May 25, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

All pain, no gain

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May 21, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

Modi's comedy show

But what was once a brief but pleasant excursion into the world of horticulture has been turned into a five minute comedy audition. Game Fifty-Two saw Daniel Kyle Morrison, former international cricketer and taker of 160 Test wickets, standing on the New Wanderers pitch with a cheerleader on his shoulders. I have no idea why he was burdened with a professional dancer and I suspect neither did he. It is possible that no-one knows, since it is the kind of idea that presumably emerged at the end of a particularly long, drunken night out.

Still, I suppose you have to have some sympathy for the lot of the television producer. Under continual pressure to make things exciting, the pitches in this IPL haven’t really come to the party. For the most part, they just lie there. And they all look the same. Though the tournament has been played in every corner of South Africa, the strips of turf with which we have been presented have borne more than a passing resemblance to one another. Invariably they look like concrete but play like porridge.

So slow have these pitches been that batsmen have had time to write a chapter or two of their autobiographies, answer their fan mail and polish their bat before the ball finally arrives. And by the time it does get there, they have usually played at least three shots already. In contrast to last year’s festival of thwackery, this IPL has been characterised by the bunt, the lob and the unfeasible edge. For example, on Thursday, Mithun Manhas somehow managed to hook a bouncer that was proceeding slowly past his left ear in the direction of first slip, whereupon Jacques Kallis seized it in his paw, like a bear catching a salmon.

Actually, when I look back on this tournament, Kallis is one of the players who will spring to mind most readily. It isn’t particularly because of his feats with bat and ball. I just seem to have spent an awful lot of time watching him. I have enjoyed his sweaty, full-blooded bowling, his general grumpiness leavened by the occasional tombstone smile, his curmudgeonly sledging of his South African teammates and his utilisation of the sarcastic throw.

Kallis is of course, a well-established character in the cricket soap opera. Another of the many treats of this IPL has been the chance to watch young and not so young Indian players with whom many of us outside the subcontinent are entirely unfamiliar. To genuine cricket lovers, this is a pleasure. Every Kamran Khan and Ravindra Jadeja whom we get to know represents another acre of knowledge reclaimed from the sea of ignorance and extends the realm of the world of cricket, which is after all, a country of the mind.

If you’re thinking that this sounds like end of term wistfulness, you’d be right. The sun will soon be setting on the IPL and the sky is already tinged with sadness. For all their buffoonery, I have grown accustomed to the faces of Coney, Morrison and Rambo Raja and to having my afternoons divided neatly into forty-five minute portions. I’m not sure how I’m going to cope without it.

And in recognition of the imminent end of festivities, a certain autumnal chill has been evident at the evening games. The IPL doesn’t really do cold, anymore than it does rain and the response has been charmingly improvised. On Thursday night the cheerleaders had acquired red woollens and on the Bangalore bench, Mark Boucher and Roelof van der Merwe shared a blanket whilst Anil Kumble donned at least three hats.

Still no mere cold weather can stop these crowds from enjoying themselves. Indeed, the spectators have been one of the best things about the IPL. I don’t refer to the be-suited individuals sitting stony-faced in their corporate boxes, fingering their official passes and sipping chardonnay. It is the ordinary people who have made this tournament; the punters in the cheap seats and on the grass banks, with their home made banners, their flags and their quite astonishing, seemingly limitless enthusiasm.

Port Elizabeth crowds are the best. Even through the muffling of the television screen, the carnival atmosphere they create has been apparent. The ground seems to reverberate with music; a song throbbing constantly like a pulse underneath the action. Even when the commentators are wittering on as they do, you can still catch the surge and swell of brass and chorus, the mingling of gospel and Latin rhythms and the joyous percussion of a seething crowd banging their inflatable clackers, singing, cheering and shouting. They deserve a trophy of their own.

Comments (28)

May 12, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

The view from Old Blighty - 5

Ahem. You see, I’m not really watching the IPL at all. That’s right. I’m being employed by the ECB, the ICC and the CIA to undermine it. It’s true. Furthermore, the BCCI are a bunch of idiots; Sachin Tendulkar never could bat and Sunil Gavaskar is doing unmentionable things to Ricky Ponting.

