Bill Cooper and his meddlesome instrument © Getty Images

I don’t think I can ever have been so pleased to hear the Barmy Army in full cry than I was on that final morning at Brisbane. “E-verywhere we go-oh!” came the chorus, just as Kevin Pietersen, England’s last hope, was dispatched by the fourth ball of the day. “The pe-ople want to know-oh!” they continued, in defiance of all evidence to the contrary. “Whooo we are-ah”, they blundered on, as the teeth of 100 journalists were set indisputably on edge.

They are noisy, nauseating, and unspeakably tuneless, and when you’ve heard that witless chorus once, you’ve heard it 1000 times - usually when you are right on deadline and desperate for some peace and quiet. And yet, for the first (but on today’s evidence, maybe not the only) time in my life, I was delighted to hear them break into song. Never mind the noise pollution, it was a victory for free speech, free spirits and futility - which, like kittens and warm-woollen mittens, are a few of my favourite things.

But if we thought the nonsenses at the Gabba had been forgotten amid the tranquillity of the Adelaide Oval, then today’s press release from Cricket Australia has confirmed once again that, in this country, good humour is an item to be surrendered at all turnstiles. “Cricket Australia clarifies Barmy Army trumpet,” read the improbable headline, followed by 16 (sixteen!) paragraphs of justification for the continued expulsion of the Army’s cause célèbre, Bill Cooper, and his meddlesome brass instrument.

“Cricket Australia and the South Australian Cricket Association today met with Barmy Army representatives to clarify venue entry conditions to Adelaide Oval ahead of the second 3 mobile Ashes Series Test match starting at the ground tomorrow,” began a statement that read more like a clause from the Treaty of Versailles. “The venue conditions, as set by the South Australia Cricket Association, state that trumpets and air-horns are not permitted into the ground.”

It’s all very well to have different rules and regulations enforced at individual grounds - let’s not forget, Lord’s has a list of do’s and don’t’s that is longer than the Laws of the Game - but Adelaide (and Melbourne, which has also joined in the ban) are surely missing a trick on this occasion. All the Fun Police in the world are not going to prevent the Barmy Army from doing what they were unable to do at the Gabba, and congregate en masse on the grassy banks beneath the scoreboard.

And once they have assembled there, they are going to be loud and insufferably noisy for the tranquillity-loving SACA members who have prevented this ban from being overturned. By the end of five days of aural bombardment, they’ll be wishing that Cooper, who learned his art at the Royal Academy of Music and has done stints with the London Philharmonic Orchestra, was on hand to provide even a semblance of musical talent to the occasion.

	'It was here that Ali Bacher's world-beating side had its last hurrah, completing a 4-0 rout of Bill Lawry's Australians' © Getty Images

St. George's Park is South Africa's oldest venue, the first ground outside of England and Australia to host an international game. It was also where Ali Bacher's world-beating side had its last hurrah, completing a 4-0 rout of Bill Lawry's Australians before more than two decades of isolation imbued them with near mythical status.

For some of the Indian fans I met before the match started, this was a chance to buck a miserable historical trend. One fan had seen all of India's three one-day matches here, dating back to 1992-93, and been disappointed every time. The last defeat was the most humiliating, with luminaries like Joseph Angara and Thomas Odoyo sending them plummeting to
a 70-run defeat.

The ground has a fantastic atmosphere, with the stands and even the press box so close to the action. The beer sales were in full swing by early afternoon, with the sun beating down and the infamous wind keeping still. And the Indian flags were being waved loud and proud, despite the emphatic nature of the defeats at Durban and Cape Town.

Graeme Smith walked out for the national anthem giving one of the mascots a piggyback ride. It's a nice touch that the authorities back home would do well to adopt. Not only do the anthems gets the crowd primed for the occasion, but it also provides an invaluable experience for each small boy and girl asked to escort the players onto the field. There's a now-famous
photograph from a Liverpool-Everton match in 1996, with a pint-sized 10-year-old lining up as the Everton mascot.

Wayne Rooney went on to bigger and better things, and even if none of the kids who lined up this afternoon scale such sporting heights, occasions such as these help immeasurably in inculcating a love of the game. Australia do it with the Milo-sponsored hit-abouts during the breaks in games, and India could do worse than to follow the example shown by the southern hemisphere nations. Who knows, the next Sachin Tendulkar might be the one who escorts him onto the field during a game at the Wankhede.

	Unlike the Gabba, Adelaide is a cricket ground, not a stadium © Andrew Miller

Only now do I feel I've arrived in Australia. Don't get me wrong. I really enjoyed my time in Queensland (even though the cricket was desperate). I had a nice day on the beach to recover from my jetlag, my digs were impeccable throughout, and the native flora and fauna seemed to queue up to pay me a visit. I saw a possum on the verandah and a family of kangaroos in the park. We passed a gumtree plantation on the way from the airport and I got squawked at by a flock of rainbow parakeets as I stepped out of the car. Had I wanted to cuddle a koala, I could have made a quick detour to the Lone Pine Sanctuary, some ten minutes down the road. But that's not really my scene.

