World Twenty20 Day Seventeen

Sunday’s final began on a serene afternoon with the odd white cloud placed tastefully about the sky and just sufficient breeze to agitate the assembled flags and freshen the faces of spectators. But though the scene may have been idyllic and though we may be poised betwixt Royal Ascot and Wimbledon, this was no genteel county-themed snoozefest. The crowd at Lord’s had come to have fun.

The face-painted and be-wigged citizens who occupied the twenty-eight thousand, five-hundred seats made an awful lot of noise. Really, an awful lot. The racket that ensued when Tillakaratne Dilshan guided the ball to Shahzaib Hasan in the first over had the same decibelic impact as a space shuttle launch. Yet three hours later, with the game still undecided, murmuring silence reigned. Pakistani supporters lining the roof gardens of buildings off St John’s Wood Road looked anxious, squinting into the fading sunlight, their green and white flags twitching fitfully in the evening stillness.

Tense, but not heart-breakingly so, this was a hard-fought game between well-matched competitors. A stirring start from Mohammad Aamer and Abdul Razzaq was met with Kumar Sangakkara’s patience and guile. Then came a run chase in which Pakistan painstakingly stalked the required run-rate. But, fatally, Sri Lanka could not lock down the irrepressible Shahid Afridi. When, in the seventeenth over, they ran out of world class bowlers, Mr Boom Boom crashed a mighty six and a searing four and the throat-tightening tension eased.

In many ways the home of cricket is an odd venue for such a high profile international game. Venerable, cramped and ornate, for the players it must be like playing in a museum foyer. But it is a museum that has accommodated many tourists over the years and today the elaborate stonework absorbed a battering of Pakistani joy. They were worthy winners. Falling to the turf to thank Allah for their success, they were humble in their moment of triumph, none more so than captain Younus Khan, a man who surely epitomises dignity.

And the tournament, well organised in an old-fashioned, unobtrusive kind of way, also managed to keep its dignity. Yes there was music, but aside from a couple of wild nights at Trent Bridge, there was nothing to frighten your grandparents. Yes there were dancers, but they wore astonishingly sensible clothes and were rarely on our screens. Yes there were commentators, but they were allowed to call DLF maximums by their traditional name. And I only saw Lalit Modi once.

It has been a bracing mixture of old and new; as though someone had poured an energy drink into a pint of English ale. And yet it turned out to be pleasantly palatable, with a satisfying aftertaste. Let’s call it Blighty’s Old Peculiar.

World Twenty20 Day Sixteen

Awards. Everyone likes awards. For instance, I was delighted this week to learn that I have been nominated for ‘Most Trivial Internet Feature By A Complete Nobody’. Apparently I’m up against a woman from Nuttyville, Utah whose blog, ‘Obama’s Pyjamas’ showcases her designs for Presidential nightwear and a retired Mongolian civil servant who posts a daily count of the number of yak he has seen going past his yurt. According to bookmakers, I’m the outsider of the three, but I’m hopeful.

Still, I have to say that I am appalled by the quality of award-ware doled out to those fine sportsmen who through their athletic endeavour and occasional practice earn the right to call themselves The Man Of The Match.

“Who’s the MOMmy?” cries Tillakaratne Dilshan, as he returns to the pavilion.
“You are!” chorus his teammates, “Again.”
“So where’s my prize?” asks the tousle-haired one, forlornly.

It’s a good question, Tillakaratne. Where are all the prizes? Surely, David Morgan you are not telling me that the little white box slipped furtively into the hands of the victorious gladiator as he approaches Nasser Hussain’s microphone is a prize? How much bling can you cram into a box that size? At the IPL they got shiny motorbikes. In the World Series, the MVP gets a small Pacific island for his trouble and Christiano Ronaldo doesn’t get out of bed if there isn’t a fresh Ferrari on his porch every morning. You need to show these people some love, Morgan, they are our futures.

So to show the way, I have commissioned my own awards, with financial backing from the Bank of Antigua, to honour the heroes of this and future ICC World Twenty20 competitions. Ten metres high and cast in solid bronze, they are so heavy that they have to be mounted on wheeled platforms and it takes an entire sub committee of ICC officials to move one. Each magnificent diamond-encrusted trophy depicts an enormous batsman standing with his legs wide apart and his eyes closed, having a heave. They have to be seen to be believed.

And so to the prize-giving. When Shahid Afridi paused in the heat of a semi-final battle to blow Jacques Kallis a kiss, billions of television viewers wept openly at the beauty of the moment. It represented everything that is pure and noble in the modern game. In fact, if only Don Bradman had been secure enough in his sexuality to do the same to Douglas Jardine, that whole Bodyline thing might never have happened. So, the inaugural Hughesie goes to Mr Shahid Afridi; for keeping the love flowing even during the Powerplay.

World Twenty20 Day Fifteen

Generally, I’m not a fan of sea-faring metaphors. Like Sri Lanka and the Caribbean islands, Britain is completely surrounded by the salty stuff and the temptation for writers to dabble in nautical nonsense is ever present. But I hope on this occasion, you will forgive me, because I’m going to do it anyway.

