is the biggest culprit; the two on-field umpires no longer have the final say, and their authority is cut in half. They are human representatives, living in fear of public humiliation when the dreaded replays prove whether their decision was correct or not. But also, so much cricket is being played nowadays that matches, tournaments and series all roll in and out of one another. It’s hard enough keeping track of who’s playing, who’s injured, let alone who’s officiating.

But when you heard Shep bleat “Over – left hand” in his comfortably thick Devon accent, you knew the match was in safe hands.

But Spin readers need not fret, for Lawrence has handed over the reins to Andy Bull, one of sport journalism’s up-and-comers. It’s in good hands, and remains required reading if cricket’s your bag.

Michael Vaughan’s autobiography, Time to Declare is released on October 29 and available for £11.99. Go on, buy it.

The Times are serialising some of it and, in what we desperately hope will be a revealing insight into one of England’s most successful captains, and not mere fodder for the shelves, he has spoken out of his troubles in forging a successful working relationship with Peter Moores.

(From March 2008)

“The team is starting to get irritated by the new management regime – being told what to do and treated like schoolkids. Peter (Moores) loves talking and having the last word.”

“I still think that the England captain should have ultimate control, but Peter wanted to be in charge from the sidelines.

“What I found is that he wanted to do everyone’s jobs for them …

“Duncan would never do that; he would trust me to get on with it.”

Should be a good read.

London never looks better than in autumn, so I took in Hyde Park today before stumbling across Speaker’s Corner, somewhere I’ve always meant to visit but forget to. I’m glad I went, even though I was left confused at the speakers.

There were three loud Americans and two British-sounding people. Two of the Americans insisted, by shouting their heads off to a perplexed crowd, that England (not Britain) “will rise again”. She shall “be saved”, though from what or whom was not clear. From the Americans? Hmm.

One of them, who wore a committed and voluptuous beard with a white cap on his head, went one step further by saying that one day, English television sets will be the envy of the world; people won’t just come to England “to buy their bullets”. Now, I don’t know exactly how many bullets we produce – and yes, we’re a major defence exporter – but thought it was an odd juxtaposition: the mass-produced box of electronics that spawns trivial bullshit versus mass-produced mass-death weaponry. Maybe the man had a point. Or maybe he was plain bonkers.

The second American did not have a point, other than in his relentless pursuit for “real natural pussy” (as opposed to what? Oh, wait…). Predictably, he drew the biggest crowds and, standing on a step ladder, demanded everyone’s attention by telling us that he wanted to smell a girl’s bottom. “This is my goal, friends!” he said to a pack of complete strangers. “Does he want the one at the front or the one at the back?” smirked a bystander.

A little old lady (there’s always a little old lady, apparently) called David Cameron all sorts of 1950s swear words: evil hound was a favourite, which was either carefully chosen or a Freudian slip given that her main argument revolved around banning hunting. Next to her was a chair for the World Socialist Party, and a forlorn looking rucksack. And no speaker. That image alone spoke louder than any of the Americans.

It’s worth a trip.

Yes, of course, let’s give Nick Griffin his time in the spotlight, but if he’s going to be subject to scrutiny, why can’t it be a cold, slow one done without anaesthetic rather than the televised mob-in that was mounted on Thursday?

I don’t want Griffin to carry home an iota of a chance of saying he was given an unfair hearing when it’s perfectly possible to sit him alone in a room with a seasoned interrogator asking him questions about his transport policy, tax agenda, plans for the economy and opinions about building regulation.

My suspicion is he would look more confused and unstuck than he did on our Friday morning front pages. As a form of inquisition, it would be less storm troopers and more Doctor Mengele. All of whom, by the way, Nick, did actually exist.

I was hell bent on watching this car-crash television in the hope Griffin would be the car, and the rest of us the barrier into which he crashed, haplessly, sweating racist beads from his oily face. And that did happen to an extent – he was perfectly victimised. But to have him sat next to a black woman and a prominent Asian figure only ratcheted up the nonsensical, predictably staged nature of the whole exercise. He deserved to be on Question Time, and made a fool of himself, but by a baying audience who were blood thirsty and pathetically booing everything he said.