But in spite of this sensory bombardment, something had been missing throughout. Something obvious, but utterly overlooked as the chaos of the cricket unfolded. It's only now, as I sit in the press box at the Adelaide Oval, watching the sun setting on the famous old scoreboard, as the earthy red roof of the Sir Edwin Smith stand begins to turn deep pink in the fading light, that I've realised what it is. It's context, stupid!

You see, I have lived and breathed the last four Ashes tours, from Gooch's disaster in 1990-91 through Atherton's disaster in 1994-95 to Hussain's disaster in 2002-03, and in that time, the nuances of each venue have become inscribed on my soul. Melbourne's Great Southern Stand, The Fremantle Doctor, the Ladies Pavilion at Sydney. But up at the Gabba, I was left completely non-plussed. Where was the history, except in rather indifferent snippets on the walls. Where was the old dog track of my mind's eye, except beneath a ton of concrete.

The trouble is, the new 42,000-seater Gabba is not a cricket ground, it is a stadium. It took a familiar and well-oiled member of the Barmy Army to point out that subtle difference to me, when I bumped into him looking as lost as the day he was born, in Brisbane's Pig & Whistle on the night after the Test. "You see, bundu," he began, in his unique mannerism, "there's no point complaining about the atmosphere at this match. You see, this is the only place in the world where you pay your money for a particular seat.

"It'll be different at Adelaide," he added, and how instantly he's been proven to be right. I've been at the ground for roughly eight hours, but already I've been here a lifetime. The seagulls on the peculiarly expansive straight boundaries, the rows and rows of benches in the member's enclosures. The ivy creeping up the walls behind the nets, where spectators can sit with their heads almost reaching into the action. Everything's exactly as it ought to be.

	'There are green open spaces in which to mill around, and no two angles of the ground look the same' © Andrew Miller

Most gloriously of all, there is space to breathe. If you wanted to stretch your legs at the Gabba, you'd have to go for a perambulation around the elevated concourse, which had such a plethora of fast-food outlets, (watered-down) beer taps and similarly claustrophobic spectators, it felt as relaxing as an afternoon at the Trafford Centre. Already it's clear that Adelaide's going to be different. There are green open spaces in which to mill around, and no two angles of the ground look the same. How could they be when you've got St Peter's Cathedral peeping over one corner, and the elegantly incorporated Sir Donald Bradman stand curled around the other?

It is obligatory to wax lyrical about the Adelaide Oval. Architecturally it blends the best features of Lord's and Trent Bridge, the two finest grounds in England, and blesses them with year-round perfect weather. But what's more important is the experience it promises to the spectator. I've grown up with this ground, even though I've never visited before. I know it, and I know the context of the contest it's about to host. In my mind's eye at least, the Ashes are about to begin at a venue that I trust as a guardian of the game's traditions. I wonder if England, as they observe the ground in all its majesty from their hotel windows across the River Torrens, might feel a flicker of the same.

	D'Oliveira: one of South Africa's finest © Getty Images

Despite the fact that he was nearing his 37th birthday, Basil D'Oliveira was considered a certainty when England's selectors met on August 28 1968 to pick a team to tour South Africa. A day earlier, England had managed to draw the Ashes series, with D'Oliveira's first-innings 158 instrumental in a 226-run victory at The Oval. But with many in the corridors of power being fossils from the days of Empire, D'Oliveira's name was left off the list, a display of spinelessness that delighted South Africa's pernicious Apartheid regime.

Those with a conscience protested against the blatantly political decision and when Tom Cartwright pulled out through injury, Dolly - as he was known - was called up. But there would be no triumphant return to the Southern Cape for one of South Africa's greatest cricketing sons. Enraged by the MCC going back on its initial decision, John Vorster's government refused to let D'Oliveira play on its soil. The tour was scrapped and though they thumped Australia 4-0 in a home series a year later, South Africa were soon to feel the cold touch of international isolation.

D'Oliveira, who was born in Signal Hill in Cape Town, never graced Newlands, a venue befitting the stature of a player who averaged 40.06 despite making all his 44 appearances in his twilight years. In an attempt to make amends for that, the Sunday Times Centenary Heritage Project unveiled an art memorial outside the stadium gates half an hour before South Africa and India started off their one-day international.

Donovan Ward, a Cape Town-based artist, conceptualised and created the memorial, a steel sheet on which a jagged hole has been punched by a cricket ball linked to a broken chain. "I focused on the role sport can play in breaking down barriers or boundaries and making the seemingly impossible real," said Ward.

D'Oliveira, now 75, suffers from Alzheimer's disease and couldn't attend the function, but an email sent on behalf of his family expressing their gratitude was read out after Ray Mali, president of Cricket South Africa, unveiled the memorial. Several of those who played club cricket with D'Oliveira before he departed for England in 1960 - the journalist and broadcaster John Arlott played a pivotal role in the move - were also present.

Speaking to Cricinfo later in the day, Omar Henry, who became the first coloured cricketer to represent South Africa in 1992-93, said that D'Oliveira had been a pioneer. "He was an inspiration, not just to me, but to hundreds of others," he said. "When he went to play in England, and was followed by the likes of Dik Abed, we realised that we too could do it."

