The fire hasn’t dimmed for Dennis Brutus © Cricinfo Ltd

I meet him in the middle of the road in Durban city centre. You first notice the grizzly flowing white beard, the long hair blowing in the wind, the sharp eyes and a lovely smile that light up his 85-year old face. Dennis Brutus is protesting. It’s the story of his life. An activist against the apartheid regime in the 1960s, he played a key role in getting South Africa suspended from Olympics. For his efforts he was arrested, shot in the back while trying to jump bail, arrested again and jailed in Robben Island. Along with a certain Nelson Mandela. He was also banned from teaching, writing and publishing in South Africa and, on his release, settled in the US as a political refugee. He was finally “officially unbanned” in 1990 and currently lives in Durban.

It’s safe to say the fire hasn’t dimmed. In 2007, Brutus was nominated for induction in the South African Sports Hall of Fame. The other recipient was Ali Bacher; Brutus says he was ambivalent about accepting the award but Bacher’s presence nailed it. After Bacher’s acceptance speech was Brutus’ turn. He walked to the stage and said: “It is incompatible to have those who championed racist sport alongside its genuine victims. It’s time - indeed long past time - for sports truth, apologies and reconciliation.” And then turned down the award. That’s the part, he says, the broadcasters didn’t show. “And I believe Bacher walked out in protest,” he says with a chuckle, a throaty infectious laugh.

We are in middle of a protest walkabout towards the almost century-old early morning market on Warwick Avenue, which is about to be shut down for a shopping mall in the beautification process before the 2010 World Cup. The protestors are a motley crowd of black and Indian street traders, fishermen, market representatives, street barbers, singing their way down the road in their yellow T-shirts bearing the message “World-class cities for all”.

The 2010 football World Cup, the cause of all this activity, is seen as the dark side of a big flashy World event every country desires on its CV. The chant is unambiguous: “Stop the traditional elitist approach to building cities in preparation of the World Cup. Include us”. The protestors, under the umbrella of streetnet.org.za, walk through the city (myself included), past the speeding cars, past the curious onlookers, past the hawkers who sing out their voice of support, past the homeless man who squints at us before breaking into a smile before the police stop us at the entrance to the market.

While representatives engage the police, Brutus’s friend Patrick Bond, director of UKZN Civil Society, offers a wry joke: “I don’t think they will teargas us here in the middle of this busy place.” Brutus laughs again as he shakes his head. Perhaps he’s recalling one of his own lines: “As usual the ministers will wine and dine, and protesters will suck teargas.”

The sky is slowly turning grey. The breeze had turned chilly and strong. There is rain in the air. Talks with the police are still on. Brutus continues telling me the story of his fight for racial equality on the sports field. “The first successful anti-apartheid movement in sport was in table-tennis. Our first victory was in 1956. When I came along in 1958 to SANROC (South Africa Non-racial Olympic Committee) I was working on what had been built by George Singh. Then, very significantly, Brazil were scheduled to play in a football event in Durban. They were told that the black players had to stay on the ship while the whites could come on shore. I sent a cable to Brazil’s president, Kubitschek [Juscelino Kubitschek de Oliveira]. ‘You cannot tolerate this racism against the black players.’ And he immediately responded by cancelling the match. That was exactly 50 years ago: March 1959.” Then Basil D’Oliviera happened. “In table-tennis, in football, and in cricket, the process gradually quickened.”

Meanwhile, in the here and now, the police relent and we turn into the bustling Morning Market, with hundreds of shops lined up next to each other. The shopkeepers join in with the protestors and the decibel level rises. Leaders of the different groups voice their concern. Henry Ramlal, the chairman of the market committee and a short fierce man, expresses his amazement in strong language. “This is ridiculous. You can beautify the entrance of the city; knock us out, take us down, but what you going to do with the heart of the city? The crime rate is already high and what will you achieve by demolishing our market. What will all these families do? Won’t crime go up?” He says the municipality has offered them a different location for four months. “What after that? What sort of plan is this? Isn’t our site a heritage site? Won’t the tourists come to this spot as a tourist attraction? More importantly, where are the poor people going to buy their stuff? You can’t clean the city of its people”

The other groups like formal black traders and the informal traders put forth their own concerns about disruption to their livelihood. The South African elections are on Wednesday. Much as in India, the chief concern here is the gap between rich and poor. The country, says Dennis, is at a crucial tremendous crossroads. “You’ve got to keep fighting. Keep fighting.”

