Ian Chappell has questioned the merits of awarding Ian Botham a knighthood © Getty Images

For those not up to speed, the story goes something like this, allowing, of course, for the protagonists’ differing shadings and embellishments. One March evening in 1977, shortly after Australia had won the Centenary Test at the nearby MCG, the 21-year-old Ian Botham, then on a winter scholarship at the University of Melbourne, apparently overheard Ian Chappell, 12 years his senior, taking the pee out of the Poms. Not being one to turn so much as half a cheek, the fiercely patriotic Botham may or may not have threatened Chappelli with something glassy, then punched him to the floor.

According to one of Botham’s accounts, this sent Chappell “flying over a table into a group of Aussie Rules footballers, whose drinks were scattered to all parts (Needless to say, he replaced those drinks pretty quickly!)” After a parting shot from the former Australia captain, Botham tore after him into the car park and vaulted a bonnet or two, before belatedly realising there might be more productive ways of expending energy.

Chappell’s recollection, on the other hand, is that the “punch” was a “push” and that the barney had started a few days earlier. By the time he arrived at the “MCG” (the bar), he related in Ashley Mallett’s 2005 biography of his erstwhile Test skipper, Hitting Out, Botham “had obviously had a few beers and he was having a lot to say in a very loud voice. He made a couple of comments. I can’t remember exactly what they were saying but [he] said something about an Australian player and I said: ‘Yeah, you’re a typical county player. You’re the sort of player who thinks that if an Australian hasn’t been to England and played county cricket he can’t play. You think the only guy who can play in the Australian side is Greg Chappell because he played two years for Somerset.’ And he responded, ‘That’s right.’ Whereupon things “degenerated” and Botham eventually threatened to “cut” Chappell “from ear to ear”. Botham vehemently denies he used a bottle to illustrate his point.

As someone acutely aware of his own ability to make, break or inflate myths, Botham’s renditions have changed down the years. In Dudley Doust’s 1980 biography, Ian Botham – The Great All-Rounder, the Sunday Times sportswriter stated that his subject’s pursuit of Chappell ended when he “lost his prey in the traffic”. Come 1994’s blockbusting Botham – My Autobiography (Don’t Tell Kath), it was a passing police car that foreshortened the chase. Amazing how the memory improves with time.

For his part, Chappell insists he was not pursued into the car park but the main road, that the Victoria fast bowler Ian Callen grabbed Botham from behind and suggested the Somerset tyro calm down, and that he, Chappell, then withdrew. Whatever the truth, Chappell appears to have held the firmer grudge.

The way Mallett tells it, when the two Ians, by now fellow commentators, were interviewed on Channel 9 in Australia a decade or two later, “the bad blood between them was obvious”. Recalled Chappell: “At the end of it, I’ll never forget, Ray [Martin] said to Botham, ‘Oh well, you’ll still have a drink at the end of a day’s play.’

“And Botham said, ‘Yeah, that’s cricket, mate. You sit down and have a beer, or wine.’

“Ray turned to me and said, ‘You’ll be having a drink with him after the commentary is over?’

“I said, ‘No, Ray. I can find plenty of decent people to have a drink with. I won’t be drinking with him.”

Storm in a dusty old teacup? Much ado about nowt? Sure, it’s a pity two such admirable cricketers continue to lower themselves by perpetuating something that should have been forgiven and forgotten long ago. On the other hand, this is a grave time in our planet’s history. An age where, courtesy of the expansion of the media, the ability of gossip to spread at the speed of light and the evolution of litigation, the number of durable and entertaining feuds feels perilously close to an all-time low. (Oh my Oasis and my Blur of not all that long ago.) The giggles, therefore, are not unwelcome.

	Time for more subs? © Getty Images

Nine months of continuous Test, ODI and Twenty20-watching can play merry hell with the enthusiasm levels. Then, shortly after the curtain finally descended on England’s relentlessly suffocating 2007 campaign, along came Saturday’s wrestling match in Paris to remind us why rugby will never usurp cricket - much less soccer, as has been ludicrously mooted in the British media - in the planet’s pecking order of athletically-inclined obsessions.

In many ways, since each pursuit has embraced Mammon, the paths taken by muddied oafery and flannelled foolishness have diverged starkly. For all the unflattering evidence of its own World Cup earlier this year, cricket is as good to watch now as it has ever been, probably better. Yet despite a vibrant World Cup full of upset formbooks and torn-up predictions, rugby union is becoming unwatchable. No ballgame has suffered so much damage from professionalism. And rightly so. After all, no other ballgame sets such store by physical prowess and legitimate thuggery. Self-expression? Not much room for that, matey.