Henry's connection with D'Oliveira goes beyond that. Soon after the England tour was cancelled, D'Oliveira came to Cape Town to do some coaching. One of the teenage schoolboys to impress him was Henry. "He wanted to take me to England with him, but my parents refused. I ended up going only when I was 24. And when I played for Scotland, we had a special
relationship with Worcestershire, so I met him again. He always took such a special interest in my game."

When you ask Henry why names like D'Oliveira and Abed are almost an afterthought when talk veers round to South Africa's lost generation, he smiles wryly. "It's deliberate, I think. People are well aware of what they did, and what more they could have achieved, but they'd rather not
talk about it."

Hopefully, initiatives like this, to honour one of the true greats of the game, will go a long way towards correcting such historical inequity.

	A rash of Green and Gold at the Gabba © Getty Images

The massive media interest in this series has been a blessing in disguise for any member of the press corps who enjoys a bit of atmosphere while they go about their work. The modern trend in press boxes is for uber-sanitised sardine cans, usually stuffed deep in the bowels of the stand behind the bowler’s arm, where 50 sweaty hacks seem to breathe the same recycled air for five days on end, and hardly a peep from the stands gets through the sound-proofed walls.

But for this Test the pattern is very different. With every man and his dog wanting a share of the Ashes action, the Gabba authorities have had to erect a temporary gantry high in the Vulture Street End. They’ve obliterated 400 precious seats to do so, but the treasurer’s loss is journalism’s gain, as we perch on our precarious-looking scaffolds and peer down on the action below. A full Gabba is a truly impressive sight, with its uniform bullring seating towering over the players in the middle, and it‘s a blessing to be out in the midst of it, sampling the real atmosphere.

We can hear the nicks (not that there have been many of them), feel the sixes being sucked over the rope by a record-breaking 39,315 crowd, and sense the hairs standing on Alastair Cook’s neck as he sweats and circles under (and ultimately drops) a steepler at backward square-leg.. And we can feel the breeze as well, and on another stifling day that’s not to be sniffed at at all.

And yet it’s hard to escape the feeling that we’ve traded one sanitised environment for another. Perhaps I’ve been suckered by the hype surrounding the World’s Most Anticipated Test Match Ever ™, but the atmosphere, dare I say it, has been unexpectedly flat. England’s overall performance hasn’t helped matters, certainly, with Harmison’s infamous curtain-raiser draining the stadium of much of its tension, but there is more than meets the eye about this year’s Gabba experience.

The silence of the Barmy Army is the most remarkable aspect. In the 12 years since they earned their reputation for good humour in adversity on the 1994-95 Ashes, nothing and no-one has been able to silence this mob. Ordinarily, a scoreline of 602 for 6 would bring out the best in their ironic line of humour (or at the very least, the worst in their moronic line of monotonous chanting). But this time their silence has been deafening. Even Elton John has decided to shun the cricket.

Much of their downcast demeanour has to do with the churlish eviction of their trumpeter mascot, undoubtedly the most tuneful man in the Army’s notoriously off-key ranks. He was booted out on the first day despite apparently receiving permission to bring his instrument into the ground, a move that brought an unfortunate response from Paul Burnham, their self-appointed general. He’s threatened to call the tour off if the fun police don’t lighten up, a statement that had one reader commenting: “The Poms have started whinging after just one day of the Test series against the Aussies. Is this some sort of a record, even for them?”

Burnham does, however, have a point. It is not just England’s trumpeters who have been victims of the Gabba‘s absurdly draconian rules. Anyone, for instance, caught instigating a Mexican Wave is also liable to be given the heave-ho. It can be argued that the Australians have made a rod for their own backs with the extremes of their bad behaviour in the past, particularly the racial taunts that were directed at South Africa last year. And yet, when the PA cuts in with regular announcements warning of severe penalties for those who “offend, insult, humiliate, intimidate, threaten, disparage or vilify,” it’s little wonder the ground is so quiet for such long periods. Most of the fans are too busy thumbing through their thesauruses to work out what they are about to be guilty of.

It wouldn’t matter so much if Cricket Australia were consistent in their attitudes. Instead, on the one hand they have sought to silence the England fans by scattering their ticket allocation to all corners of the ground, but on the other they have implored their own supporters to “Go Off in Green and Gold” to demonstrate their allegiance to their team. It’s all pretty cynical. “It’s part of a concerted effort to have Australian crowds rise to the Barmy Army's considerable challenge”, said a CA spokesman in the Courier-Mail.

“We're not going to suddenly become an all-singing, all-dancing, all-colour country overnight,” he added, before disappearing to arrange the ghastly tea-time entertainment that the Gabba has so far been subjected to this week. Thursday’s was bad, but yesterday’s was truly execrable - two songs played exclusively for the benefit of the knot of “Fanatics” at the Stanley Street end, but pumped through the PA system regardless, one of which was a remake of the 1982 hit, “In the Jungle”.