There, that should take care of that. And remember, Mr Angry, for extra emphasis, you may want to spell imperialist with a capital letter.

Of course, there is a serious point to be made here about some people’s determination to divide the cricket populace of the world into pro-India and anti-India, with your place on that Axis of Silliness being decided entirely by your geographical location.

But I haven’t time for serious points because the IPL is on again. Yes, it’s Monday, so it must be Rajasthan against Deccan, for what might be the first or possibly the second or even the third time. Never mind strategy breaks, what the IPL needs is a mid-season break or at the very least, a mini-pause, a delay of some kind, to enable us to digest, to reflect and to savour. No-one, not even Jacques Kallis, likes to be force-fed, but that’s what it has felt like in this mid-tournament phase.

Abandoning the idea of a gradual build up of momentum, the IPL accelerated to the spin cycle by the first Wednesday and has remained there ever since, a screaming whirl of games blurring into games, with the only reality being the points table to which we cling like shipwrecked sailors being flung around a whirlpool. When was the curious incident of the dog on the outfield? Which was the game where Preity Zinta swore? When did Ravi Shastri stop shouting? Who played yesterday? Who’s playing tomorrow? Like Kevin Pietersen in a hall of mirrors, I don’t know which way to look.

In addition to a mid-season break, the tournament needs the attention of an image consultant, a man with an aesthete’s eye and quite possibly a top hat and a polished cane. For a start, no-one should be contemplating staging games in the middle of the day. The brassy autumnal sun glares down, the pitches gleam like strips of still wet cement and everyone squints into their sunglasses. It’s like partying with a hangover.

I’d go further. The disappointing quality of the fielding is detrimental to the beauty of the tournament. Now, in order to explain the high number of spilled catches there has been a lot of earnest dug out chat about such concepts as ‘variable air thickness’ and the ‘spongy turf coefficient’, most of it about as convincing as a builder trying to explain why the wall he built last week has just collapsed. Time to cut the bull and fess up. A certain proportion of these players can’t catch. Another sizeable group seem to have difficulty touching their toes (yes, that means you Bangalore).

So to this end, in order to restore some dignity to the occasion, I suggest that in IPL 2010, each side will only have two designated fielders. Only the lithest, most attractive movers will be permitted to bend, stretch or pirouette. Everyone else must remain still once the ball is delivered, though a graceful stoop to retrieve a stationary ball is to be permitted. And a new ‘Aesthetic Play League’ will replace all that Fair Play nonsense. Franchises will lose points for pratfalls, facial stubble, stumbles, yelling and tattoos. Credit will be given for difficult catches taken with nonchalance, stylish leaps, neatly pressed trousers and stifling a yawn.

And speaking of barely suppressed somnolence, I bet all of you non-Setanta-ites are wondering how Ronnie Irani is getting on. No? Well I’m going to tell you anyway. He’s doing great. And I am pleased to reveal that, having completed an intensive home study course in Applied Irani, I can reveal the essence of Irani-ness. The secret is in the five key phrases:

1. Listen
2. To be honest
3. For me
4. Err…
5. I promise you

Slip these beauties into your every day conversation and you’ll regularly be mistaken for the former biffer. I promise you. Now you may be thinking that we’ve been here before, that this isn’t the first time I have mentioned the awfulness of Setanta’s coverage and that I am now merely overstating, repeating and reiterating the same observation again and again and again until you just want to scream out, “For the love of Modi, just please make it stop!” If you are thinking that, then I have successfully conveyed to you the magic of Setanta.

But hang on just one moment. Because Saturday 9th May was no ordinary Setanta day. It was the day they went all competent on us. It was the day of ‘The Bish’. Due to some kind of mix-up in the booking department, the yellow ones had gone and got themselves a high quality studio guest. Now Ian Bishop is a Christian man and so I will refrain from declaring my televisual love for him here. Suffice it to say, he is the anti-Irani. Clear-spoken, intelligent and informed, his Bishopness does not flap his gums just to keep the air warm. He is a purveyor not of silly grins or lame jokes, but of knowledge and insight. The Setanta presenter was almost in tears of gratitude at the beauty of it all. For the first time in three weeks, I didn’t use the strategic break to file my toe nails, de-louse the dog or eat more toast. I stayed where I was. And I listened.