Which is why, as unpatriotic and even unromantic as it may sound, I was quietly relieved England’s hitherto hopeless rugger-buggers did not beat South Africa at the weekend. The way I saw it, it would have been a victory for uncreativity, for fearless, naked destruction. As it was, the Springboks were barely worthier champions. There were no tries, hardly any individual sorties and precious few passing movements. With its emphasis on speed, brute force and nullification, rugby union, a cherishable spectacle just 20 years ago when fitness applied solely to one’s capacity to down 10 pints of beer after the final whistle, is now a raspberry-blowing rejection of everything that endears the competitive arts to this near-ex-disciple. Short of merging with rugby league and trimming teams to 13, enlarging the pitch seems the only way forward.

When Evie, my nine-year-old daughter, unexpectedly informed me of her desire to watch the final, she explained that she found rugby “fun” to watch but that, unlike cricket, she had no desire whatsoever to play it. As the game unfolded, that growing ardour was tempered. “All they do is wrestle,” she observed at length. “You don’t often see the ball, do you?” I nodded with ill-concealed satisfaction. The difference between rugby union and cricket, I explained, is not simply that one is a mite rougher than the other. It is that it is impossible, in essence, to win playing negative or even neutral cricket. The next day, I read a quote from Eddie Jones, the former Australia coach now aiding South Africa, who reasoned that NOT retaining possession of the ball was more advantageous. How perverse is that?

How reassuring, then, to read the comments of Syd Millar, chairman of the International Rugby Board, who believes his sport should be “freed up a bit” and “produce more options for players”. Even amid the glow of the most profitable RWC yet, there appears to be some evidence of objective self-analysis, of an awareness that improvement is required, even imperative. Indeed, the rules are forever being tinkered with, adapted to times and tastes. Yet for all its amoeba-like talent for self-division, cricket has been comparatively statuesque with regard to its Laws (note that hubristic capital L).

There have been just four new Codes since the original MCC model of 1788, and for all the intervening and succeeding revisions and clarifications, far too many of the fundamental elements need rephrasing, even reinventing. Much as some might reasonably strike the uninitiated as illogical, indefensible and downright offensive to the intellect, this is not exclusively about attracting and keeping converts and potential apostles. Many of us old hands are fed up with trying to rationalise the irrational.

Here, then, are 10 modest proposals, in order of priority, pressingness and, yes, annoyance:

1. Substitutes

Law 2.3 dictates that only 11 men be empowered to bat or bowl. Hell, it was only comparatively recently that the 12th was allowed to field at slip. Given the rank unfairness of an ever-fattening fixture list and the heartless, insensible refusal to permit an injured batsman or bowler to be replaced, isn’t it about time this nettle was grasped? Soccer has expanded from 11-a-side to 16, rugby union from 15-a-side to 22. Would it be that huge a climbdown for cricket to permit one substitute for each discipline?

	Why should the fielding side profit from an illegality? © Getty Images

2 and 3. Stumped off a wide/Run out off a no-ball

Why should the fielding side profit from an illegality? Why should they be granted a chance to redeem themselves by dint of faulty running between the wickets or an overbalanced back foot? In both cases, the umpire’s signal should denote that, strictly in so far as the offending collective is concerned, the ball is dead. The batting side, on the other hand, should still be able to take due and just toll without fear of retribution.

4. Overthrows after ball hits stumps

Punishing the fielding side for an accurate throw? Why not penalise a batsman for being too nasty to the ball? Redraft Law 23, which governs whether or not the ball is dead: once a bail has been legally removed, it should become an ex-ball, cease to exist and nip off smartly to meet its maker.

5. Toss out the tossers

Law 12.4 gives the successful heads-or-tails caller (or, for that matter, non-caller) the right to choose whether to bat or bowl. Without wishing to cast too many aspersions, even those with a degree in naivety might acknowledge the remote possibility of collusion between the groundsman and the home team – and perhaps even a spot of coin-fixing. Eliminate any suspicion once and for all by giving the away team the inalienable right to choose, as was the case a couple of centuries back. As the Marylebone boys themselves wisely if fruitlessly proposed a few years back.