You see, from the moment that Sanath Jayasuriya played his first air shot on Friday evening he seemed like a hapless extra in a Jaws sequel; a man overboard, thrashing about frantically as he strove to avoid the inevitable. It was an agonising experience watching him call out for new bats, shaking his head in bewilderment, playing blunt cut shots and even attempting a hopelessly vague reverse sweep. All the time, he wore a frantic, desperate look. Eventually, mercifully, he was gobbled up at fine leg.

Then there was Chris Gayle. Trinidadians and others will say he batted for himself. Jamaicans will say he was abandoned by his teammates. Neither is really true. The West Indies were wrecked in their first over and if you ever wanted proof of the existence of fate, surely this was Exhibit A. The gods chose humble Angelo Mathews as their instrument and with two innocuous seamers and a leg side wide, he shattered the stumps three times. From then on, the game had a hollow, broken feel. As Murali and Mendis scavenged amongst the wreckage, the ship went down, with Gayle standing motionless on the burning deck.

Gayle’s restrained power was outdone though by Tillekaratne Dilshan who played like an angel in possibly the prettiest Twenty20 innings there has ever been. Whilst his teammates wielded their bats as though they were mere lumps of wood, Dilshan flourished his magic wand, lapping the ball here, tapping it there, gliding it where he wished. Such was the contrast between his efforts and theirs, it was as though he was playing in digital whilst his teammates were struggling to tune in their analogue wavelengths.

And before we leave South London for the last time this tournament, we should show our appreciation for the real stars of the Oval: the pigeons. On Friday, they had moved from their regular haunt at short midwicket to field in the deep. But they still managed to flap into shot at every opportunity. And why not. There are those who like to believe that these mottled grey outfielders are the reincarnated souls of Surrey cricketers long departed. And if that really is Jack Hobbs pecking away at square leg, then he deserves his share of the Twenty20 birdseed.

World Twenty20 Day Fourteen

It is hard to fault the organisation of this World Twenty20 but I do think that when the players line up to sing their national anthems, they could be supported with a vocal track. As they mumble and mime their way through seven or eight verses celebrating their country’s green fields/open grasslands/rocky mountains, your heart goes out to the poor dears as their no doubt sincere patriotism remains entirely unexpressed thanks to the tone deafness of the professional sportsperson.

Still, I find the ritual compelling because it offers you the chance to study these players away from the heat of battle. Pakistan’s line-up before the semi-final began with uncle Younis, chin up, singing manfully. Then the camera moved on to mournful looking Misbah, lingered awhile on Kamran Akmal’s impressive teeth, on the fragile features of Shoaib Malik and finally on the real star, Shahid Afridi, his hair lifting slightly in the Nottingham breeze, looking as though he’d just finished shooting a shampoo commercial.

And perhaps it was follicular jealousy that led Jacques Kallis to sledge the floppy-fringed one soon after he arrived at the crease. Afridi responded with a couple of boundaries which had me out of my seat. At this point, my daughter wanted to know what was happening. Seizing the opportunity to initiate her into the world of international cricket, I explained all about Kallis and Afridi, sure that these two compelling characters were bound to capture the imagination of an impressionable mind. She listened dutifully for a while, and then ran off to impress her mother with her new found knowledge.

“Fat Jack is throwing the ball at Mr Boom,” she reported. A reasonable summary.

You had to feel a little sorry for fat Jack though. A man of substance, he played his hand sensibly, threading the gaps, crafting boundaries where required and by his lone efforts, keeping South Africa in the hunt. But he was thoroughly upstaged by the aforementioned Mr Boom who thrashed the ball around delightfully, used up three bats during the course of his half century and was finally out attempting to land a ball on the moon.

There will be much mention of the C word. But in my dictionary, a choker is a closely fitting piece of neckware or a person who practices strangulation in their spare time. Although one or two of the South Africans could pass for stranglers, I suspect that such a hobby is difficult to sustain alongside a career in professional sport. So lets hear no more of the C word and a little more of the P word. Pakistan play Twenty20 the way God intended: expecting nothing and risking everything. They would be worthy winners.

World Twenty20 Day Thirteen

And so we reach the aberration that is the blank day. It is for our own good, no doubt; the spectators’ version of the warm-down; to prepare us for life after Sunday’s finale. But it is a damn strange feeling, not to be going through the old pre-match routine. For the first time in thirteen days, there were no anthems to respectfully observe and no need for a brisk pre-game perambulation around the living room to loosen up those hamstrings. Out of force of habit, I brought the remote control in to silly point, moved the television a little straighter at midwicket and placed a cup of tea at short fine leg. But it was all pointless. I felt like Mahendra Singh Dhoni rearranging the complimentary condiments on his flight back to Mumbai.

So instead, I turned my attention to the rolling acres of Hughes Hall, where, if I am honest, the underprepared surface has more than a tinge of green about it and the outfield is on the lush side. Inspired by what I had seen over the preceding days, I unearthed a rusty old scythe and set about the job Twenty20 style. Taking a low grip, I cleared my left foot out of the way and swung mightily. It was all going swimmingly until I attempted an ambitious switch-scythe hit and very nearly stumped myself.