The predictable chorus of “They whinge-away, they whinge-away” was drowned out by the loudest chorus of boos so far on this tour. The Barmy Army may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but at least there was a certain joy and spontaneity about their antics. Even their asinine chanting is preferable to this sort of state-sanctioned hi-jinx. The game is nothing without the fans, no matter what the boards of the world might think.

	Too much cricket makes Jack......Omar Henry echoes a sentiment that is gathering strength © Getty Images

Omar Henry now coaches the university cricket team in Stellenbosch, but as recently as two years ago, he was convener of the selection panel that picked the side to tour India (2004-05). These days, Henry, who became the first Coloured cricketer to play for South Africa in 1992-93, focuses more on his family, and his 14-year-old son Riyad, who aspires to be a seam bowler, rather than a spinner like his old man.

"I loved the work I did with Cricket South Africa," says Henry, "but you spend so much time away from home that you wonder whether it's worth it." It's a feeling that the likes of Graham Thorpe and Marcus Trescothick have expressed in the past, but with the game's administrators interested only in shoehorning in more and more matches, who's listening?

Henry says he's excited by some of the young talent coming through in South Africa, though there continue to be whispers about the transformation process that will never please every section of society. This is a country moving away from its racist past, but the undertones can
still be felt at times. During the Durban game, when people were encouraged to send their SMS messages to be flashed on the giant screen, one person wrote: "Why are there so many traitors in this ground? You should go live in India then" - a view inspired no doubt by Norman Tebbitt, and the multitude of Indian flags that were being waved before the evening
collapse.

One of those in the media enclosure that evening as things fell apart was Sunil Gavaskar. A journalist tried to put him on the spot about the greatest innings he ever played, but Gavaskar wouldn't bite the bait. He was then offered a choice - was it the 221 that nearly took India to
victory at the Oval (1979) or was it the epic 96 in his final Test at Bangalore? Again, the man himself refused to pick.

Later though, he told a friend: "I honestly don't recall a single thing about those two innings - not how they bowled, or what the fields were like, or what shots I played." According to him, he was in such a zone, with concentration and technique in perfect sync, that nothing else mattered. What the current lot of Indian batsmen wouldn't do to scale such heights on this tour.

	Barry Richard's wand pales in comparison to Mahendra Singh Dhoni's mace © Sunandan Lele

The drive from Johannesburg to Durban is a beautiful one, but once you enter Kwa Zulu Natal, you pass the scene of many a battle. There's Estcourt, where King Dingane's Zulu warriors massacred the Voortrekkers from the western cape, and Volkrust (The nation rests), where Boer soldiers gathered to regroup after the first war of independence. Perhaps it's a good thing that an embattled Indian team subjected to relentless criticism in recent months flew down, even if it meant skipping the chance to pass through towns like Pietermaritzburg, where Mahatma Gandhi was thrown off the train.

Kingsmead occupies a special place in South African cricket lore. It was here that Graeme Pollock scored the last of his seven Test centuries, an epic 274 (401 balls) that inspired a crushing innings-and-129-run thumping of Bill Lawry's Australians. Along the way, he added 103 with Barry Richards, who smashed 20 fours and a six en route to 140 in only his second Test.

In the media centre, there's a glass cabinet that houses bats used by both - the Gray Nicholls favoured by Richards and the Duncan Fearnley blade that Pollock used to such devastating effect before the isolation years. A senior Indian journalist doing a story on modern equipment for a TV channel managed to borrow one of Mahendra Singh Dhoni's bats, and we stare in amazement at how the new differs from the old. Pollock was reputed to use one of the heaviest bats of his time, but next to Dhoni's ship-hull-shaped one, it's an average Joe standing next to Jean Claud van Damme. The Richards bat may as well be Twiggy.

	Brisbane: hillier than you might think

Brisbane is an unexpectedly hilly place. For a first-time visitor, brought up on endless brochure photos of Australia's vast and barren outback, it can sometimes seem as though the only hummock in the entire land is at Ayres Rock. Here, though, the streets rise and fall like something lifted straight from San Francisco. Minus the trams of course. They were dispensed with in the 1960s, presumably because the demand for public transport was so underwhelming.

It's an incongruous city. Peaceful almost to the point of self-parody, the locals have their tongues wedgely firmly in cheeks (I think!) when they dub the place "Bris Vegas" or "BrisneyLand". Even the Interstate Highways are unknowingly comical with their large-letter signposts on the slip roads. "No Tractors, No Animals, No Pedestrians" they scream on one side. "Wrong Way! Go Back!" bellows the other in unmissable white-on-red characters. I can't imagine the M25 ever has such a problem.

It's a country town made good. The tuft of skyscrapers in the Central Business District is proof that Brisbane has shrugged off its reputation as a backwater, as indeed is the new-look Gabba – although this vast speckle-seated amphitheatre with room for 42,000 punters is so far removed from its roots that it's almost impossible to recall the grassy banks and dog track that once made the ground so unique. Impressive it most certainly is, and a fitting venue for Thursday's showdown of a lifetime. But the redevelopment is not to everyone's taste.