6. Boundaries

Is there any more credibility-sapping sight in sport than a fielder reaching heroically to catch a ball only to intentionally chuck it away when he realises he might topple over the boundary? Only when it’s trumped by a fielder stretching every sinew to stop a four whereupon his efforts are nullified by the touch of toe on rope. Law 19.3 states that, for a boundary to be awarded, the fielder must have “some part of his person touching the ball” and “touches boundary or has some part of his person grounded beyond the boundary”. Let’s get shot of the “touches boundary”. In major league baseball, where boundaries are denoted by fences and even walls, of varying heights, an outfielder is entitled to leap up and catch the ball, legally whisking it back into play, even after it has crossed the top of the barrier. Thus are practice and athleticism duly rewarded.

7. Obstruction

Are you confident about the distinction between, much less the need for, Hit The Ball Twice and Obstructing The Field? You’re not alone. I can just about comprehend why you should be allowed to hit the ball twice in defence of your wicket but not in an attempt to score. What baffles is that you are permitted to hit the ball twice in defence of your wicket, even kick it away, but not in order to prevent a catch carrying to a fielder. Let’s have some consistency here, chaps. Either it is wrong to obstruct the ball’s destiny or it isn’t. Inasmuch as both modes of dismissal seek to punish wilful interference with due process, merge Laws 34 (HTBT) and 37 (OTF) under one roof, as Obstruction, then make it enforceable whenever and however that interference is made.

8. Never mind the width

Law 6 places a restriction on the length and width of a bat, but not the thickness. Justify in light of technological advances at Slazenger and Gunn & Moore.

9. Stumps

Law 8.2 stipulates that the stumps should be 71.1cm high. If metric measurements are to have any meaning, surely they deserve the status of fullness? Make it a round 72cm and give the bowlers (and umpires) a bit more to play with.

10. Intervals

Law 15 has been left unexamined for far too long, although nowhere, it should be added, does it mention any prescribed times. Which leaves us mired in the treacherous sands of convention. Just as much as 40 minutes is a tad excessive for lunch, 20 minutes is too brief for tea. Sessions can now last the thick end of four hours. What other ballgames oblige their practitioners to spend so much time on the field at a single stretch? And don’t give me that guff about not having to run around overmuch. Energy is expended in mental as well as physical terms. Give the guys two decent breaks. Let’s set it in stone for first-class matches: 30 for lunch, 30 for tea. And, while we’re about it, let’s have no more of those nine-wickets-down = delayed tea scenarios. In a game that measures its contests in tens of hours, to fret over the saving of a few minutes is as pointless as sport gets.

	Paul Collingwood led England to their second successive series win in ODIs © AFP

Let’s forget, for the moment, all those horrid stories about performance-boosters, match-fixers and vengeful umpires. If anyone fancies making a movie about the sporting year of 2007, they could do a lot worse than call it Daze of the Underdogs. Or even The Year They Bashed the Bookies.

Ireland beat Pakistan at the World Cup; Gretna FC, representing a town hitherto known only for servicing impatient marriage-seekers, skipped up to the Scottish Premier League; Catalan Dragons, from the rugby league coldbed of France, reached the Challenge Cup final; Argentina’s rugby unionists beat the French and the Irish to qualify for the World Cup semi-final. As I write, the perennially unfancied Colorado Rockies (18 wins in their last 19 games) are marching towards baseball’s World Series armed with a bunch of rookies. And England, perhaps least probably of all, have just taken an ODI series in Sri Lanka armed with a worn-out KP and a non-ringing Ian Bell. And no Fredster.

Granted, some might reasonably argue that beating the World Cup finalists without having to contend with Muttiah Muralitharan is the contemporary equivalent of invading Carthage while Hannibal’s on holiday. Besides, as any fool knows, England’s one-day dawns of the past 15 years have proved about as genuine as Joan Collins’ eyelashes. Nevertheless, advances on six key fronts on a single tour – half of them perpetrated by those rejected by the previous coaching regime - are not on any account to be sniffed at. Given the oft-propounded theory that Englishmen are too critical of their cricketers, and notwithstanding today’s ghastly surrender in Colombo, please consider the following a proudly treacherous antidote.

From the top, all hail the versatile verve of Graeme Swann, ebullient contributor with bat and ball in the first three games, Man-of-the-Match in the third. This column was berated for allegedly going overboard on the evidence of his chirpy return to national colours in the series opener, but nothing he did subsequently dulled that glowing impression. In Colombo he did an anti-Monty, decelerating to 48 mph and lobbing those grenades ever higher: when was the last time you could describe an English offie as a big tease? And when, more to the point, was the last time you could justly accuse England of fielding a match-winning one-day spinner?