I reined myself in after that and settled for a little light spadework in the vegetable patch. Wielding my three pound shovel with Dilshanic virtuosity, soil was soon flying in all directions and I quickly found myself well ahead of the dig-rate. Sadly, play had to be abandoned for the day when one of my exquisitely timed scoop shots sent a stray pebble sailing high over the boundary fence and through my neighbour’s bathroom window. Unfortunately, in the absence of video replays, I can’t say for sure whether he caught it or indeed how many feet he had on the ground at the time.

Back in the safety of the pavilion, I decided to catch up on my reading. Of the many good things on the Cricinfo site, I was particularly taken with Tanya Aldred’s highly entertaining piece on just why we are not warming to our chums from the Cape. I would add just one more observation: they look like school bullies. No-one ever roots for a bully, regardless of how troubled the bully’s upbringing may have been.

It isn’t fair, but I suspect that we won’t be feeling warmly towards eight foot tall Graeme Smith or Bulldog van der Merwe until they are collapsed on the Lord’s turf in disbelief at around half-past eight on Sunday evening - the time of day that is known on the mean streets of NW8 as ‘the choking hour’.

World Twenty20 Day Twelve

I don’t know how keen India were to take the field again on Tuesday, but the show must go on and like the troupers they are, they donned the sunblock and gaudy pyjamas and got back up on stage for one last farewell performance. The crowd too had dug out their flags, wigs and face paint for a tribute concert to what might have been. Instead, they got a re-run of Sunday night’s production. They did at least get to see more of Yuvraj, and not just because there is more of him to see these days. The portly one was restored to his normal batting position, though judging by the way he ran his captain out, all may not yet have been forgiven.

It didn’t help that for their swansong, they had to go up against the Green Machine, a team of androids skilfully assembled to look like mortals, but exhibiting none of the signs of humanity. For a start, they don’t drop catches. Literally, they don’t drop catches. Ever. And they are all programmed with the very latest fielding software. Even the statuesque Graeme Smith was hustling in the field, fussing after a nudged single to square leg like a middle aged matron trying to catch a puppy. Their only weakness is in their tailoring. Those shirts are distressingly tight and I am far more familiar with Johan Botha’s upper body than I really ought to be.

But besides Botha’s nipples and Yuvraj’s paunch, the other feature of Day Twelve was the dusty Trent Bridge pitch upon which spinners hunted gleefully in packs. Considering that the breed was on the verge of extinction in the 1980s, it is a remarkable survival story. We were able to watch Vettori, Murali and Mendis in their natural habitat, as well as many unusual species of spinner, including the rarely sighted Raina and the lesser-spotted Rohit. All day the ball was bouncing off pads, looping into the air and plopping into the dust. It was marvellous.

And a quick word too, for that unsung hero of the tournament: the light. When the clouds disperse, early summer evenings in England are the perfect setting for cricket. From the blaring sun of midday, the light passes subtly through shades of amber as the shadows lengthen across the amphitheatre and as today’s evening game drew on and India’s final hopes were extinguished, every single person in the ground, spectators and players alike, were haloed with a golden tinge.

World Twenty20 Day Eleven

Grrr. Lest any of you are unfamiliar with the foregoing letters, I should tell you that they indicate disapprobation. It may only be registering as Harbhajan Seven (the Bhaji being the international measure of cricket anger) but nevertheless, I am a slightly angry man. And the source of my peevishness is England’s reluctant captain Paul Collingwood. Am I feeling this way because under his palm-licking, eye-rolling leadership, England have lost another cricket match? Hardly. I’ve been watching England lose cricket matches since 1986 and if I’d dug out the effigies and cigarette lighter every time it happened I’d have succumbed to smoke inhalation long ago.

No, losing doesn’t tickle the Hughes hackles. But ungentlemanly conduct is quite another matter. On Sunday, Paul Collingwood complained that the Indian supporters booed him. Now being booed isn’t nice, I’m sure. But it can hardly be the first time. I’ve booed him myself once or twice, and that was only when I bumped into him in the supermarket. Then after Monday’s defeat, he complained that the West Indies had an advantage batting second in a game that was always likely to be rain-blemished. Indeed they did Paul. If only there had been some way of making them bat first?

As Daniel Vettori has recently discovered, getting your ass whipped can be a painful experience. But that doesn’t mean you should air your unsightly soreness in public. In the bitterness of defeat as in the rush of victory, a skipper can if he wants, react like any person in the street. Or he can choose to conduct himself like a captain of his country. Win gracefully; lose gracefully. It is a simple principle but in these days of fist-pumping, verbal abuse and winner grabs all, it is the only boundary rope separating cricket from being just a rather expensive squabble over a ball.