It would’ve been a lot more interesting to have him sat with Jeremy Paxman and be grilled on the BNP’s policies. No need for public scrutiny: the massacre would have unfolded beautifully without any need for heckling, and in one fell swoop, the BNP would have been highlighted for exactly what it is (and what it isn’t).

It makes total sense. It’s oval shaped, and thus ideal for cricket, and can hold 80,000 people – way, way more than Lord’s or any other England venue. And with England hosting Pakistan v Australia next year, not to mention the vast Asian population of London, having a huge stadium to host Twenty20s would be absolutely brilliant. If they get the pricing right, of course…

So, my personal relationship with Cricinfo has changed, and it’s only since leaving that I’ve really realised just how much cricket there is. That’s not entirely true, though: it was obvious that the quantity played was increasing year on year as we had more and more matches to cover live. But now, when I look at the site as a fan, it’s abundantly clear that there is too much being played, and I honestly don’t know how it – cricket the business; cricket the enterprise, if not cricket the sport – can be sustained.

I’ve quite enjoyed the Champions League from what little I’ve seen. Domestic teams from all over the world taking on eachother is great entertainment, but feels like the last dregs of water being wrung from a twisted flannel. There seem to be no gaps between series, each of them spilling over one another, blending seamlessly into one, sometimes hellish, melee. The distinction between seasons no longer seems to matter. Teams touring England arrive earlier and leave later, exposing the authorities and players to the haphazard early and late summer weather which often curtails play and keeps spectators at bay. Television rules the roost. Day-night Tests will happen soon, and solely to drive up yet more revenue because the authorities believe more people will come through the turnstiles after work. They may be right, too.

Even Kevin Pietersen, the thoroughbred sportsman and athlete, has admitted that his time out through injury has been a blessing in disguise.

He, in fact, is an interesting case in point. It was only four years ago that he made his debut, and with it came the skunk haircut, the bombastic interviews, the unquenchable thirst to prove people wrong; the outrageous talent and desperation to succeed (and to be loved by his adopted country). Before his injury, however, there was a jadedness to his personality, a tired and sullen look from a player who’d leap like an idiot whenever he reached three figures. Is that maturity? Perhaps. The injury certainly quelled his enthusiasm. But he’d lost something – that zip, and sparkle. The comparisons with Viv Richards, which seemed increasingly apt two seasons ago, now sounded as foolish and reckless as some of his strokeplay had become.

It wasn’t long ago that the big series – India v Australia, for example – were anticipated months in advance. We’d mark it on our calendars, check the TV listings and, on the day itself, remain glued to Cricinfo to see how it panned out. Now, though, there is no time for a build-up: series jostle against one another like sardines in a tin. And the players themselves, well, some of them burn out, most pick up an injury or two (a blessed relief in some cases), and the fans too are left exhausted and disinterested.

India and Australia are about to play another of those ridiculously extended seven-match series. It ought to be wonderful entertainment, but it comes mere days after the Champions League Twenty20, a series which hasn’t attracted the crowds the organisers expected. Here’s what Siddarth Monga has to say:

Three Australian players, representing New South Wales in the Champions League, will reach Vadodara on Saturday afternoon, having finished their final late Friday night and travelled about 1100 km north-west, and start a match at 9.00 am on Sunday. That could have been the fate of three more Australians, had Victoria won their semi-final, or of a couple of Indians had one of the IPL teams made it that far.

All this cricket is great for us, of course. Cricinfo’s traffic continues to soar as more and more people rely on the internet as a natural source of entertainment, not just a luxury for office workers. And while this series will doubtless have plenty of intrigue and entertainment, it seems implausible that come the seventh match we won’t be exhausted or bored by the whole thing, beginning yet another inquest into the future of 50-over cricket and the quantity being played.

While he has not always been the cheeriest tourist, I shall miss watching him play darts. I remember an evening on Australia when, with consecutive throws, he hit the light shade, bent the wire on the treble 19 and winged the wife of the chairman of selectors.

Ryan Sidebottom is another keen darter. He once explained his theory to me that, as a left-handed thrower, he should aim at the treble 5, and allow the dart to drift into the treble 20 at the last minute.

He offered to demonstrate it for me. And scored 45 with three darts.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

From our Facebook page (join it. I need to get it up to 100,000 quickly)

Here’s another way that I was persuaded to part with more cash than was strictly necessary:

“I hate cricket,” he says – which is a surprise as he has a well-groomed Shahid Afridi beard, the same floppy hair and looks like he spends most of his days bowling over-quick legspin. I am sure it is Afridi.