The first of those victories, furthermore, showcased another revitalised 28-year-old, Owais Shah, flourishing in the pivotal No .6 role and gracing Dambulla with his most mature international innings yet. That trimly elegant beard soon vanished, but despite a rash charge against Sanath Jayasuriya in Colombo, it is hard to stifle the conviction that he has finally attained manhood, a process that his graduation to fatherhood this weekend should only cement. The next step is to ensure more crease time, which can only mean a place in the top four.

Fearlessly touted by his PR company as “The Next Big Thing In English Cricket”, it is now more than 10 years since the Middlesex man had his A-level studies interrupted by a call-up to tour with England A. Back then he and Ben Hollioake, teen prodigies stationed on opposite banks of the Thames, appeared to be the most unfairly gifted prospects the counties had thrown up in a generation.

The first 18-year-old to don the non-baggy blue cap in almost half a century, Hollioake, soon fell from favour, and was killed just as he was beginning to fulfil a fraction of those pumped-up visions; under Duncan Fletcher, Shah, who’d struggled to satisfy the demands of either county or parents, also drifted in and out of contention. To be fair, only after a brief dalliance with county captaincy did he emerge as a consistent force in the shires (in the most recent campaign, Mark Ramprakash was alone among Poms in bettering his first-class average of 70.92).

All too well does this father remember Shah’s reaction when he requested an autograph for his three-year-old son in 1999: to call it a sullenness born of youthful insecurity might be too kind. Brattish is possibly more accurate. He led England to triumph at the Under-19 World Cup, and celebrated catches with the most elaborate routine I’ve ever seen, throwing the ball up and firing an imaginary arrow at it from an equally imaginary bow. A poppy begging to be cut down? I’m sure that was how many saw it.

Prior to his return this summer, indeed, Shah had seldom done much of worldwide note since his second ODI, at Lord’s in 2001, when he added 170 with Marcus Trescothick to put England within sniffing distance of overhauling Pakistan’s 242, only for the restless new boy’s needless run-out to trigger a collapse that left them three runs shy. Only once in his next 16 ODI innings, prior to being ditched after the 2002-03 series in Australia, did he reach 40. Self-inflicted deaths, the handiwork of a spirit straining at the leash, were not uncommon.

That England won just three of Shah’s first 18 ODIs, including two against the un-might of Zimbabwe, spoke of a discouraging environment. Fletcher’s approval, moreover, was rarely apparent: just once did Shah play more than two consecutive games. Like father, like coach? Quite possibly. Shelved for the best part of three years, forgiveness proved fleeting: he was dumped again for another 18 months after failing to translate an audacious 82 on his belated Test debut against India into 50-over plunder.

Yet in the first dozen ODIs since his recall against the West Indies in July, he made 604 runs at 60.40, more than double Kevin Pietersen’s average output over that span. England won seven of those games, six of them against purportedly superior rivals. The link is fiendishly tricky to resist. Deft against spin and with trips to Kandy, Colombo and Galle next on the schedule, now, surely, is the time to give “Ace” a decent chance to trump Test bowlers.

	Ryan Sidebottom has carried on with his dream comeback into the England fold © Getty Images

Ryan Sidebottom has already had an extended run and all the signs are that he is growing in stature with every outing. So much so, the absence of the owner of the country’s most famous dodgy ankle was barely noticeable. As Richard Hobson noted in the Times, the Yorkshireman could be to Moores what Marcus Trescothick was to Fletcher – a productive hunch plucked from county middling-ness.

Only Farveez Mahrouf matched Sidebottom as a wicket-taker in this series. That he had the guts not to jettison those decidedly unhip Jacobean curls says as much about his inner iron as having a one-cap-wonder for a dad says about his motivation.

Stuart Broad has the opposite sort of paternal act to follow: his father, Chris, enjoyed conspicuous if short-lived success internationally. Stuart has also had to cast off the shadow of those six sixes Yuvraj Singh swashed off him at the World Twenty20. In Sri Lanka, the fact that he outbowled James Anderson, the anointed spearhead, would have been sufficient evidence of inner strength; that nerveless match-winning knock in the third match underlined it in indelible red ink.

Then there was Paul Collingwood. If looks could kill, Phil Mustard would have been six feet under by the time the scoreboard had registered the fall of Sri Lanka’s eighth wicket in the second ODI. “Get up,” roared England’s conductor at his Durham confrere, who had somehow contrived to act as if Chaminda Vaas’s fairly blatant edge had missed contact by a couple of pitch-lengths. One TV commentator was so bemused he suggested Collingwood’s verbal blast was directed at Vaas.