Finally, to the Kolkata Knight Riders fan who was angry at my taking the name of Ajit Agarkar in vain, I can only apologise. It was a glaring error on my part. I meant to type ‘S.o.u.r.a.v.G.a.n.g.u.l.y.’ but my fingers slipped. I hope that clears that up.

Comments (36)

May 6, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

Short-lived break in batting dominance

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May 5, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

The view from Old Blighty - 4

Do other people feel like that? If so, then what is cricket about? Why do we watch it? Do we only care about a match because we want one side to win or another to lose? These are big fat hairy challengers that every cricket person should at one time or another get into a wrestling ring with. They are fundamental questions that deserve to be fully explored by a literate, learned and erudite writer.

I won’t be doing that, obviously. For me, as Ronnie Irani would say, it’s simple. I like cricket. I watch a lot of it. Really, far too much of it. Not because I care who wins any of it, but because I like it. I’m watching the IPL because the best players in the world (and Ajit Agarkar) are playing the best sport in the world in the same place at the same time. What other reason do you need?

Cricket is like the works of Shakespeare (yes, really, trust me on this.) When you file in to a performance of Romeo and Juliet, are you carrying an enormous foam hand that says, ‘Chak De Capulets!’ on one side and ‘Tybalt Rocks!’ on the other? Do you come out of the theatre shaking your head because you felt Mercutio was on the wrong end of a poor decision? No. The play’s the thing. So it is with cricket. It’s the game, stupid. As Oscar Wilde definitely didn’t say, there is no such thing as the wrong or right result; there is only good or bad cricket

There is of course, a third way to look at the IPL. I know that there are people in England who have only taken an interest in the tournament whilst the English players were involved. For them, the entertainment has been rather thin, though they have, if they’ve been paying attention, witnessed a fascinating phenomenon, known as the Freddie Paradox. It runs something like this. Pre-IPL, everyone was agreed that Andrew Flintoff was a snip at $1.55m and would do the canary-coloured ones proud. Post IPL, everyone is equally adamant that the big buffoon can barely hold a bat and is so deficient in the important skill of bowling slightly more slowly than usual that he should never have gone in the first place.

I say ‘everyone’, by which I mean cricket journalists, by which I mean former England cricketers. And if you are prepared to be patient, you may see another paradox. Currently, the ex-pro press corps are unanimous that Andy Flower is much better than they said he was two months ago and that the selection of a man named Onions is a sure sign that England can win the Ashes. Make a mental note of this so that you can compare and contrast with what they say amid the ashes of England’s Ashes hopes in mid August.

But I digress. Freddie didn’t do very well nor did the rest of them, with the exception of Ravi Bopara. Still, at least we now know for sure what kind of England captain Kevin Pietersen could have been. For Bangalore, he strutted, he clapped and he chivvied and all of it registered high on the decibel scale. He was a tattooed mother hen with a megaphone. Sure, he lost most of the games he played in, but he did it at an impressive volume. And Collingwood’s and Shah’s familiarity with dug-out facilities at all of South Africa’s main stadia could prove very handy when England tour there later this year.

Coinciding with the departure of the Englishmen has been a noticeable stripping out of dead wood as international class egos are ignored in the pursuit of victory right now. The franchises are like Formula One teams, frantically tinkering and modifying mid-race, with the result that those making the early pace are now in danger of being overtaken. Even Bangalore, now running on Kumble, a lower emission, higher efficiency fuel, are looking like contenders. It’s all very confusing.

Thank goodness then for the old-school incompetence of the Kolkata Knight Riders. John Buchanan’s sequel to ‘If Better Is Possible’ will presumably be entitled, ‘Can It Get Much Worse?’ to which the answer is, undoubtedly. Kudos though to the laptop-bothering Sun Tzu quoting coach. In such an open format of the game where anyone can beat anyone, it takes a special kind of magic to string together six defeats out of seven.

Finally, you may have noticed that these ramblings contain no mention of commentators. That is because I have realised that they are impervious to criticism of any kind. Like a herd of charging rhinos with their Ipods turned up full, they are not going to listen to reason, even if it is shouted in their faces. I realised that satire was futile when I heard Alistair Campbell admit that he had run out of nouns with which to describe the action. Muting is too good for them.