“I hate cricket. There is too much money.” Mr Non-Afridi is a tour salesman. He organises trips for visitors to the likely sites around Delhi – the Taj Mahal being a popular destination and that’s where I am trying to go.

Have you ever been or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage; or in terrorist activities; or genocide; or between 1933 and 1945 were you involved, in any way, in persecutions associated with Nazi Germany or its allies?

Even if you’d partaken in such heinous crimes, who would admit it?

Liam Plunkett (Durham)
I am delighted to learn that Plunkett is still alive. I thought he had been lost when Flintoff’s pedalo went down with all hands a few years back. No idea how he is bowling these days, though.

Matt Prior (Sussex)
“Considering he is really a batsman,” said one member at Hove, “he keeps wicket very well.” “Considering he is really a wicketkeeper,” said another, “he bats very well.” There you have Prior in a nutshell – or at least you did a couple of summers ago. Things have improved since he laid off the jellybeans.

Adil Rashid (Yorkshire)
When news came that Yorkshire had a good prospect I wrote to Headingly pleading with them to keep him away from all the temptations and dangers that beset a young leg spinner: drink, drugs, loose women, tight trousers, violent films, doughnuts, Matthew Hoggard’s dogs. This winter will see if they heeded my advice.

Ryan Sidebottom (Nottinghamshire)
“Is that Sidebottom?” someone asked me at Trent Bridge a few summers ago. “No,” I replied, “it’s just a quirk of his bowling action.” I was pleased when he was subsequently recalled to England colours with success, even if it did ruin my favourite quiz question about which father and son had only one test cap each.

Andrew Strauss (Middlesex – captain)
A scion of the famous family, Strauss ran away to Lord’s at an early age to escape becoming a composer. Has clearly modelled himself upon Mike Brearley as a captain. A couple of years ago he was batting like him too, which was taking hero worship a little too far.

Graeme Swann (Nottinghamshire)
Likeable rough diamond, Jack the Lad spinner currently appearing on “Strictly Come…” Hold on. That’s the other one, isn’t it?

Jonathan Trott (Warwickshire)
As English as Kevin Pietersen. Scored a hundred to help us win the Ashes, so that’s English enough for me.

Luke Wright (Sussex)
The new “new Freddie Flintoff”. I note that Sussex have just been relegated from Division 1 of the County Championship. Just saying.

And then there are three players who will flying south just for the limited overs games.

Tim Bresnan (Yorkshire)
As hardworking and straightforward as Greggs the bakers.

Joe Denley (Kent)
A promising opening bat who might challenge Strauss and Cook. Presumably that is why he is not in the test squad.

Sajid Mahmood (Lancashire)
Must have been found clinging to the same life-raft as Liam Plunkett.

Eoin Morgan (Middlesex)
A cunning selection this one. I don’t know if he is good enough for England, but by depriving Ireland of his services we increase our chances of remaining the best side in Western Europe – or at least the British Isles.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

And then I noticed a couple of the journalists looking my direction, finished with asking Yasir what he likes on his toast in the mornings. They chatted animatedly to each other for a couple of minutes before approaching my table eagerly. Looking closely at my name badge one of them asked:

“So how are you able to combine playing cricket with your commentary and writing?”

I let them down gently by saying that I know I look a lot like my father but sadly I was a mere cricketer and son of the famous man. Completely unperturbed by the mistaken identity he carried on, eyes flashing with excitement:

“A truly great writer and a legend here in India. I have all his books and read everything he writes in the paper. He once gave me a pen, on England’s tour of India in 1986, and I have the photo of him presenting it to me on my mantelpiece still. My favourite writer of all time. Well – him and Simon Barnes.”

There is no suggestion that series outside of the Ashes could be promoted back to the A-list of events. Currently, England’s home Tests are on the B-list which means that only highlights must be available on terrestrial TV and are currently shown by Five.