What bothered Collingwood, exactly? That his keeper had made him - as bowler, let alone captain - look like a cheat? That, by not “going up” and supporting his bowler-captain, Mustard had put the dismissal at risk (as he would do again when Sangakkara walked for that wafer-thin edge in Colombo)? It is perhaps best not to wade overlong through such a philosophical minefield, but there was no mistaking Collingwood’s ire during the ensuing huddle. Even though Vaas’s departure effectively spelled the end for the hosts, that tense, Gary Cooper-ish smile took an age to emerge.

It was good, nevertheless, to see an England ODI captain have a bit of a growl. I’m quite prepared to accept that Ottis Gibson, the bowling coach, had something to do with it too (and his influence on the execution of slower balls and deployment of bouncers seems plain). But maybe it was simply fear of the skipper’s wrath that did most to fuel the bowlers’ remarkably steadfast refusal to overstep?

The nation’s first such specialist captain since Adam Hollioake (if one discounts Michael Vaughan’s brief reign) looks to have much in common with his scandalously under-used predecessor: serious all-round nuisance value, an aura of matey authority that encourages self-expression but defies disobedience, and a severe dose of defeatophobia.

Collingwood’s fielders, as flawless a unit as any boasted by an English team in recent memory, have followed Collingwood’s personal example: quick, agile and accurate, thoughtful and proactive. Much the same can be said of the running between the wickets. Multi-faceted, happiest confounding expectations and largely uncowable: this could, in short, be a side constructed in its captain’s image. Maybe getting caught in a lap-dancing club has its career benefits. Discovering that your leader is human can do wonders for morale.

Nor does it seem entirely coincidental that all this has been happening on the watch of the personable Peter Moores, whose tolerance of individuality and respect for county cricket are both distinct improvements on the previous incumbent’s mostly admirable modus operandi. As is the non-aversion to free(ish) speech, though Fletcher’s lip-zipped pragmatism and passion for platitudes could be traced to some extent, as a Zimbabwean, to his outsiderhood.

For a coach to blithely confess to the media that he has been passing on the teachings of Buddha is to wave a red rag at the bull of ridicule. That Moores was prepared to do so confirmed him as a fellow longer on perspective than ego. It spoke even greater volumes for his awareness that a coach’s fate depends on events over which, ultimately, he has scant if any control.

Moores gives his charges pearls from the Dhammapada, wherein Buddha offers his son, Rahula, the benefit of his otherworldly wisdom. "Thus, Rahula, you should train yourself: 'I will purify my bodily actions through repeated reflection. I will purify my verbal actions through repeated reflection. I will purify my mental actions through repeated reflection.' "

Constant, objective and rigorous self-analysis as the route to enlightenment? Not exactly a novel concept. Still, after Shah’s dismissal of Sangakkara today, one can only conclude it to be a philosophy hell-bent on enhancing self-esteem and destroying self-imposed limitations. As Elliott Gould’s laconic Phillip Marlowe never tired of saying in The Long Goodbye, that’s okay by me.

	This time, Graeme Swann looks ready for the big stage © Getty Images

Bruce Springsteen records with the E St Band every half-dozen years or so. Joni Mitchell’s last sheaf of original songs is nearly a decade old. To bring home new creations from both sources on the same day is the stuff of an ageing hippy’s dreams. There was no option, therefore, but to mute the Sri Lanka-England ODI on Sky. It made, as you might guess, for a distinctly surreal experience. Then again, teaching resumes tomorrow, and too much reality, as Woody Allen put it, won’t sell tickets in Kansas.

What struck me was how fresh it all seemed, how inspiring to those who, like myself, are currently obsessing about age (well, my 50th is 53 days away). Bruce, Miami Steve and the gang machine-gunning their way through some thrillingly rocky rock-outs that make them sound 25 rather than 55; Joni, now in her sixties, running the customary gamut of jazzy-funky-folky assaults on the planet’s vices, even an update of Big Yellow Taxi, but this time with added venom (signing a distribution deal with Starbucks certainly demonstrates an enduring sense of humour).

And then there was Graeme Swann, fast approaching his 30th year, proving it’s never too late for an unreconstructed maverick to enjoy a rebirth - provided, that is, you have sufficient wells of character, self-belief and talent to keep a battleship afloat.

