Samit Patel, the allrounder discarded by England’s selectors for being unfit more than seven months ago, has set himself a target of returning next county season a trimmer man.

“I’ve got to come back with a totally different body shape,” he told the Times. “I want to look like a different cricketer next season. People are going to judge me on how I look. It’s not a nice way to be judged, but it’s about time I put in some hard graft in the gym. It’s got to be done.”

Well, you know what they say about leopards and their spots. That said, it’s a shame that corpulence is now an expellable offence. Shame the same rules don’t apply in politics.

I noticed this last night, and by the time I woke this morning, it was redundant. Dravid ended the first day of India’s Test against Sri Lanka unbeaten on 177.

On the face of it, it seems strange that Rahul Dravid is the Indian batsman who’s captivated me most over the past decade and a half. He’s had plenty of esteemed company in that India top order: Tendulkar the freak (who even today shared Dravid’s limelight by celebrating 20 years at the top), Laxman’s touch of genius and Sehwag’s fireworks, to name just three, but I’ve always found Dravid the most inspirational.

The man himself sought inspiration from Steve Waugh, whose record he passed today to become the fifth highest run scorer in Test match cricket. In the foreword to the ex-Aussie captain’s autobiography, he focused, unsurprisingly, on his mental strength and determination. These aspects of Dravid’s own game are possibly overplayed – after all, it takes a special batsman to score so many runs – but they are his great, most admirable strength. “Steve’s legacy is hard to define, but I will remember him because he gave grit a good name,” he wrote. A good name that Dravid has continued.

What an exhausting mouthful of a name.

With the bat, the signs are positive (in more ways than one). Morgan’s pyrotechnics, and the top seven batsmen recording 100+ strike-rates (for only the third time ever) yesterday, are steps in a necessary direction. Just the bowling to sort now…

In the words of that well-known cricket lover Jon Bon Jovi: “We’re half way there.” Time to hold on. Ready or not.

Jackanory? It was a television programme in which someone sat down and read you a story. No animation. No special effects. Just a few illustrations if you were lucky.

 “Mortimer Also” concerned a test match umpire and a mouse who lived in his cottage. The umpire did not want anyone to know his eyesight was failing, so the mouse would on his head, peer out through a hole in his panama and yank his hair to signal whether or not to give a close lbw appeal.

I know would be too far-fetched for today’s children. Just imagine: an umpire standing in a test in his home country!

But it was a lovely story and it introduced me to Francis Thompson’s poem “At Lord’s”:

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro: -
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

One of the eerie things about the Internet is the way it allows you to recover your childhood.

Thanks to the IMDB I can tell you that I heard “Mortimer Also” read on Jackanory by Harry Fowler in May 1969. Fowler had made a good living playing chirpy cockney evacuees in 1940s films, but his acting career never really took off after that.

And thanks to eBay, I now have my open copy of the book. It was written by Jo Rice and illustrated by David Knight.

Extensive research (reading the blurb on the book’s jacket) suggests that Jo Rice was a woman and thus probably not the Jonathan “Jo” Rice who has written many cricket books and is the brother of Sir Tim Rice.

One other point: trawling the further recesses of the Internet reveals that Jackanory repeated “Mortimer Also” in July 1971.

It is notable that this page tell you: “Next week: The Village That Slept with Rosalie Crutchley.”

Children’s television in the early seventies was a lot racier than people imagine.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

Now, as the noughties – a term given a certain appropriateness by messers Warne, Symonds and Stanford – draw to a close, they come under assessment from the cricket writers.

Rob Steen has reviewed the decade in general over on Cricinfo, and uncovers good news for the Test match format, while Andy Bull, at the Guardian, has been kept awake at night wondering who the player of the decade has been. Incidentally, Kevin Pietersen weighed into that debate in an interview published today in The Times, naming Jacques Kallis the player of this, and indeed any other, decade!

As for the best game of the past ten years, we’re blessed with choice. Sky Sports showcased one candidate yesterday, by showing a re-run of the unbelievable South African run-chase against Australia at the Wanderers in 2006. In a way, that match defined the decade: pyjama-clad, high-octane, T20-style hitting, but that didn’t stop it reducing a number of seasoned cricket watching locals to tears. In a good way.

Their results in 19 post-Ashes ODIs have been impressive enough – 15 wins,  3 losses – but more so when you consider they’ve used 22 players, including 17 in September’s 6-1 demolition of England alone.

A stream of players, such as the could-only-be-Aussie Clint McKay, have been thrust into the international limelight in India, and carried on exactly where they left off in State cricket. Do England have a similar strength stream?