Unsafe? “I was shot at in Ghana and guys with Kalashinikovs jumped out of a bush in Nigeria. Now, that’s unsafe.” Flashes of Keith Miller and his famous quote on pressure come to mind. It’s a hefty German, Gerald, who dismisses my question. We are sitting in a lovely open-air pub, with a dance floor in the centre, overlooking the lovely north beach. It’s late in the evening - party time in Durban.

You ask how I got there in spite of my safety worries? Blame it on the four-channel television in my apartment. The first thing any traveller does on checking in is checking out the toilet and switching on the TV. Mine was all ghostly image and spluttering audio. Through it all I could make out a movie was being shown – Blade: Trinity, replete with screams, vampires and more gore. Stuff the safety advice that I got from my landlady, I was out of there.

So to the pub, which is slowly filling up with beautiful women and gelled metrosexual men. Then there are the dishevelled tourists like Gerald, who is here working in the port, and myself. He’s been around for a few weeks so I thought fit to ask him about the mugging stories that every new arrival is fed. That’s when I got slam-dunked.

Another thing you notice here, as you would in any big city, is how the nightlife is a celebration of er… night life. Gerald entertains me with stories of his conquests, occasionally converting Rand into Euro to emphasise the difference and the economic benefits. In response, I offer my typically Indian middle-class inhibitions.

All this happens within five minutes of our conversation. Sadly, this is what most men do when they travel. This is the way of saying hello to a stranger, how’re you doing, what’s up with life. Gerald is a 40-year-old divorcee, I have less than a decade to reach his age, if not his marital status, and mid-life crisis looms large. Gerald breaks the spell. . “Two more beers, please,” he orders. He taunts me for slowing down, I challenge him to a contest in good old Indian rum. Laughter.

Booze. The beach. Attractive people. A loud, friendly German for company. Slash horror on the telly. What do you do? Order another beer, of course.

Even when Scotland took the final wicket to beat UAE, not only did we not know who had qualified for the 2011 World Cup, but we weren’t sure which six teams had ODI status. Such is the nature of cricket, and the really rather ridiculous reliance on Net Run-Rates (or NRR for acronym anoraks), but it provoked silly scenes on the outfield. Scotland were warming down and Pete Steindl, their coach, was half-chatting and half looking in my direction. We’d agreed on a post-match interview. But there was little point in chatting until I knew whether to grill him a) on Scotland losing their status as an international country, b) on his joy of Scotland reaching the World Cup in the most unlikely of circumstances or c) on his relief, and luck, at not making the World Cup but still retaining their status.

It’s high time one of Cricinfo’s unheralded members receives a worthy plug. Robin Abrahams (aka The Oracle) has worked for us since the dawn of time, when Yahoo! were king of the interwebs, John Major was in office and the term credit crunch hadn’t been invented. Without Robin, Cricinfo would probably not exist. In fact, he hasn’t slept since the mid 1990s – too busy ensuring our tables are up to date, scorers have internet access, and a myriad of other vital things besides. So I called the Abrahams Hotline who immediately had the details. And the details of the details. And the reasons behind the details. And something about a flag? Just in the nick of time, the cheery Steindl loped over as I hung up, and the first question? “Well, Pete, a good win today – and you’re into the top six I hear. You must be relieved.” Almost as relieved as I was. Thanks Robin.