What remains on the outside of the ground is perhaps as revealing as what lurks within. Take the wonderfully monickered Vulture Street for instance, one of the most evocative names in the game. This is a road that turned out to be exactly as I imagined it. A little bit dingy, a little bit ugly, but strangely majestic nonetheless. Okay, so there weren't any big hook-beaked birds circling over the carcasses of road-killed ‘roos (to give my mind's eye its full and warped licence), but there was a wonderfully grotty 7-Eleven shopping centre, situated just a stone's throw from the main entrance to the ground.

Just imagine it. The best part of half the stadium's capacity may have cause to stop by in the coming week, and what will they be able to buy? There's not a souvenir shirt in sight. Instead, it's a choice of sweets and snacks; a Domino's Pizza; a change of clothes at the handily-situated Laundromat, and err ... a selection of porn and sex toys from the Gabba's very-own Adultworld. Brilliant. Either it's everything an Australian sports fan could possibly need, in a quick and convenient one-stop shop, or it's a sign that the Gabba has outgrown its surroundings in record time. Maybe it's both ...

Just up the road there is a no-less puzzling sight. The Brisbane German Club or "Deutscher Turn Verein", a white colonial town-hall of a building that provides its members with a bar, plus all the folk dancing, card games, skittles and mixed choirs an ex-pat could possibly need. An intriguing sign on the door says that "bone fide" visitors are welcome, which presumably must include those renowned Germanophiles, the Barmy Army. After a 10,000-mile trip, you could hardly refuse them a quick game of kegeln, could you?

Talking of the Barmy Army, their sightings have so far been limited, although the bars in Queen's Street, the city's central shopping spot, have already prostrated themselves to the invaders. St George's Crosses flutter from every table beneath banners proclaiming "We Are England ... The Mighty Mighty England", in tribute to that dreadful dirge of a signature tune. Once again, there's no denying it. Everyone loves England's cricket fans. Even, it seems, the Germans.

Aside from the verbal sparring, the build-up to Brisbane has been pretty low-key so far, and the news that Australia's favourite son, the Olympic swimmer Ian Thorpe, has dramatically announced his retirement will ensure an unexpected downturn in cricket's column inches tomorrow. ("Thorpe quits on eve of Ashes" - where have we heard that before?)

The host broadcasters, however, are clearly bracing themselves for an upturn in excitement. For a good 20 minutes during Australia's afternoon practice session, the Channel 9 soundchecker could be heard booming out from down the corridor: "1 ... 2 ... Yeaaaahh!", a mantra that could have become laptop-flingingly irritating if it hadn't been so essential. After all, when you've got Bill and Tony in the hot-seat for the first morning of the Ashes, it's prudent to have your decibel levels finely tuned.

	Groupies? What groupies? Michael Clarke just gets on with his game © Getty Images

Queensland amply lives up to its billing as the Sunshine State. This is a land where summer lasts for six months, spring and autumn compete for four, and winter is a moveable feast that seems to have been abolished since the turn of the Millennium. Aside from the odd insubstantial cloudburst, there has not been a significant downpour in these parts since 2001, and in that time, the wicket at the Gabba has stepped out from the crowd and been officially anointed as the fastest strip in the land.

The sun tends to rise at 4.30am up here (a habit that plays havoc with those suffering from jet-lag) and hangs high in the sky for hours on end, beating down mercilessly on anyone who ventures out in the midday heat – people such as the knot of journalists who rocked up to the Brisbane Grammar School ground in Northgate today, to watch Australia's latest training session.

If the battle of Waterloo really was won on the playing fields of Eton, then England might as well surrender forthwith in their battle for the Ashes. The Grammar School grounds, situated just off the motorway and a stone's throw from the airport, consist of a vast expanse of yellowing spongy grass, sculpted into three immaculate ovals and overseen by a grandstand pavilion that wouldn't look out of place at The Rose Bowl.

With its hills and mounds and general undulations, this is a venue that feels more like a links golf course, especially on a day when Australia's stars were as spread out as Tiger Woods and his colleagues on the final round of an Open. On the main ground, ringed off by a white picket fence, was Brett Lee – working himself into a furious sweat in the company of a cast of grammar schoolboy fielders. Somewhere in the middle distance was Shane Warne, going through his fielding drills with John Buchanan, while Ricky Ponting was in the nets, finding his timing against the Queensland Under-17s.

Not everyone was having an easy time against the kids though. On a particularly juicy end strip, Justin Langer was flinching and cursing as the ball zipped regularly off the seam, while Adam Gilchrist – taking his licks with greater equanimity than his team-mate – found the bullish left-arm line of a young Ian Austin lookalike very tricky to cope with. He nearly chopped a lifter onto his off stump before being rapped on the pad just outside the line, while the bowler, a 16-year-old named Michael, later claimed a caught-behind against his hero as well. Not a bad way to make an impression.

It was a brutally hot day, and clearly not the sort to encourage hard labour. Shane Watson was reduced to running in off three paces as he tested his damaged hamstring, while the taxi driver who brought one of the English journalists to the ground decided that pickings were so slim he might as well hang around and indulge in some autograph hunting. Mike Hussey – Mr Cricket himself – was particularly busy in that regard, as he prepared for his return to the ground where he made his Test debut. Incredibly, that was only this time last year.