In India, it seems, there are no rules on the road – and I use the term “road” very loosely. Every junction seems to be a spaghetti junction, every brief stretch of clear road is a chance to lean firmly on the horn to warn cows, donkeys, beggars of your potential arrival, depending on pot holes. It’s a totally mad existence which leaves you speechless for the first hour, before realising that, well, everything works just as well. Things just don’t happen quite when you expect them to, or how you expect them to, and everyone (on the roads, at least) moves so slowly that there are hardly any accidents.

I ruddy love it.

Appearances, however, are nothing if not deceiving. Two frighteningly tall women in their early thirties alighted (I love that word) the carriage, never pausing for breath despite the silver spoons in their mouths, and made a beeline to sit next to me. Well, you can’t blame them. Alas, only one seat was available. Fear not! The less-advantaged man stood up, tucking his paper under his left arm, brushed away any crumbs, particles of skin, hair or other matter than had fallen from his person, doffed his cap and said “my pleasure.”

Stunned, girl number two sat down, though not after a momentary pause to wonder just what he had brushed away, and why. In unison the pair said thank you, and I sat there grinning like a Cheshire cat after seeing both their fuddled expressions realise that an act of near Victorian gentlemanliness had befallen. Within seconds, both were back on track talking about parque flooring for their respective pied-a-terres, but it was a fun moment.

I often offer to stand up for women on the tube, inspired by one situation a few years ago when I offered my seat to a woman in her forties who looked at me in near disgust, tightening her handbag on her shoulder before spitting: “I’m perfectly capable of standing, thank you very much.” How bloody rude of me, eh?

It was a pretty harmless sort of happening. People are mugged and robbed all the time, and not even the leafy surrounds of my neck of London can mask the fact that it’s one of the most burgled places in the country. But all those fools got from him was a mobile phone. A cheap, plastic, tacky piece of electronics. He fought them off from getting his wallet, so the only medals they have to show for their act of greed and gutlessness is a lousy phone and a foreboding sense of guilt and shame. Who knows how old they were, but having never stolen anything (other than pick-and-mix from Woolworths when I was 12. But that’s a rite of passage) I can’t help but imagine it must be a mostly sickening feeling, waking up the next morning and seeing your second-hand, tarnished prizes.

The worst part is wondering. Wondering if you’ll get mugged or robbed, which I never have. Had we happened to chance upon the robbers ourselves on our way back, I wonder what we would have done. It’s fair to say the Aussie was ripe for causing immense damage, and I’d find it hard to stop him.

In the end my love of cricket won and I shall leave my beloved Market Harborough to be on the plane next month.
While we are waiting, I thought I would offer you some pen portraits of the England squad.

James Anderson (Lancashire)
Plucked from his Burnley primary school to join an England tour of Australia some years ago, Anderson has never quite known who he is. Is he a shock bowler or more a purveyor of swing? Would he be better off training as an electrician? This tour should provide answers to these questions.

Ian Bell (Warwickshire)
Bell was shaken to the core when the Australian started referring to him as “The Sherminator” – a character from the film American Pie. I hope he shows more backbone this time. If the South Africans start sledging, his best tactic will be to liken Morne Morkel to someone out of “Summer Holiday”. That’ll show ‘em.

Stuart Broad (Nottinghamshire)
This blond Adonis of the East Mildlands gives the modern spectator an idea of what it must have been like to meet Alexander the Great. Except that Alexander was probably less likely to drop short.

Paul Collingwood (Durham)
Batsman, swing bowler, purveyor of little off cutters, fieldsman, captain, bus driver… Collingwood has made himself indispensible over the years. If the radio on the coach breaks down and we need someone to sing – or it proves necessary to wrestle an escaped leopard – he will be your man.

Alastair Cook (Essex – vice captain)
Vice captain? Surely Cook is not old enough to vice captain? All it needs is for Strauss to get one up the snoot and Cook will be in charge. How will he fit in his homework then?

Steven Davies (Surrey)
Bob Taylor used to leave his pads at the top of the stairs in the hope that Alan Knott would trip over them, but reserve wicketkeepers are usually resigned to a quiet winter. Little is known of Davies and we may not know a lot more about him come next spring.

Following a poor show by the Es to Ns, we come to…

Graham Onions (Durham)
Onions was only picked for England following a sustained campaign by Fleet Street’s subeditors, but he turned out not to be a bad choice. Their petition for his Durham colleague Phil Mustard to be the reserve keeper on this tour was ignored by the selectors.