With my dogged persistence, and his generosity – not to mention the miracle of hands-free mobiles – I interviewed Francois Pienaar a few days ago (here, at our sister site, Scrum.com). I couldn’t ignore the opportunity to talk about the IPL. Our chat was brief, but his passion for South Africa and all it stands for remains undiminished, 14 years after he stood on the podium to receive the rugby World Cup from Nelson Mandela. It’s one of those sporting images tattooed on your skull and difficult to forget. Tyson and Bruno is another of mine. Gascoigne in tears. Flintoff and Lee. Tyson eating ears…

But anyway. IPL. I wanted to find out from Pienaar his thoughts on South Africa’s infrastructure, given that all of a sudden it is the go-to country to host world-class sporting events. “The IPL has been a journey and a half,” he said. “To put this tournament in place in 20 days flat has been inspirational, to be honest.”

Colleagues and residents of Johannesburg have shown a little less enthusiasm, in particular at the road networks. Yes, they’re being modernised, widened, and coating a layer of western tarmac over the top of the concrete (which doesn’t split as easily in the heat, I’m told), but there is so much to be done. Recently, the Australia (cricket) team were politely mobbed (oxymoron spotters, pat yourselves on the back) at an airport, so lax was the security. I naively enquired about the train infrastructure to a taxi driver when I first arrived. “You’d be dead man, dead,” was the chilling response. There is a train for tourists with tourist-like prices, but suffice to say that it’ll be cars and planes which transport people over the next few weeks.

What will it be like in 2010 for the (football) World Cup, though?

Well, judging by the successful events they have hosted in the past – 1995 rugby World Cup, 2003 cricket World Cup and the inaugural World Twenty20 in 2007 – the answer is: it’ll be fine. It’ll probably be better than fine, to witness the steady progress of all the new stadia being built. As Telford Vice wrote a few days ago for Cricinfo, “neither airlines, hotels nor the cricket industry seemed flustered by the prospect of the gathering storm of glitz, glamour and glorious cricket.”

Pienaar, too, acknowledged the country’s sticky issues and congested roads but, like Telford, he just expects it to happen. And after three weeks here, I do too. “The country has a can-do mentality. We are a nation who holds up its hands and gets things done.”

Scottish cricket isn’t as feverishly followed as Scottish football – understandably so, perhaps, given Scotland’s listless performances in the World Cup Qualifiers – but of all the media groups, you’d think BBC Scotland might be interested in covering them. That’ll be a no, then. BBC Persia, however, are keen, whose cameraman has been following Afghanistan’s progress throughout the tournament. Having spent the morning in the sun under a black floppy hat, sweating profusely, BBC Persia’s lensman eagerly looked forward to a slap-up lunch. Unfortunately, he was pointed to the wrong place; by the time he found the press box, your loyal reporter and his colleagues had devoured most of the (exceptional) chicken, rice, salad, fish and ice cream much to his f-bombing chagrin.

	The desire and hunger just hasn’t been there for Bermuda © Gallo Images

It has been fascinating hearing from other teams, players and coaches about Bermuda’s stumble-and-fall from this competition and, without exception, not a single one of them has any sympathy. In fact, their responses have often been a mixture of envy and anger – anger that a team of handsomely-paid full professionals could consistently perform so poorly while they (be it Ireland, Namibia, UAE) all struggle on a pittance and yet outperform their higher-paid opponents. It’s unjust, but sport is often so. Scotland have begun professionalisation (they have three contracted players and promise to double that number should they qualify) while Ireland are also hamstrung financially and only possess semi-pros.

As an indicator to Bermuda’s apathy, one coach told me he saw many of their players either in the bar or, on the first night of their trip, in the local casino. Not the ideal preparation to qualify for the World Cup Qualifiers (WCQs), you might think, and you’d be spot on too. As Gus Logie told Cricinfo a few days ago, the desire and hunger just hasn’t been there. It’s all been a bit of a jolly for the past four years.

A couple of opposing players today sat mystified with Logie’s news that some Bermudans would rather play club cricket than toil with the honour of internationals. They shook their heads dismissively, one of them adding: “You look at their squad…you look at the team, and there’s just nothing much there really. No good players are coming through.” Their best player? Probably Dwayne Leverock. He may be famously large, but is considered their best bowler by opposing batsmen (and he’s a former hurdles champion, by the way).