The end of England came in a game that was played under skies so apocalyptic that it made you want to look for gopher wood and start rounding up pairs of animals. As the players slipped and scrambled across the slickened turf, the south London sky turned from sullen lead to looming volcanic abyss and at its heaviest, the rain teamed in the dazzling of the floodlights like billions of onrushing silver fish. So good on the West Indies, on Ronnie and Tiger and on Chris Gayle, for keeping their footing and their nerve. Underrated, ridiculed in the English press and beaten up several times this summer, theirs were the coolest heads in that maelstrom of thunderous heat and they won the one that really mattered.

World Twenty20 Day Ten

I have a complaint. I know that Sunday evening’s game was jolly important and England really really wanted to win and everything. But was it necessary for the curliest left-armer in world cricket to give vent to such a guttural roar, looking for all the world like a Viking who’d come back to his longboat and found a parking ticket on the prow? I was so surprised that I dropped my digestive biscuit into my mug of tea. All across North West London, startled pigeons scattered into the air and heaven only knows what effect it had on the elderly MCC members.

We are told that such roaring is evidence of ‘passion’ and that displays of passion by a sportsperson are the very thing, the cat’s whiskers. But I can’t agree. Call me prudish, but I feel that the sight of Ryan Sidebottom’s sweaty face all twisted up with passion is something that only Mrs Sidebottom should have to be confronted with. If he wants to show us all how passionate he is, how about composing a love sonnet or two during the half-time interval; or maybe performing a romantic ballad, accompanied by Graeme Swann on mandolin and Daisy Anderson on tambourine.

Still, after all the roaring, the booing and the nail biting, India are gone. All those glorious stroke makers, all those impeccably dressed supporters: gone. Was it the pressure? We heard a lot about pressure from the commentators. There were pressure deliveries, pressure situations, pressure shots. There was so much pressure, you’d have thought the game was taking place at the bottom of the Marinas Trench. But were these superstars really under pressure? Or were they just frightened of losing? Twenty20 is a casino. It welcomes gamblers but today India played like accountants.

That said, England’s batting garden is still deficient in rose bushes. In particular, their fondness for the switch-hit is starting to become an unhealthy obsession. Pietersen owns the patent on the turn-around slap shot, but when he tried it on with Harbhajan, the spin meister spotted him and Big Kapes was forced to unswitch, rather sheepishly. A little later, Paul Collingwood, perhaps wondering whether his left-handed alter-ego might turn out to be a dashing stroke player, hopped round optimistically. Sadly he failed to unleash his inner Gower and got himself leg-before-wicketed. Finally, the third Billy Goat Gruff, James Foster had a go. Agile as a panther, he leapt nimbly into position, skilfully flourished his blade and guided the ball straight into his face. Some work required, methinks.

World Twenty20 Day Nine

I could watch the West Indies all day. They just do their thing and even if their thing happens to be the wrong thing, they do it anyway, because what else would they do? In the middle of what some people might say was a moderately significant game with South Africa, Chris Gayle’s men appeared to fall out with each other. Yet even as they were arguing, scowling and pointedly not clapping, they were still throwing down stumps and pouching catches with ease. The South Africans looked a little perplexed, like policemen trying to arrest a bunch of squabbling bank robbers.

On further investigation, it turned out that the outbreak of grumpiness started with Suliemann Benn, who, perceiving a lack of athletic endeavour from Ramnaresh Sarwan in the field, proceeded to holla on his rass in a vehement fashion. Old boy Ronnie did not like it one bit and everyone else appeared to get all riled up for no particular reason. I know how they feel. I was up late last night too and I was right grumpy this morning until I’d had my pancakes.

But hey, at least they’re still in it. In fact, as we speak, everyone’s still in it.* If only it could continue. After all, who cares who wins the thing? Scorers, statisticians and those in the employ of the ICC might be waiting with bated breath to fill up their wallcharts, but everyone else is savouring the array of dishes that make up the World Twenty20 menu. My favourite flavours of cricket at the moment are Caribbean, Sri Lankan and particularly Pakistani. I’m moved by the fervour squeezed into every syllable of ‘Pakistan Zindabad’; I am entertained by the flippant brilliance of their play and I am fascinated by the luxiourousness of Shahid Afridi’s hair.

Actually, many of the folks in TV land, particularly if they’ve got an England cap mouldering in their wardrobe, like to tell us English that we have a team that is just as mercurial. I beg to differ. To qualify for mercurial status, a team must possess latent astonishment potential, they must play on instinct and they must be touched by genius. Pakistan are proper mercurial, as David Lloyd might put it. England are not. They are perfectly nice chaps, but as was once said of Paul Collingwood, if they were playing on my front lawn, I’d draw the curtains.




*Of course, I did not mean to imply, Aussie fans, that the rest of us are not missing you deeply. It’s just that we’ve seen rather a lot of you over the years and it’s nice to let some of the other boys have a go. Besides, you’ll have your fun soon enough.

World Twenty20 Day Eight

Like the assassination of JFK and the resignation of Kevin Pietersen, Sohail Tanvir’s opening over against Sri Lanka was compelling television. Everyone will remember where they were when he finally completed it, though few will remember where they were when he started it. What could have caused such a spectacular malfunction? It seems that his fear of Tillakaratne Dilshan’s signature shot, the Elevator TM had caused his own mechanisms to jam up and after another interminable nine ball exhibition of the jitters, Younis Khan pressed the emergency stop button.