They’ll need one. International cricket’s packed calendar is starting to stretch squads more and more. Injury to key players is less a valid excuse for failure, more a common occurrence.

Typical Australia. Just when my days of envying them seem to be on the wane - with England finally cobbling together a first team of comparable quality – Ponting and co unveil a cast of backups capable of resurrecting my green tinge.

For F.J. Titmus read Titmus, F.J.

The point was that amateurs had their initials placed before their names and professionals had them afterwards.

I always suspected that this story was apocryphal, but a few months ago I came across of a copy of Titmus’s autobiography. In it he confirms the story and dates it to a match between the MCC and Surrey which took place in May 1950.

Thanks to the wonders of CricketArchive I can show you the match scorecard. It was quite an achievement for Titmus to be picked for an MCC side that was not far short of test strength at the age of only 17.

Sadly Titmus chose as the title of his memoirs the mundane My Life in Cricket rather than Fuckin’ ‘ell it’s Fred Titmus.

Jonathan Calder blogs at Liberal England

Alan Tyers’ imagination was first truly captured by Ian Botham, as he explains in the latest edition of Cricinfo’s series, My Favourite Cricketer.

These players have a lot to answer for, and without them our lives could be very different.

Mine’s Robin Smith. Lion-hearted in defence and ferocious in attack, as a young child I was enthralled by the way he stood tall in the face of numerous Ambrose and Walsh-shaped barrages. His drives, square-cuts and point-blank refusal to be out-psyched by the bowler were all mimicked in my back garden, throughout my childhood. Very occasionally, they still are – because he was, and always will be, my favourite cricketer.

Who’s yours?

Anyway, Duncan’s back and is making an appearance on Test Match Special this winter. He’s since defected to the Boks as a consultant coach, whatever the fuck that means, so it’ll be interesting to hear Agnew and co attempt to prise any blood from that famously stoney stone.

Twenty years ago today, I was sitting in the BBC’s London newsroom editing the 9 O’Clock News – the main evening TV news bulletin. I can’t remember what else had happened that day but I know we had the programme pretty much sorted out when, as I recall, just after 7pm a piece of copy landed from Reuters that was either the biggest story of my career or the biggest mistake Reuters could have made. Needless to say it was the former. A live news conference in East Germany had announced, in a confused way, that East Germans were free to cross into the west and vice versa. The Berlin Wall was over.

I was seven whole years old at the time, and a schoolfriend – whose great (or great great) aunt was Jessica Tandy, funnily enough – procured some of the wall somehow. We inspected it like it was moon dust, before realising it was just some crumbling brickwork. But it was far, far more than just a wall. Anyway. Have a read.

Prime Minister – Michael Vaughan
Sorry Strauss. Vaughan has a more Blairite public face with Yorkshire steel propping up his policies. Universally respected; peace envoy to the middle east already a certainty.

Deputy Prime Minister – Andrew Strauss
No Blair/Brown ego wars here. Strauss would never turn the job down if offered, but second in command suits his style.

Chancellor of the Exchequer – Matthew Hoggard
We need someone thrifty from Yorkshire to keep a tab on taxes and mortgage rates. Yearly budget speech guaranteed entertainment.

Secretary of State for Defence – Mike Atherton
Rock solid. Nothing’s getting past that. Get out of my sight, outswinging terrorists; this is Lancashire’s finest.

Secretary of State for Business, Innovation and Skills, First Secretary and Lord President of the Council – Alastair Cook
Mandyesque smarminess required. Mandyesque smarminess found. God-like aspirations will fall on deaf ears, as will all his policies.

Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs – David Lloyd
Everyone would love him.

Secretary of State for Justice and Lord Chancellor – Bob Willis
All derelict houses to be turned into prisons. Anyone not capable of an upright seam sentenced to five years labour making cricket balls. All umpires to spend seven months in solitary confinement on evidence of a “truly shocking” decision being made.

Secretary of State for Health – Andrew Flintoff
Just one of his roles. Expected to offer cheerful assistance to PM on most matters, and spend the other half of his time supporting Lloyd on foreign trips.

Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport – Paul Collingwood
You’s culture can fuck off, and that media – we’s all about the sport.

Attorney General – Geoffrey Boycott
Don’t mess.

Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs – Steve Harmison
Has you’s tasted these potatoes what our mam grown in garden?

Secretary of State for Wales – (Simon Jones 2003-2005, nearly deceased). Robert Croft
Potentially too nationalistic but reliable and economical.

Secretary of State for Children, Schools and Families – Steve Harmison
Ah, mah wee bairns – ah loves you’s all.

Any others?

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.