Comments (22)

April 30, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

The view from Old Blighty - 3

From Andrew Hughes, United Kingdom

	Fans enjoy themselves at the IPL © Associated Press

I haven’t been feeling very English lately. I do my best to conform to expectations. I never cry in public, unless I’m drunk. I don’t complain about poor service in shops, unless I’m drunk. At the first sign of a sunny spring day, I rush out and buy ten pairs of ridiculous three-quarter length shorts. All the same, in recent days, I have the uncomfortable feeling that I am letting my people down.

You see, I’ve been watching an awful lot of the IPL, which in English cricket circles is a bit like admitting that you failed all your exams. People look at me with a mixture of horror and pity. “But what about Michael Vaughan,” they say, in an effort to lure me back to the straight and narrow with a nice, decent bit of cricket chat, “Do you think he’ll get back into the England side? And what about Ian Bell?”

But I have a confession to make. I don’t care about Michael Vaughan right now. Nor do I have any feelings one way or the other about Ian Bell. At the merest mention of Andrew Strauss, Alastair Cook, Stuart Broad and the rest, I feel a yawn rising deep within me and an overwhelming desire to drink a glass of warm milk and go to bed. It all seems so parochial, so narrow and well, so very very dull. When all the best cricketers in the world are gathered together in one place, why on earth would anyone want to talk about Ryan Sidebottom?

It was brought home to me how much the IPL is changing the shape of my cricket brain on Sunday. Whilst waiting for a strategy break to end, I was channel surfing and came across what looked very much like a game of cricket. There were players in coloured clothes. There was a bowler, a batsman and some fielders. Somewhere in the ether, Mike Atherton was talking. But something wasn’t right. It took me a while to figure it out. Then it dawned on me. THERE WAS NOBODY THERE.

Meanwhile, out in South Africa, large numbers of people have been turning out to see apparently made-up franchises with no history and no sense of tradition play a disgracefully vulgar version of the great game. And what’s worse, they appeared to be enjoying themselves. There was a lot of music, trumpets, fancy dress, drinking and dancing. Whisper it quietly, particularly if there is an English cricket journalist in the room, but these people were experiencing something almost unheard of in county cricket. They were being entertained.

Sadly, the commentary has continued to be more Bangalore than Deccan this week, though Harsha Bhogle did pull a master-stroke during Thursday’s play by asking Neil McKenzie whether he thought Kevin Pietersen was really a South African. Suddenly there was tension in the booth as McKenzie mumbled his way through a few syllables of feigned disinterest, whilst trying to choke back his urge to yell, “Traitor!” at the top of his voice. “If he thinks he’s an Englishman, then he must be,” said the temporarily unemployed opener, through gritted teeth.

But Bhogle aside, the broadcasters seem to be doing their best to minimise our viewing pleasure. During the first week, the camera would lazily pan over the jubilant crowd between overs, perhaps lingering on the cheerleaders before returning to the action. In week two, this relaxed scene-setting has been replaced by the scourge of sports coverage the world over: the player interview. A never-ending stream of non-combatants have been miked up and prodded wirelessly to read from the official IPL Cliché Manual, whilst being unsure which camera to look at.

And then there’s Jeremy Coney.

On Monday he blagged his way into the manual scoreboard.
“There are all sorts of things here,” he began, breathlessly, “Numbers and er…”
He could have added ‘letters’ but that would have been it really. He cornered the chief scoreboard operator, a serious-looking chap, who seemed slightly bemused that the broadcasters would want to go live from the inside of a score box.
“How long have you been working here?” asked Coney, a la Prince Charles
“Since 1979,” replied the number king.
Coney the Comedian spotted an opening;
“You don’t live up here do you?” he asked, with a chuckle.
“No, I do not live up here,” deadpanned the interviewee.
It turned out that the man watched the cricket through a small peep hole.
“I see, and what do you do then?” asked Coney.
“I tell this man who operates the scoreboard.”
“And what does he do?”
“He changes the score.”
It was gripping television.