Kevin Pietersen (Hampshire)
Let us have no nonsense about this. Though he is returning to the land of his fathers, Pietersen is every bit as English as Greg Rusedski or Zola Budd.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

No, seriously. Anyone?

And no Steve Harmison, presumably for the last time. He himself gave England a ridiculous ultimatum at the end of the Ashes that he didn’t want to be a part-time England player. Right – so, that’s full-time then Steve, except you don’t tour very well, you’re as consistent as a bowl of porridge with a sausage stuck in it, and you retired yourself from ODIs. And then you unretired. For his and his family’s sake, if not the media’s – it’s incredibly frustrating writing about players whose belief in their ability is so at odds with their results – let this be the last time we speak of Harmison in an England shirt.

His replacement is hardly a shining example of consistency himself, but at least he has youth on his side. For now. Liam Plunkett has had a fairly decent season, but more a surprise – and a pleasant one too – is the name Luke Wright. He’s quick with the ball and potentially a powerful hitter, with plenty of bottom-hand, and undeniably quick in the field, but Tests will stretch him to the absolute limit. I’ve always thought he has a bit of ticker about him, but his technique could be cruelly exposed by South Africa’s seamers.

England weren’t finished there with the giggles. Saj Mahmood – ha! – and Alastair Cook – honk! – were called up to the ODI side. In fairness, as much as it genuinely pains me to say, Cook went bonkers a couple of times this season for Essex in domestic ODIs. But, still, you can’t help feeling he might not fare quite as well against a side of South Africa’s quality. I hope he does. As for Mahmood, well, who honestly knows where the ball’s going to go, but at least we can enjoy his befuddled facial expressions as a result.

What to do? It starts, like so much, with attitude. I can’t recall meeting an Aussie reporter who hasn’t followed up their handshake with something like, “Mate, we’re off in search of a drink and a feed tonight. Wanna come?”

More than that, they will want to go to good, local bars and restaurants, and they will trust your judgment on that score.

You will then have to threaten violence to pay your share of the bill. One of News Corporation’s finest, who has since given up the touring life, used to be illegally quick on the draw with his company credit card and a rapidly delivered battle cry: “This one pays in (Rupert) Murdochs!”

If an Australian journo needs to “borrow” a quote or a phone number, you can be sure you’ll be amply repaid with quotes and phone numbers, sometimes without even asking for them.

Truth is, I never met an Australian I didn’t like. They are bloody good blokes, and that goes for the female reporters as well.

Most of them…

I still want to maintain this blog for a year or so, but it’ll never be as prolific as it was pre 2005, partly because I don’t have as much time and partly due to the evolution of blogging and the way people consume their news and banter. Time is the main reason; to keep people reading, you need to give them a reason to read, and more often than not that reason is the reliability, frequency and expectation of content. That’s something I’m hoping to achieve for ESPN, so there may be more whimsical thoughts on similar things here.

There may be some contributory writers here from time to time – that’s where I see it going – but I imagine I’ve reached the autumn of this particular blog, in its current format. So keep reading, keep subscribing, and things will be drip fed as and when something exceptionally ridiculous happens in the world of cricket. Moreover, keep reading Cricinfo, which may not yet be the biggest sporting website, but it’s certainly the best – led by ambitious and creative people and, editorially at least, is a match for any publication out there.

Gary Kirsten, India’s coach, has said he was not involved in the preparing a controversial document that encouraged cricketers to have sex before matches.

He said it was drafted by the mental conditioning coach, Paddy Upton, and that he first read about it only two days ago when a newspaper published parts of it. Kirsten also said the document was not a part of team strategy, nor aimed at encouraging sexual activity, but was about providing information to the players.

“My family and I have been deeply offended and hurt by the many allegations that I encouraged the Indian players to engage in sexual activity before a match,” Kirsten read out from a prepared statement at a press conference in Centurion. “I would like to state that I have never, and I repeat, never encouraged or told the team or any player to engage in any form of sexual activity. These allegations are absolutely not true and completely against my religious and moral beliefs.

“The leaked article was compiled by Paddy Upton and provided information for the players on relationship between sexual activity and sports performance. I never wrote the article and read it for the first time two days ago. It has never been and never will be part of team strategy,” Kirsten said. “I have been deeply disturbed by these false allegations and wish to focus my attention on helping Team India have a successful Champions Trophy.”