Now, I have to be honest. I didn’t see all of today’s first game. But though I am new to this cricket writing business, I’ve learned enough to know that ignorance is no barrier to penmanship. A sophisticated and above all convenient technique for bottling the complex experience of a three hour game of cricket with all its eye-widening twists and giddying turns is to pick out a tiny part of the match and witter on about it for two or three paragraphs, implying pretentiously that you are the sports writing equivalent of William Blake, able to see a world of cricket in a single over. Like so.

Another staple of lazy hackery is that hoary old chestnut: the game-changing moment. We thought we’d unearthed one early in the second innings of this evening’s contest. Chasing a target that was, like an England fielder, neither here nor there, the Gayle Islands were poised on 42-1. All eyes were on their captain, by common consent, the only man in maroony-pink worth mentioning. A swish of the bat; a nasty, edgy, woody sound and like a gaggle of well to do Victorian ladies, we gasped and clutched our collective handbags. Yusuf Pathan caught it. From the lofty Lord’s media centre came the sound of dozens of laptop lids being flipped as the gentlemen of the press prepared to pin their moment to the page.

But Johnny Twenty20 is a slippery cove and needs to be kept under constant surveillance. Dwayne Bravo just kept right on swinging and I’ll swear that if you listened carefully, you could just make out, under the whoops and cheers of West Indian joy, the rattling thump of dozens of delete keys being jabbed at once.

So what does this defeat of the reigning champions and co-favourites mean for the tournament? With groan-inducing predictability, Sky had the answer. “India against England on Sunday is absolutely massive!” roared Charles Colville. Will these people never learn?

World Twenty20 Day Seven

For reasons that are still not entirely clear, Sky chose a boxing metaphor to introduce Thursday evening’s game. It was, we were assured, a heavyweight bout between two in-form teams that was going to go the distance. It didn’t sound very plausible. A far more accurate summary of the nature of this sporting contest came from the Trent Bridge DJ at the end of the second over, with England already two wickets down. “Stop!”, implored MC Hammer. “It’s Hammertime!” It certainly was.

But delusional thinking about England’s place in the cricket world extends beyond the Sky commentary box. Paul Collingwood was of the opinion that it has been a rollercoaster tournament for his lads. Has it? Thus far, they have lost to an ordinary team, beaten an ordinary team and lost to a very good team. As rollercoaster rides go, it has been low on thrills. Of course, England are not about to throw the towel in. They are, after all, contractually obliged to fulfil their remaining fixtures.

And at least the English are pulling their weight off the field. Until now, World Twenty20 haute couture has left something to be desired. The hats have been good. We’ve seen leprechaun toppers, Maharajah-style crowns and on Monday, a South African fan had scooped the innards from a water melon, scrawled his country’s name on the outside in thick black marker and squeezed it onto his head. You won’t see millinery like that at Royal Ascot.

Yet for all the great headgear, there has been a lacklustre showing in the fancy dress category. Well on Thursday night, the English crowd upped their game. There were men in inflatable suits. There were men in pink fluffy wigs. There was a scantily clad cohort of rather merry Romans. And there was a trio of companions who summed up what this tournament and Twenty20 is all about: a Tellytubby, a bearded lady in a wedding dress and a knight with a plastic shield.

Unfortunately, their commitment to entertain was not reciprocated by the men in dirty blue. Booing began to echo across the ground and reached a crescendo in the eleventh over when mild mannered Dr Owais blocked yet another delivery. It was then that a strange transformation overtook the Middlesex man. He became wild-eyed Mr Shah, stepping back with a swagger and a snarl and heaving the ball ferociously to all parts. Sadly, the potion soon wore off and, as usual, no-one else had thought to bring any.

World Twenty20 Day Six

Wednesday’s games didn’t matter in the slightest. They were utterly pointless in every respect. And it rained too. But despite the existential futility of Day Six of the World Twenty20, it all turned out to be rather entertaining. There was Dwayne Bravo smoking boundaries in all directions as the rain tumbled down, Sanath Jayasuriya manfully holding back the tide of age and more elegant trickery from the sparkly-wristed magician, Tillakaratne Dilshan. When Kevin Pietersen plays the switch-hit, it looks like a gorilla trying to do the Twist, yet Dilshan turns it into ballet.

Then there was the curious incident of the six that never was. Angelo Mathews’ one man volleyball-style acrobatic display did momentarily flummox the umpires but after a brief delay, they concluded that no six-action had occurred. Yet the chaps in the Sky commentary box were not sure. Nasser Hussain knows which way up to hold a book and he had apparently been scouring the laws for a definitive answer, without success. Had the umpires dropped a clanger? I decided to venture into the arcane and mysterious world of cricket lore myself. After literally five seconds searching, I located Law 19 on boundaries. Ten seconds later, I had uncovered the incredible truth. The umpires were right. Dan Brown it wasn’t.