And in between episodes of the Jeremy Coney Show, Setanta have redoubled their efforts to give us all a yellow-tinted headache. It isn’t just that their studio guests are awful. It’s the fact that every five minutes we are snatched away from the stadium and dragged kicking and screaming back into Setanta world, not because the man in the shirt and slacks has anything useful to contribute, but simply because, rather like Bangalore, they’ve paid out good money and they’re damn well going to use him.

Comments (32)

April 26, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

Let's take a 'tactical break'

Powerplays 2 and 3 - farcical from a bowler's point of view - 40% off all overs bowled in ODI's now have a limit on the number of fielders outside the circle. One bouncer per batsman per over - this rule has single handedly prolonged the careers of Ganguly and Yuvraj to name but two, as their main weakness (by law) cannot be exploited. Modern bats are far more effective in destructive hitting - more a natural progression of the game, but certainly not one designed to help bowlers sleep at night.

Change of ball in 34th over - The ball is no longer shiny, white and hard, spinners and exponents of reverse swing, having waited thirty four overs for their time to shine, get their main weapon removed. Boundary ropes have not exactly been pushed out either, have they? At some stadiums, especially in the subcontinent, they are brought in a full fifteen or twenty yards from the stadium's natural extremities.

Batsmen getting runners if injured during the game - what absolute poppycock! A batsman should be out in the middle as long as he is fit to do his job. Geoffrey Boycott will tell you that running between the wickets is part of his job. When a bowler gets injured, he limps off and often has his overs completed by a part timer (surprise, surprise - that suits the batsmen). These points raised do not pretend to be all encompassing. They are the few that I could think of off the top of my head. Batsmen being allowed to call on runners certainly isn't a modern development, but its development in the batsmen's favour.

Can anyone think of a development where the bowlers' interests were preserved or (god forbid) enhanced? I can, and its not a direct advantage as much as I think it is a by-product of the rules' amendments. It's called a 'tactical break'.

Lalit Modi is loving life, having generated millions in extra advertising revenue, but the small number of games in the IPL so far have shown that momentum for a batting side once lost, is very hard to regain. The overall averages for overs eleven and twelve directly after the break, do not paint the most convincing picture in the world. We are looking only at the two overs bowled directly after the 10 over 'tactical break'. To date, the 40 overs bowled in the tournament fitting the above description have yielded 18 wickets at a cost of 16.5 and a run rate of 7.4. But if you look at just the first five games, those numbers drop to 123 runs in 18 overs at a cost of 6.8 per over and 13 wickets at a cost of 9.5 each. Does this suggest that teams took a while to get used to it? Perhaps. Overall numbers have improved, but are still below tournament averages. I think we have the slightest suggestion of a slight advantage to bowlers, and that's a step in the right direction.

To lose absolutely no wickets in overs eleven and twelve clearly helps team results. It has happened seven times and only once did the team concerned lose the match, Chennai in Game 1. Four teams have done it once each. Deccan Chargers have managed it in all three of their games and guess what? They won all three and sit atop the league table. A new challenge has emerged for batsmen - and even though it will only be in the IPL for the time being, in due course one should not be amazed to see it drafted into other forms and competitions.

Going forward, I would not be surprised to see bowlers volunteering for an over directly after the break. An obvious disclaimer would have to state that this analysis does not claim to be gospel. Cricket is like that, and often the numbers can be made to show whatever one needs them to show. But I reckon its food for thought. "Statistics are like bikinis .... What they reveal is suggestive, what they hide is essential" said Navjot Sidhu. If all of this is merely suggestive, I suggest batsmen start concentrating on the two overs directly after the 'tactical break'.

Comments (24)

April 25, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

The view from Old Blighty - 2

From Andrew Hughes, United Kingdom

	Freddie Buckethands latches on to a catch © Getty Images

Yesterday was a traumatic day for me, the first on which I have been unable to watch any IPL action. It happens to all of us, of course. However much we commit to a sporting event, sooner or later, we are always unfaithful, even if it’s only to nip into the kitchen to make a cup of tea (which is how I missed the very first ball of the opening game). But having tried life without Shilpa, Shane and Sunny, I didn’t like it.