By the end of the session the full entourage of English press corps had arrived, freshly jetted up from Adelaide. They had gathered for one purpose only, the traditional pre-series media bunfight, where all of a team's players are paraded in front of the microphones to talk at length in whatever direction an interviewer so wishes. So Michael Clarke was asked his opinion of groupies ("say what?"), while Warne declared he had "had enough of talking to you guys and answering the same questions", before going right ahead and answering them all anyway.

Thankfully the talking is soon to stop, which will relieve players and media alike. But there was one hot topic that remained on all the journos' lips – the need to book Brisbane's best restaurants well in advance, to guard against the voracious influx of 10,000 English fans. To survey the city after dark, however, was to scoff at such a notion. Admittedly it was a Monday night, but rarely can there have been a quieter conurbation this side of Windhoek. Things are about to get rather exciting in the sleepy old town.

	'When he was around the very idea of anyone else opening the batting is almost sacrilegious' © Getty Images

As the drizzle continued and an expectant crowd gradually emptied out, the stadium’s sound system keeps up a steady stream of modern rock hits to keep the feet tapping, even as the skies above the beautiful green outfield become ever darker. There was not much to do at the Wanderers but sample the grub and wander the corridors, bumping into a childhood hero or two. With so many cricket luminaries on commentary, the easiest thing to do to pass the time was to think up a dream team based on those present, either with SABC, SuperSport or ESPN-Star.

The first name on the teamsheet was invariably the easiest. For most Indians of my generation, and especially those fortunate enough to watch that matchless 96 in his farewell Test, the very idea of anyone else opening the batting is almost sacrilegious. Alongside Sunil Gavaskar would be a man who many reckoned was in the same league, someone who scored 508 runs in four Tests before South Africa’s dubious politics ended his international career. Barry Richards’s attacking ways would also be the perfect foil for Gavaskar’s more studied approach.

Two more South Africans follow. The first played for Australia before heading back to his native land in the mid-1980s. Kepler Wessels made a century on debut against England, and was as pugnacious as they come. Just below him in the batting order is an individual who most think of as Shane Warne’s bunny. But against teams that didn’t wear the baggy green cap, Daryll Cullinan was a formidable batsman, a fluent strokemaker who managed the transition from child prodigy to international star far better than most.

Zaheer Abbas comes next, with more than 100 first-class centuries to his name. The scourge of many an Indian attack, he combined a languid wristy approach with a tremendous appetite for runs. That desire to excel was also what fuelled Ravi Shastri’s career, even as those blessed with more talent fell by the wayside. His left-arm spin fetched him 151 Test wickets, and he remains the only Indian opener to have scored a double-century in Australia.

The allrounders’ slots are filled by Wasim Akram and Neil Johnson. The left hand of God, according to Mike Selvey of the Guardian, Akram was the most versatile pace bowler of his age, with a repertoire unmatched by his peers. Even as he raged against the dying light in the 2003 World Cup, he produced a spell of such brilliance at the Wanderers that it took the innings of a lifetime from Andrew Symonds to save Australian blushes.

Johnson, who left Zimbabwe before its cricket went to hell, is still remembered by those who watched his sterling displays with bat and ball in the 1999 World Cup. A medium-pace bowler of some guile, he could also smack them around the park, an invaluable quality to possess while coming in at No.7.

Syed Kirmani, he of the bald pate, and the flamboyant moustache, keeps wicket, a job he performed with such distinction for a decade. Apart from Nayan Mongia, none of those who succeeded him in the India cap showed the same kind of class with gloves and bat.

Allan Donald shares the new ball with Wasim. The scoreboard at the Wanderers kept flashing statistics as the rain came down, and one of the figures to be up in lights was his 5 for 29 on South Africa’s reintroduction to the international arena after the isolation years. Those that watched his searing pace and aggression that afternoon at the Eden Gardens knew that they were witnessing the start of a remarkable career, and his incredible duel with Michael Atherton at Trent Bridge in 1998 is unlikely to be forgotten by South African cricket aficionados who still wonder how that series got away.

The last man in is Maninder Singh, one of cricket’s what-might-have-beens. Blessed with wonderful loop and the ability to turn the ball prodigiously, Maninder was once heir apparent to India’s great spin tradition. Yet, within two seasons of taking 7 for 46 against Pakistan in the Bangalore Test of 1987, he was gone, lost to the twilight that also swallowed up the likes of Laxman Sivaramakrishnan.

On paper, it’s a team more suited for Test cricket, but the great players never had any difficulty adapting to the demands of the hit-and-miss version. Even Gavaskar, so derided for a 60-over crawl to 36 in 1975, finished his career with a blistering ODI century against New Zealand. And given how wonderfully he led India in the World Championship of Cricket in 1985, he’s my choice to lead this imaginary XI. On their day, they could knock over a few teams, certainly some of those playing international cricket right now.

	Sachin Tendulkar tries his hand at seam bowling ahead of India's first ODI against South Africa at Johannesburg © Getty Images

With rain dampening the spirits and chilling the bones, South Africa's cricketers have to traverse the 35km to SuperSport Pak in Centurion to get some outdoor practice in. As we follow the same trail, we see vast empty plains that are a far cry from the organised streets and bustle of Sandton where the Indian team is staying.