But out there in cyberspace, the citizens were revolting. Emails pinged into inboxes like angry bees returning to the hive. You would have thought poor Angelo had just punched the Duke of Kent in the face and set fire to the Lord’s pavilion. One correspondent to Cricinfo suggested that teams would now take the precaution of stationing players in the stands, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice, barge down the steps, jump over the advertising boards, dodge the stewards and bat a potential six back into play. Whilst keeping both feet in the air. I suppose it would be something for Rob Key to do. “We’ve been getting a lot of emails on the subject,” said Sky’s presenter, Ian Ward. Wisely, he didn’t read any out.

Mr Mathews was also the source of some multicultural misadventure for our favourite former fast bowler, Ian Bishop. Earlier in the week, he had seemed unsure of his footing when delivering Angelo’s second name. So, anxious not to offend the Sri Lankan viewers any further and with Ranil Abeynaike as his co-commentator, he tried to enlist his compadre in a little name clarification. Sensibly, Ranil was having none of it. After much hopeless digging, the former fast bowler gave up. “Why can’t they just have simple names, like Bishop,” he concluded, putting down his shovel. I wouldn’t open your emails for a day or two, Bish.

World Twenty20 Day Five

Twenty20 demands a pumping soundtrack and after a slow start, decibel escalation reached Defcon Four on a jaw-juddering Monday night at Trent Bridge where the sonic blasts emanating from the DJ station blew bats out of the night sky and shattered sherry glasses as far as Chesterfield. But such aural stimulation would be too much for some of the more elderly MCC members, many of whom have still not recovered from the presence of Alesha Dixon in the Lord’s pavilion last Friday.

Fortunately, the crowd brought their own noise. And something else too, beyond the determination to have a party. In the faces and reactions of the Pakistani supporters, there was repressed anger; a stored up electrical charge generated by Sunday’s Oval frustration. In the end, the Netherlands crumpled inwards under intolerable atmospheric pressures and all that green-shirted fury evaporated as sighs of relief into the London sky rather than pouring down on the heads of those luckless souls currently charged with upholding the honour of Inzamam, Wasim and Imran.

The tournament then entered a period of limbo with the first of three games that are entirely devoid of purpose. This is something of a triumph for the ICC Kiljoy Department who, for many years now have been perfecting the science of tension removal and drama dispersal at international cricket tournaments. Naturally, no effort has been made to explain the bizarre seeding-based qualification system for the Super Eights to the public. Why should mere cricket fans be entitled to understand how the competition works? They didn’t put in the long hours on ICC committees, did they.

Still, we got a decent scrap in the second game anyway, a tussle that maybe wasn’t final material, but would have made a good little semi. Above all, it was the fielding that caught the eye. Like troupes of green and grey formation dancers they swooped, pirouetted and dived whilst all the time keeping up a rhythm of clapping, shouting and exhortation. New Zealand flung themselves around like rugby players while South Africa prowled the turf with the intent of well-drilled commandoes.

But what does the Proteas tigerish victory really mean? Daniel Vettori spent the game sitting on the Lord’s balcony, in his black hoodie looking for all the world like a geography teacher trying to infiltrate a street gang. Jesse Ryder was similarly hors de combat. Surely South Africa aren’t so good that they can defend 128 against a full strength team in a game that really matters? Are they? Like a fifteen part thriller, we’ll have to keep tuning in to find out.

World Twenty20 Day Four

So farewell then, Australia. As each brave new yellow-clad soldier trudged to the wicket, the chorus of ‘Land Down Under’ sounded less like a stirring paean to a virile sporting nation and more like a poignant ode to a vanishing golden age. There was a wilful refusal to succumb from Mitchell Johnson and Brett Lee but they were mere mime artists paying homage to the great actors of the past; to Hayden, to Gilchrist and (say it quietly) to Symonds.

Two fleeting impressions of the Australian captain linger in the memory. Receiving his first ever delivery from Ajantha Mendis, he gave himself a little room to marmalise it over cover but the tricky little ball did a most uncivil thing and slid by his flailing willow to topple the Ponting castle. Slow motion television froze his face in a wincing ‘O’ of disbelief, the look of a man who’d just tried and failed to jump over a thorny bush.

Then in the penultimate over of the game, with runs coming only at a trickle and an Aussie victory not completely impossible, Brett Lee strayed too straight and Jehan Mubarak swung his long arms, depositing the ball into a mass of jubilant Sri Lankan humanity. Ricky sighed, tilted his head on one side and folded his arms, like a disappointed father who, against his better judgement, had given his wayward children just one more chance to get it right.

To be honest, they were a dull bunch, these Aussies. Men at work, rather than geniuses at play, they were the grizzled antithesis of what this tournament is about. What is required is not honest toil but flashy brilliance. It is a karaoke contest not the Sydney Opera House, but the Aussies really didn’t get into party spirit and weren’t prepared to risk making fools of themselves. Which is why they are now going to have a long rest. In Leicester, so we understand.