Because, after a little coy toe-dipping and nervous anticipation, the IPL has finally plunged, carefree as a love-struck hippo, into the televisual waters of fate. (This is a metaphor. More accurately, it is a bad metaphor, of which more later). Week one has brought us balls bouncing from skulls, foul-mouthed Bollywood goddesses, fugitive dogs and lots of dancing. On occasions, a cricket match has broken out.

And in order to do justice to this spectacle, the commentators have clearly been told to up their game. There has been a marked increase in punnery; a run on similies and a veritable boom in witty badinage. Jeremy Coney led the way. A Hayden lob to mid-on was described as, “a chip shot...but not a blue chip shot.” In the background, Mark Nicholas and Harsha Bogle spontaneously combusted with mirth.

And though obliged to grasp the corporate nettle with both greasy palms, they have at least tried to minimise the pain with some brain-numbing grammatical gymnastics. Thus we have had DLF as a unit of measurement (“That didn’t register on the DLF scale,”) an abstract noun expressing a quality (“That had DLF written all over it!”), a verb in the past tense (“That’s the first time that Kumble’s been DLFed!”) and as an interjected synonym for a six, (That’s a DLFer!”).

There are some cricket matters though, that continue to stump the imaginations of Gavaskar and Co. In particular, the booth-dwellers seem unable to get past their fascination with Andrew Flintoff’s hands. It appears that he doesn’t have normal hands, like you or I. He has buckets. His hands are like buckets. He has bucket hands. So often is the word bucket used in conjunction with pictures of Freddie that I am unable to think of the one without the other. Last night I dreamt of a film called ‘Freddie Buckethands’ in which the England allrounder, unable to reintegrate into society after his stint in the IPL, exists as a lonely outcast until he finds his true calling as a sandcastle builder at the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium, Antigua.

Of course, dear reader, Freddie doesn’t really have big red plastic containers attached to his wrists. It’s a metaphor, see. Tricky blighters though, metaphors. They tire easily. And rather like Praveen Kumar, they aren’t at their best when bashed repeatedly over the head. I understand that social workers concerned for the health and well-being of this particular figure of speech are flying out to South Africa this weekend to interview Robin Jackman.

But with the endless whirl of thrills and spills comes a certain amount of disorientation. I am struggling particularly to come to terms with the dumbing-down of Jeremy Coney. Once a be-suited, occasionally sardonic but always compelling studio guest on Sky, his transfer to the IPL seems to have necessitated the fitting of a brain implant, via which he can be transformed into a performing clown at the flip of a switch.

The nadir was reached on Thursday. There was Coney, pitchside. Three Chennai cheerleaders stood in front of him. You couldn’t look. Like David Lloyd being asked to review Les Folies Bergere, you knew there was no way this could end well. A little light banter to start with. “How long have you been dancing?” he asked the stationary blondes, who to their credit resisted the temptation to say, “We’re not dancing, we’re talking to you.” With that, the conversational well dried up. There was only one place for the interview to go. Don’t dance, Jeremy, we screamed. To no avail. The camera lingered on the twitching, gurning Coney for just long enough to frame his humiliation. Somewhere across the Tasman Sea, a nation covered its eyes.

But he wasn’t done yet. He popped up again in a control room somewhere high in the stands, to tell us about a camera. This was no ordinary camera. Oh well, alright, it was, but still, it took two men to operate it. Jeremy, adrenalin still pumping, squeezed between the two understandably alarmed men. “Can you make it go blurry?” he asked, jumping up and down like a five year old full of fizzy pop. “Yes we can,” replied the Obama of camera operatives. The screen blurred, mercifully.

This disorientation extended beyond the electronic frontiers of the IPL. At one point last weekend, I found myself watching county cricket. I forget the teams involved. Come to think of it, I can’t recall which competition it was or where the game was taking place. I do remember a sleepy, droning Nasser Hussain; the low hum of distant traffic echoing across rows of empty seats and the sound of someone snoring.

Next thing I knew, it was Monday afternoon and I was waking up on my sofa. I only had myself to blame. Last year, my doctor had advised me against watching county cricket whilst operating a laptop and I had foolishly ignored his advice. So remember, kids, if someone sidles up to you in the playground and offers you free tickets to Northamptonshire versus Gloucestershire in the Sleepy-Time No-One-Gives-A-Toss Charity Knock Out Shield, just say no.