As you approach the ground, you begin to see glimpses of South Africa's unsavoury past. Centurion itself was formerly Verwoerdburg, named after Hendrik Verwoerd, prime architect of Apartheid and a man whose tenure saw the Sharpeville massacre and Nelson Mandela's trial for treason. The road to the stadium is also redolent of the past - John Vorster Drive being a tribute to the prime minister whose intransigence over Basil D'Oliveira's inclusion in England's tour party (1970) led to the Springboks feeling the cold touch of isolation for two decades.

The streets are nearly deserted as we drive towards the stadium gate, and a journalist who was present for the India-Pakistan clash during the 2003 World Cup summons up memories of the day when the entire area was awash with flags and banners from the subcontinent. Centurion is now home to the Nashua Titans, formerly Northern Transvaal, and a franchise that has traditionally been one of the lesser powers in the domestic scheme of things. As you walk into reception, you're greeted by pencil sketches of some of the stars, both yesteryear and current, but apart from Fanie de Villiers, who scripted that epic win in Sydney in January 1994, there are
few names that would be recognised the world over. The Wanderers or Newlands it certainly isn't.

The South African session is a mixture of intense focus and levity. In the 15 minutes that I watch, there are only two no-balls, with the bowlers showing impressive awareness of the popping crease, and at the other end, Herschelle Gibbs and Shaun Pollock - who always appears to come out with a new bat or two - crunch a few powerful shots that endanger any birds that might still be on the branches of faraway trees.

Out on the field, Jonty Rhodes hits up catches and supervises fielding drills, with AB de Villiers taking a couple of stunning catches on the run. It's a luxury that the Indians don't enjoy, with rain in Johannesburg restricting them to another session at the indoor nets. A surprise awaits
when we get there. Virender Sehwag, rated doubtful for Sunday's game, is in one net, striking the ball with such good timing that it renders talk of a serious injury superfluous.

Sachin Tendulkar practises some seam-up bowling, while Ajit Agarkar and Irfan Pathan run in with real purpose. At the second of the nets, Greg Chappell is full of encouraging words as Mohammad Kaif laces some lovely drives against the bowling machine. There's certainly no lack of effort or preparation, with each man spending plenty of time against the bowling machine pegged to different lengths. For Sehwag, several of the deliveries dart in off a good length, a noticeable weakness in recent times, but they invariably disappear into the side netting off the middle of the bat.

Rahul Dravid's press conference in the small gymnasium upstairs is a subdued affair in contrast to some of the hatchet-jobs that masquerade as press conferences back home, and his relaxed manner is reflected by the happy smiles on Indian faces as they leave for the hotel. It remains to be seen whether they'll still be smiling come Sunday night. Makhaya Ntini, never short of a word or a funny gesture, and his bowling mates will certainly do their best to ensure that isn't the case.

	The breathtaking Wanderers © Keith Lane

It can’t fail to impress you. You might have seen the beauty of the Adelaide Oval, the colourful chaos of Eden Gardens and the awe-inspiring amphitheatre that is the MCG on Boxing Day. But there’s something about the Wanderers, even with the stands empty and the field abandoned, that makes you aware of the history of the place. For the Johnny Come Latelys, it’s where South Africa chased down 434 to win a one-day match against Australia last March, but for those who like to go back a little further, it’s a venue graced by the likes of Dudley Nourse, Hugh Tayfield, Neil Adcock, Graeme Pollock and the legendary Transvaal sides of the 1970s and ’80s, many of whom never got to play an international game.

Greg Chappell played here with an invitational side in the mid-70s, and has no doubts about the quality of the team he faced then. “I’d say that West Indies [of the late ’70s and ’80s], the current Australians and our lot in the mid-70s were the best sides that I’ve ever watched. This bunch was as good, definitely in that bracket,” he said, referring to the likes of Pollock, Barry Richards, Clive Rice, Vincent van der Bijl and Garth le Roux.

With a mere smattering of people inside the grounds, we can afford to walk in through the players’ tunnel, and the grassy embankment on one side offers a breathtaking view, both of the pavilion on one side and the building that houses the media centre on the other. As some of us shake off our jetlag, we pose for pictures, and even lie down on the grass. Player or journalist, most of us were fans first, and when you stare up at the view and the sky above, your faith in the beautiful game – shaken by the scandals of the past few months – is restored.

And as we’re about to head back, the ever-colourful Makhaya Ntini emerges from the dressing room with a terrified pigeon in his hands. He sets it down on a picnic table and then exchanges wisecracks with a few journalists before going back to the serious business of preparing for Sunday. “Be nice to the Indians,” someone tells him. “Be nice, eh?” he says with a laugh. Something about his demeanour tells you that he’ll be anything but once the umpires call Play.