And who can begrudge Sri Lanka their laurels? Whilst all the other captains have a selection of boring implements in their tool box, Kumar Sangakkara has a range of unusually shaped devices from the Twirling Murali to the Flailing Malinga, not to mention a succession of slightly built but compelling six-hitters. And of course, there is Mendis, whose modus operandi is so beautifully simple it makes every other bowler look foolish. He’s probably never even heard of the corridor of uncertainty

World Twenty20 Day Three

The pre-match anthems are usually a dirgeful experience, a yawn inducing run through of some of the dullest tunes on the planet. But today we were treated to ‘Flower of Scotland’ followed by ‘Nikosi Sikelel’ iAfrika’. For the quality of their anthems alone, South Africa should meet Scotland in the final. But it isn’t going to happen. In crushing the Scottish dream, the Proteas showed all the sensitivity of a steamroller flattening a daisy patch. Such was the ruthlessness of the operation that in his post match interview, Graeme Smith didn’t even mention the men in blue.

Still, the Scots did give us one moment to cherish, besides the swirl of bagpipes ringing in our ears. For most of the tournament, they had fielded with all the sprightly elegance of retired Sumo wrestlers. Enter the explosively named Kyle Coetzer. In pursuit of yet another South African boundary attempt, he executed a backward turnaround leap with extra twistiness as the ball screamed over his head and smacked firmly into the centre of his outstretched palm. I hope his video recorder was working.

We were all hoping for similar jaw-dropping moments in the second game where the incompetent but undeniably desperate English took on the rusty Pakistanis. The Oval was throbbing with noise and vibrant with colour. Storm clouds were gathering overhead as the floodlights blazed down on the coliseum. When Ravi Bopara holed out in the second over, the resultant roar nearly rattled my television off its stand. England surged ahead; Pakistan pegged them back. Pietersen launched the ball skywards. Umer Gul splintered Shah’s leg stump. Surely this was all building to an unbearable, coronary inducing finish?

Well, no it wasn’t. Salman Butt came and went, Boom Boom Afridi was at least one Boom short and Misbah arrived at the party just as the last guests were leaving. Throughout, Younis Khan batted with such Zen-like calm that I began to wonder whether he had something extraordinary up his sleeve. Perhaps a photo of Paul Collingwood in a compromising position with Giles Clarke? But no. It turned out that the poor old chap had simply forgotten that this was a twenty over game. It all petered out drably as the rain-sodden England players high-fived themselves silly.

And finally, a piece of consumer advice. During his commentary stint from the Oval, legendary fast bowler Ian Bishop suggested that anyone visiting the capital must go for a ‘tinkle’ on the London Eye. Should you be tempted to follow his advice, I must point out that the City of London authorities enforce a strict ‘no tinkling’ policy on the Eye and that you are instead advised to use the toilets situated near the ticket office.

World Twenty20 Day Two

Hello. My name is Andrew Hughes, I’m a right handed writer and my favourite piece of punctuation is the semi-colon.

Yes, the latest innovation in televisual infotainment is the cheery player introduction in which the next batsman out of the bus shelter grins a pre-recorded grin and announces his name, batting orientation and preferred method of dismissal. Occasionally, a maverick may slip in extraneous information they feel will tickle the viewer’s fancy. So today we learned that David Hussey is known as ‘Huss’ to his teammates. Thanks David. Never let it be said that Team Australia lack whimsy.

They do, however, lack a certain je ne sais quoi, an indefinable something, a Quantam of Roy-ness. Thus far, Dame Twenty20 has smiled kindly on the brave, the reckless and the biff-happy, qualities that reach their apogee in the personage of Andrew Symonds. But whilst Australia have rejected their talented troublemaker, West Indies have made theirs captain. The long tall Jamaican has been the subject of many purse-lipped English editorials for not pretending to like Test cricket, but he’s always been a favourite in the Hughes household and his casual butchery of Lee, Johnson and Bracken was balm to soothe the English soul.

Earlier on in the day, Scotland had threatened to reduce the tournament to anarchy by toppling New Zealand’s dignity as Netherlands had done to England the night before. Sadly, some stout bat-lashing was let down by a fielding performance that was more Mrs Doubtfire than Braveheart. In fact, if Jonty Rhodes was watching today’s games, he might be in need of resuscitation about now. The West Indies in particular set the cause of ball retrieval back a generation or two with a performance that suggested the white Duke had been replaced by a live grenade.

For a while, India were showing them how it was done. Indeed, catch of the tournament so far was pulled off by everyone’s favourite sulky superstar, Yuvraj Singh. In the thirteenth over, he leapt like a gazelle or at least, like a hippo that had been on a diet, to claim a stunner. He roared his celebration to the night sky. I am Yuvraj, King of Fielders! Look on me and despair, ye mighty!

Nemesis arrived, ahead of schedule, in the next over. A gentle lob looped towards our hero, travelling so slowly that it seemed to pause for a moment or two in mid-air. “Catch me, Yuvraj, catch me!” the ball sang as it hung there, defying gravity. But in an oopsy-daisy moment it bounced from his knuckles and nestled with a disappointed sigh in the turf. The fielding gods giveth and they taketh away.

World Twenty20 Day One

Ga Nederland! Stop the tournament right now. There is no point carrying on. Anything that happens from this point onwards can only be a mere imitation of the nerve jangling, stomach-churning and rather sweaty tension that gripped a damp corner of North West London and several million homes around the globe.