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April 22, 2009

Posted by Cricinfo at in IPL

IPL - The view from Old Blighty

And we learnt many things on that first day. We discovered, for instance, that Kevin Pietersen and Shane Warne have something of a rivalry. Yes it’s true and apparently that meant that both of them were really keen to win their first game. We also learnt that playing in the IPL is a great opportunity; that Tendulkar is a really good batsman and that Freddie will be a bit disappointed with his opening day performance.

All too soon, our Irani time was over. I was keen to be further enlightened and so when I discovered that Sunday’s studio guest was to be one Darren Gough, my cup ranneth over. A fine bowler, a belligerent blade swinger and a nifty mover in the ballroom, he was sure to embroider the fine cloth of the day’s entertainment with the golden thread of insight.

It is difficult to sum up the full effect of an afternoon with Goughie, but I will give you just a flavour. Early on, he ruffled a few feathers by tipping everyone’s favourite losers the Kings XI Punjab. Hello, I thought, this is more like it. Controversy. A maverick opinion. Excited, the studio presenter pressed him further. What was it about the Kings XI that made him pick them out as tournament winners? Turned out that Goughie liked Brett Lee, he liked the boy Sreesanth and he was enamoured of Marsh and Hopes.

It matters not that one of them will miss the whole tournament and the other three will be unavailable until the second half. Their influence will be felt strongly in their absence. Unfortunately, on this occasion, the phantom Lee, the invisible Sreesanth and the cardboard cut-outs of Hopes and Marsh proved unable to overcome the Delhi Daredevils and Punjab received a predictable and not entirely unenjoyable spanking.

Of course, Yuvraj had other players available, such as the talented young Indian batsman Kamran Goel who blazed away so effectively at the top of the order. What, the studio presenter wondered, did Goughie think of him? “To be honest,” opined the Dazzler, “I’ve never heard of him.” Eat your heart out, Nasser Hussain.

Now you may be thinking that this is just a cheap shot at the expense of a great player. And you’d be right. But I would offer one mitigating plea in my defence. If the only requirement for obtaining a seat in a Setanta studio is the capacity to state the bleeding obvious, or to look down a list of names and spot the good players, then I’m sure there are many cricket fans out there who would happily do the job for a fraction of the fee earned by Mr Irani or Mr Gough. Heck, I’d do it for nothing.

Of course, the task facing the studio analyser is as nothing compared to the job of match commentator, for whom the IPL represents the ultimate challenge. In a Test match, they are allowed to wax lyrical, to speculate, to fall asleep, even to snore occasionally. There is no such respite for the average IPL microphone jockey. They have a script to stick to and at regular intervals, prodded by the muzzles of the rifles wielded by the Lalit Modi Revenue Maximisation Squad, must correctly acknowledge certain benevolent corporate bodies.

This coercion has taken its toll on the minds of those held captive in the commentary booth. Sunil Gavaskar is no longer able to screw in a light bulb without declaring it a Citi moment of success. Mark Nicholas involuntarily greets the popping of his toaster with the words, “DLF Maximum!” And Ravi Shastri wakes up screaming in the middle of the night from a dream in which he forgot to read out the list of tournament sponsors.

Perhaps the cruellest ordeal of all for these prisoners is that they are not allowed to tell the truth about a particularly hideous piece of merchandise that regularly appears on our screens. No, not Kevin Pietersen; I’m referring to the IPL Trophy.

When I first saw it, I assumed it was a homage to the IPL prepared by some Cape Town schoolchildren using plastic cups, pipe cleaners and glitter pens. But no, it is the reward for winning the richest tournament in cricket. Apparently it is covered in diamonds. Rarely can so much money have been spent to such little effect (and I include Surrey’s signing of Shoaib Akhtar).

And yet, presented with an image of this monstrosity, Robin Jackman is not allowed to point out that it is the tackiest piece of decoration you are likely to see outside of David Beckham’s third living room. Nor can Greg Blewett politely suggest that it might have been better if they’d simply piled the diamonds up on a silver plate. Instead, they must show due deference and declare it a stunning piece of trophyware.

Truly, we should feel their pain and give thanks that they have sacrificed their commentating careers for the good of the IPL.

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