	Savouring the surroundings: Carlton Baugh enjoys a different kind of ride © Getty Images

At Hawa Mahal, that most famous of Jaipur landmarks, in the heart of the district known as the Pink City, a procession straight out of a mini zoo held up traffic. There were two elephants, decked out in finery at the head, a clutch of camels behind them, and then horses, giving way to people on foot. They were celebrating – quite obviously and noisily, oblivious to the fact that they had brought traffic to a grinding halt – and part of the celebrations was some genius setting off firecrackers. One particularly loud boom, and the elephants had taken it enough, they began to backtrack, and the camels, fearing for their lives, followed suit, sending the whole procession into pandemonium. If he had scripted a scene to capture with his camera, Imran Khan, the West Indian media manager, could not have come up with something better.

Ever since he has been in India, his first time to the country, Imran has been taking pictures and posting them on his blog, named Blue Billion, after the cola advertising campaign that has caught the fancy of the nation, and has people yelling “Ooh aah India, aa-ya India” at matches around the country. He’s not the first foreigner to do that, and he won’t be the last, and already some of his pictures have ruffled feathers, with some Indians writing in to his blog complaining that he was only taking pictures of poverty and filth. Imran’s been around a bit, though, and it takes more than a few comments of this kind to deter him.

“If I came to India a hundred times and never saw the Taj Mahal it wouldn’t bother me,” he said. “I like to look at people – as they go about their everyday lives. That’s what really interests me.” What interests Imran is the exact opposite of every stereotype people might carry about West Indians. If you’re looking for a party animal intent on a few stiff Pina Coladas and long nights at glitzy nightclubs, you’ll find the opposite. Imran does not drink, doesn’t particularly enjoy going out partying, or even out to meals. “Give me a television and the Internet, and I’d be happy to stay in,” he says.

But if you think he’s one of those guys who tours and learns little about the culture of the places he’s visiting think again. It’s just that he prefers to be out with his camera, snapping away, far from the socialising. And Jaipur would have been the perfect city for him and his lens, given the richness and variety of the visuals on offer. But unfortunately, his team is staying at the Gold Palace hotel – a good 28 kilometres away from the heart of Jaipur. Why anyone would book them into a place closer to China than the Sawai Man Singh Stadium, is anyone’s guess.

Trips to India are often painted as a homecoming of sorts for people of Indian origin, and Imran, who is from Guyana, traces his mother’s forefathers back to India. Imran is very much West Indian, but this has not stopped him from marking the visit to India as a very important one personally. “This trip has changed me,” he says. “I live in a three bedroom house back in Guyana, use one as a bedroom, another as an office and the third just to store stuff. And I often complain about not having enough space. If I ever do that again I hope someone shoots me.”

The next stop on the agenda is Pakistan, a country many people find a nightmare to stay at for any length of time because they can’t get a drink of alcohol, and because things aren’t quite the same as what they are back home in the West. Why, Ian Botham quite famously, and insultingly, called it a place he would send his mother-in-law to. “I can’t wait to get to Pakistan,” says Imran. “I’d like to come back to India for a month, when I’m not working, just me and my camera, that would be great, but I am looking forward to Pakistan.”

The Indian board does not believe in media managers, and when they do appoint someone on an ad-hoc basis to do the job, he usually ends up doing more damage than good. Imran has come to India, and learned from the country. It’s a pity the richest cricket board in the world could not learn from him at the same time.

	No India, no crowd - Empty stands for non-India matches have proved that India's just crazy about Indian cricket © AFP

There's been a lot of myth-busting during the course of the Champions Trophy. Three stand out.

1. Asia is not cricket's power centre, it's just a power centre for driving
cricket.

For the first time since the 1975 World Cup, no Asian team made it to the semi-final of a major event. Curiously they played a part in each others demise. Sri Lanka walloped West Indies, topped the qualifier leg and entered Group B. That left West Indies in Group A and having got India's number in five out of their past seven meetings, they duly pushed them to the brink of elimination.

In Group B, Pakistan beat Sri Lanka and left them in a tight situation. They hurt themselves as well - as coach Bob Woolmer himself realised later - by getting complacent and sleeping through the rest of the tournament. Had they lost to Sri Lanka, Pakistan might have been far more determined and who knows, both teams might have gone through.

2. India is not cricket crazy, it's just crazy about Indian cricket.

Sanjay Manjrekar said it on air and everyone else has gradually realised
the same. A big tournament like the Champions Trophy allows spectators a
rare chance to see Shane Bond bowling to Ricky Ponting and other such
battles. But hardly anyone's interested unless Indian stars are out in the
middle. A few neutrals have turned up and enjoyed cheering all day - of
course, they'd probably wish the underdog to win but might as well let out
screams anyway - but the response has largely been muted.

3. This is not the great batting age, it's the age of great batting pitches.

Spice up the pitches and you realise how hyped modern-day batsmen actually
are. Now one can only imagine what would happen if someone rules that
batsmen can't make use of guards and helmets. And, in the ideal case
situation, one can reduce bat weight and re-introduce uncovered wickets.
It was bizarre hearing Andrew Flintoff's comment about the low-scoring
nature of this tournament. "People come to watch fours and sixes, hope one
gets to see bigger scores in the future matches." Sigh. Injure a man and
deprive him of bowling, and he switches sides so easily.