The Indian players had been handed a four-part document which looked at the country’s history, the cricketers’ diet, besides analysing the relation between sex and performance on the field.

It’s almost a cry for sympathy, a pat on the back, or a call for acknowledgement at their endearing honesty.

Not that this is a bad or even wrong way of thinking, it just strikes me as very English and I’m not sure many other nations are quite as self deprecating when talking about their sporting ability.

I played cricket when I was at school. I suffered indignity after indignity. I used to sit there on the boundary for hours, trying to make grass burn with a magnifying glass. I would make the sandwiches for tea. That was what I did, more of a helper.

Anyway. Bye. Actually, before I go, talking of English sensibilities and flaws and the like, Jeremy Paxman wrote a rompingly good read on them. Bye.

But never fear, Alan Tyers is here.

It’s great to have Tino Best, a man who has an immense amount of experience as a bowler, and as a glazier, to show some of the young lads how it’s done

If England were a schoolboy, he’d be a prefect for winning the Ashes and immediately subject to widespread bullying at his success, then victimised for losing the one-day series, and have cabbage thrown at him by smiling underlings when he won the final match in a show of yawning, consolatory success.

“Fuck off, England. You’re a loser.”

Cricket’s so August 09, and I’m still on holiday, so don’t expect much here. Pip, pip.

Due to America’s isolation from the true world sports, we’ve missed priceless lessons in tolerance, acceptance and learning from other nations. America has so many fine qualities but a few devastating blind spots as well. We are a nation of immigrants and many of us, or our ancestors, left homelands to seek greater financial opportunity in the States, or to escape hardship. It’s one of the best things about the United States but America has somehow come to believe that given the choice everyone would want to live in our country.

Nice piece from The Wisden Cricketer.

Australia out for Ashes revenge – Read the rest of the piece at Cricinfo.

Those Ashes Celebrations In Full

ANDREW STRAUSS: Busy night for the young dad skipper: doing up shoelaces, wiping noses, checking everyone had been for a wee. Surely it’s now time that other batsmen took some responsibility with their preparations for a night out?

STUART BROAD: Showed terrific temperament and all-round composure in dealing with hard-to-eat meal of crab followed by spaghetti and ordering difficult-to-pronounce wine from snitty waiter. Blotted copybook slightly by showing dissent when bill arrived.

JONATHAN TROTT: Found in street belting out national anthem (and mouthing words uncertainly during those tricky Zulu and Xhosa bits).

ALASTAIR COOK: Keeps making same basic errors at every night out: turning up in trainers when everyone knew it was ‘smart but casual’ and ensuring the group can’t get in anywhere; having to phone girlfriend every half an hour to reassure her he isn’t up to no good; being very boring when talking to a group of attractive women so they all leave…

PAUL COLLINGWOOD: Workmanlike fancy dress outfit (Your Basic Comedy Mexican) could not disguise modest overall contribution to night out.

MONTY PANESAR: Invited along for karaoke skills but “didn’t get a lot of assistance from the microphone”. Surprisingly effective on quiz machine; keeping team in it against the odds on quickfire round of Deal Or No Deal.

GRAHAM ONIONS: Absent; Steve Harmison nicked his ticket.

JIMMY ANDERSON: Started evening strongly but slumped incoherent in corner by closing time.

RAVI BOPARA: Cockiness ensured considerable female interest in nightclub and used pick-up lines successfully on some rather homely girls; panicked and spilt drink down himself when attractive ones turned up.

IAN BELL: Looked great, but struggled to really dominate the conversation and was reduced to going “Ha ha ha… yeah” and repeating what other people had just said.

MATT PRIOR: Stunned team-mates and punters alike by carrying tray of drinks back from bar without dropping and turning out to actually be a good bloke to have around.

GRAEME SWANN: Cheeky chappie, great all-round effort: booked stripper, provided comedy moustaches, got his round in, chatted up a hen-do. Suspicion that he might fall just short of being top-class entertainment manager.

KEVIN PIETERSEN: Absent; at home watching Police Academy VI on ITV4, eating oven chips. Texted to say he was having brilliant time in Bungalow 8 with Lamps, Jude Law and Clive Rice.