It had seemed so unlikely. We had tuned in to be greeted by what we thought was ill-mannered precipitation on our parade. But the weather gods have much wisdom. The rain lasted just long enough to see off the much-threatened opening ceremony which was replaced by a stand-up routine from the Three Stooges. David Morgan droned on for a while, like a Welsh Methodist preacher warning us of the perils of enjoying ourselves. Giles Clarke, the silent one in the bad suit looked on gormlessly. Then His Venerable Eminence the Duke of Kent, in his best 1930s accent, regaled us with an account of his school days or possibly his shopping list. I can’t be sure, because, to be honest, your Dukeship, I wasn’t really listening.

Enter the clowns. England’s comedy show took some time to get going, with many of Luke Wright’s hilarious straight-up-in-the-air heaves falling inexplicably short of the fielders. But once Ravi Bopara had holed out, the old routine fell into place and they followed up some cheeky little getting out shots with a slippery slidey fielding performance as the grass grew greasier and the game kept popping out of their grasp like an errant bar of soap in a bubble bath.

No comedy in the Sky studio but there was an intriguing game of good cop, grumpy-cop-who-hasn’t-had-his-coffee-yet. Clean cut new boy Nick Knight thought Wright’s recent performances amounted to green shoots of improvement. Scowly Mike Atherton winced his disagreement. Knight read out a sonnet of his own composition on Paul Collingwood’s inspirational leadership. Atherton threw up in a bucket. Still, they were unanimous on one thing: the Netherlands couldn’t possibly win. “A bunch of butchers, bakers and candlestick makers,” chuckled Atherton, inordinately pleased with himself.

However, it appeared that the Dutch hadn’t got the memo informing them of the futility of their plight. They set about chasing down their target with bravery and gusto and the crowd seemed to grow more orange by the second as everyone’s eyes began to widen to the possibilities. Orange hats, orange flags and orange wigs bobbed up and down in the steamy rain as their supporters went respectably crazy in a very Dutch way. Then that final ball and I, like millions of others around the world, leapt right off my chair.

Haircut XI

Kevin Pietersen
Whilst playing for Hampshire, wildlife lover and safari enthusiast KP became concerned for the endangered indigenous burrowing mammals of the New Forest. To raise awareness of their plight he agreed to play the entire Ashes series of 2005 with a live badger on his head.

Yuvraj Singh
India’s batting heartthrob showed that he still knows how to laugh at himself when he turned up to a recent photo shoot with a drastic new coiffure. “What do you call that?” joked Zaheer Khan. “I call it Yuvraj Singh’s new haircut,” said the pouty one.

Shane Watson
As a protest at the vanity of the modern cricketer, Shane used his time on the sick list to pioneer the anti-haircut. The beauty of the ‘Watson’ is that it can be achieved by anyone. All you need is a full head of hair and a small, bushy shrub into which to plunge it and hey presto, you’re Australia’s third best all-rounder!

Brendon McCullum
Some men are born blonde and some achieve blondeness. At one time, dousing your scalp in industrial bleach was de rigeur for the international sportsman. Those days may be gone but Kolkata’s hapless captain continues to stage a one-man tribute to the 1980s.

Ryan Sidebottom
All those hours spent with the curling tongues finally paid off last week for the England swing merchant when his ringlets secured the part of Lizzie Bennett’s hairdo in a stage production of Pride and Prejudice.

Ishant Sharma
Heavy metal fan Ishant used to pass his time on the tour bus shaking his tresses to the sound of Metallica or Megadeth. Unfortunately, on one occasion, the noise emanating from his Ipod was so loud that it disturbed Sourav Ganguly as he was cutting out offending newspaper articles for his scrapbook of vengeance. Since that day, Ishant has worn his hair a little shorter.

Shoaib Akhtar
At one time, the ladies swooned as he ran his fingers through a full head of hair. But these days the balding lothario and doughnut connoisseur cuts a rather sad figure in the nightclubs of Lahore as he sidles up to single women, brushes a few lank strands from his face and asks if they’d like to see his ‘fast ball’.

Nathan Bracken
The first Australian sportsperson of either gender to openly wear an Alice band in public, Natalie’s flowing locks are so beautiful that batsmen have been known to break down in tears at the sight.

R P Singh
An admirer of Dennis Compton, the swingingest bowler in India looks back fondly to a time when men were men and hair salons were for girls. “Short back and sides, please and a dash of Brylcream,” is all you will hear RP say to his barber. Sensible bowler. Sensible haircut.

Kyle Mills
Ever the patriot, the Black Cap seamer has sought inspiration from the eighteenth century for his style, modelling it on the same wig worn by Captain Cook when he discovered New Zealand. Egad sir what a splendid barnet!

Lasith Malinga
The Lesser Spotted Afro Bird thrived during the 1970s but loss of its natural habitat has forced it to the brink of extinction. For a while, Lasith Malinga’s hairdo contained what was thought to be the only remaining breeding pair in the world.