Paul Collingwood’s first overseas ODI in the hot seat was not, overall, a happy occasion. On-air, David Lloyd stopped just short of mimicking Terry-Thomas’s immortal expression of extreme annoyance - “You absolute SHOWER!” - but only just. Yet despite a terrifyingly accomplished batting collapse and a thumping defeat, there was a sense, especially while Sri Lanka were batting, that this, like it or lump it, was his, Collingwood’s, team. You could sense it in the vigorous outfielding, the turning of twos into ones, the aggressive use of bouncers, the strangulation of the home batsmen over the final 10 overs. You could also sense it every time Ravi Bopara ploughed headlong into the crease, beating the throw by the frayed skin of his forearms. However misplaced at times, the energy was palpable.

And nowhere more so than in the efforts of Swann, last seen representing the nation in January 2000, in Bloemfontein, on Duncan Fletcher’s first tour. He was revoltingly young for an English spinner, fairly full of it, a bit of a wag. Unafraid of expressing himself, he wasn’t scared, either, to give the ball some rip and flight. A Tufnell minus the insecurities. He also slept through his alarm one morning and missed the team bus. That was more than enough for Uncle Dunc.

Climbing back into contention has involved a switch of county, from Northants to Notts, backwater to Test ground. In essence, he remains the same, if a tad wiser. He still needs no encouragement to open those slim shoulders and clout balls to all parts but now, as today’s innings underlined, he can place and flick, pace and judge. Had it sped two inches wider, either way, the reverse-sweep that cost him his wicket, and England’s last chance, would have flown for four. Credit the idea and cherish the mindset rather than curse the narrow failure.

Better yet, he still puts more revolutions on the ball than any English twirler I’ve seen lately. And he still tosses balls up in that inviting, curling arc. The combination of the last two assets was good enough to have a customer of Kumar Sangakkara’s nous and ability deceived, beaten and stumped, when Sri Lanka’s second-best bat was well-set. Will there be a more encouraging delivery by an English cricketer this winter? I suppose we can dream.

A regular on Cricket AM, Sky’s chucklesome Saturday morning magazine show, Swann also writes a monthly column for the magazine All Out Cricket. The photo at the top of the latest finds him resplendent in a handlebar moustache. Or “Mo”, as such things are apparently known Down Under, where November is “Mo-vember” and men grow their facial hair to raise funds for charity. The Nottinghamshire first team recently stole the idea, turning August into “Mo-ugust” and sprouting for all they were worth in aid of Cancer Research, beneficiary Paul Franks’s chosen cause. Typical of the Swann outlook is the entry for August 9:

“What a day. 38 overs have completely sapped my energy, my body feels like lead and the tramp over the road is angrier than ever. Perhaps he is a true Notts supporter pissed off at conceding a hundred-run deficit. Even so I think trying to urinate on my car as I drive past is a little harsh.”

“I think I deserve to be here,” Swann had told Sky’s Lloyd in a pre-recorded interview screened between innings today. The emphasis was firmly on the “I” rather than the less certain “think”: declining to toe the company line on non-stop modesty is a risk, refreshingly, that he was fully prepared to take. An example, perhaps, of coach Peter Moores’s willingness to loosen the reins and embrace individuality where his predecessor shunned both. Neither did Swann blush at, much less resist, Lloyd’s entreaty to regale viewers of his famous impression of…David Lloyd. A man delighted to be in front of a camera, yes, but even gladder to be back where he always knew he belonged.

To resist tossing another thought into the bubbling Twenty20/Fifty50 debate would not be consistent with the principles of blogging, so here goes. Reassuring as it was after the breathlessness of the World Twenty20, the comparative sedateness of the longer format could prove its undoing. Make that should. Broad, Malinga, Fernando and even Collingwood did their best to enliven matters in Dambulla with some ungenteel bouncers (whoever thought they’d re-emerge as a major one-day weapon?) but maintaining focus was far from easy. If I want sedate, I want the entire enchilada: white flannels and forward defensives, bags of slips, the exceedingly occasional shot of airborne persuasion, and no bowling or fielding restrictions whatsoever (bar, that is, those designed to prevent Bodyline – The Return).

If space is to be made for the golden goose’s golden gosling – and space must be made if the best players are not to be driven to career-ending injury or useless pottiness - the only sensible option, surely, is to ditch the former. I’m sure the ICC’s precious TV deal could be rejigged to everyone’s satisfaction once the broadcasters calculate the profitability of screening three non-simultaneous games a day.