ANDREW FLINTOFF: Quiet meal with nearest and dearest (i.e. took Steve Harmison to Pizza Hut).

STEVE HARMISON: Became distressed by proliferation of “fancy foreign food” in Pizza Hut; got cab back up to Ashington.

More excitingly, England will host Pakistan and Australia next summer. Before that, there will be two Tests and three ODIs against Bangladesh, then five ODIs against Australia. Pakistan then take on Australia for two Twenty20s and two Tests before England have four Tests, five ODIs and two Twenty20s against Pakistan!

Obscene amount of cricket. But incredibly exciting, I think, for England to be the neutral host of Tests matched between two exciting teams, especially given how much support Pakistan will have in Britain.

What are your thoughts? Will you pay to watch Australia and Pakistan in England?

Happily, QI are on Twitter, so you can get your daily dose of quite interesting facts, including some cricket ones.

During the first 5-match #Ashes series down-under, the Aussies walked off in a pay dispute and there was a fight on the pitch.

The first ever international cricket tour should’ve been between France and the MCC in 1789 but was postponed due to the French Revolution

The first international sporting match of any type was a cricket match between the USA and Canada. #Ashes

Statistically speaking, and against conventional wisdom, cricket teams do better when they bat second rather than first. #Ashes

Unfortunately, it also pointed me to this. Do not click if you have anything important to do in your life.

And thank god for that. England’s win was unforgettable, in a tense, thrilling, pendulum-swinging series which might have lacked the greats of the game that we had in 2005, but for entertainment it was very much on a par.

Did the better team win? Just about. Man for man, the two sides are very close indeed, but England beat Australia on home advantage and a clearer idea of where they’re heading. Before the series, I thought England would win 2-1 owing to having an in-form spinner who can bat, and having a more balanced attack; the fact Hauritz wasn’t picked at The Oval by Australia was a remarkable decision. Surely, surely, they must have been made aware the pitch was a bunsen. It wouldn’t have taken much to realise that on first glance 24 hours before.

I almost felt deflated by the win. 25 days of ball-by-ball commentary can do that to you. But having had time to reflect, only now do I feel really excited; pleased that England won, even though it feels like a heist, because this is just the beginning. In 2005, the regaining of the Ashes was the culmination of Nasser Hussain, Duncan Fletcher and Michael Vaughan’s extensive planning. The 2009 win has come sooner than even Andy Flower would’ve hoped, and is just the beginning.

And one other thought, which I’ll write about when I can be bothered: Matt Prior, you played a blinder. What a turnaround in his career it’s been.

Oh, and by the way – just 457 days until the next series in Australia.

That is overplaying it by an embarrassing margin, of course,but he did nevertheless bowl beautifully – and how amazing it is that one spell, one set of 47 deliveries, can alter not just a Test match but an entire series.

England are by no means home and dry yet, but Australia have it all to do. As one big England allrounder departs, another, much younger, takes over the batten.

I remain completely perplexed that England are in this position when it’s Australia who have made seven hundreds to England’s one or two. Doesn’t make any sense at all.

More thoughts after the Test…way too busy until then.

Under rated Ramps is Darn! Purest dream

Robert Key is OK, try beer

and of course Ravi Bopara is Bravo! A pair

But for the tournament’s sake, and for Somerset, let’s hope he does. Given his thirst for scoring, for batting, and his love of Somerset, it seems plausible he’ll play for years and years to come, and like Hick and Ramprakash dedicate himself to county rather than country. Someone of his rare power and strokeplay is needed if an English county is to sparkle overseas.

Well? Go on. Guess. Leave a comment. You’ll win the applause of millions, and the respect of me.

Correctamundy. It’s Bumble. Drawn by the very talented Beach who may or may not be appearing on Cricinfo one of these days, if I can persuade the powers that be. He drew and produced the superb Postcards from the Sledge from a few years ago.

Only seen him play once or twice, but by all accounts he’s a very, very passionate South African-turned-Englishman. Like Pietersen. And others. And our future wicketkeeper, Kieswetter. Er, and Strauss. And some others.

Hot to Trot was a fillum

Zimbabwe-Bangladesh encounters always intrigue me. They’re very much the bottom of the bottom, often little better than Associate nations, but this match was a corker by the looks of things.