It is a lesson, though, and not just for Associate cricket but for the ICC. Huge sums of investment (Bermuda received US$11m from its government) simply cannot buy success. Or, it seems, desire. The ICC, of course, are well aware that they can only do so much, as Richard Done told me last week. But the more time I spend with these players, the clearer it becomes that, Bermuda aside, the desire and hunger is absolutely rampant among them. The four who qualify for the 2011 World Cup will have a potentially winning combination of belief and money, and Bermuda’s four-year listlessness will look even more shameful.

Visiting the Sandton Sun Hotel in Johannesburg is rather like popping in for lunch at a rich relative’s house in the shires. Unless you actually live there, the opulence is almost overwhelmingly in your face. The lifts silently glide up and down a brass-cum-gold framework, like little golden jelly beans. There are no normal light fittings, instead a garish display of brass pipes demands your attention that the café is, in fact, right here, as if you could possibly miss it. There are dozens of staff, all of whom glide through the air looking very busy, yet the moment they spot your cup looking empty they’re onto it in a flash.

It’s a quiet, subdued place to stay and is currently swarming with international cricketers. The Associates were here first, but the Indian Premier League players have started their unerring swagger into the city and the hotel, and soon it will be theirs - if, that is, they can drag the Afghanistan team out of the pool. The battle will be long and hard I fear, and my money is on the Afghans.

It’s a nice place to work, too. A couple of interviews with an Irish and Namibian player happened randomly over coffee outside, a relaxed environment which helps both interviewee and interviewer.

All sorts have been spotted. Owais Shah and Ashish Nehra (remember him?) ambled in for a late brunch, neither of whom were keen on being interviewed – understandably so given your reporter’s Keith Chegwin-esque doorstepping method. Glenn McGrath, in flip-flops and t-shirt, did a spot of shopping in the equally brilliant shopping centre which adjoins the hotel. Dave Warner, Paul Collingwood and other Delhi Davedevils are floating around too, invisibly so far. Red-and-white Europeans, of which I proudly claim membership of its sunburnt fraternity, make up the rest.

Leaving the Sandton Sun Hotel in Johannesburg is rather like leaving after lunch at a rich relative’s house in the shires. Digestion aside, you can’t help feel a little jealous at their pad.

Lighthouse Family, Radiohead, Counting Crows – it’s like being back at school, here at the LC de Villiers Oval, where Namibia are taking on (or trying to) UAE. Radiohead is a particular favourite of the DJ-cum-PA, Anton, who is providing occasional witty (and, indeed, occasionally witty) updates from the other matches taking place, interspersed with some of the 90s classics. “Oman, the great entertainers,” he croons, “were going along nicely. But wickets are falling faster than the rand.” As third man let through a four in front of his coach, Colin Wells, Radiohead’s The Bends roared out from the speakers to entertain the three fans and two journalists. “My baby's got the bends, oh no//We don't have any real friends, no, no, no.” Wells, who is desperate to improve UAE’s fielding, shook his head and walked on in disgust.

Forget the IPL; ignore the piddly little World Cup Qualifiers. Oxfordshire Under-13s are on tour in South Africa, and this is where the action is at. Flippancy aside, there is much to be learned of the differences in attitude between the two countries when you look at the development. And I may even have a possible indicator as to South Africa’s recent resurgence.

The English coach spoke to me today (over bacon and eggs – more on that later) over the contrast in attitude. Oxfordshire’s sprightly (and noisy) group are just about holding their own. The coach is fairly confident that two or three will play for a county; his opposite numbers are also sure that some of their young bucks will represent South Africa. Plenty of ability, then, but the coaching beliefs and attitudes are where the similarities between the two countries end.

When I was 13 (and, for those interested, a rather brilliant legspinner), I didn’t much care what I ate. Twelve roast potatoes was my record at school, yet still I remained bean-pole thin and a relative wizard-with-a-wrong’un. I’m pleased to report that these Oxfordshire Under-13s also share Britons’ craving for an unhealthy breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs and worse. Their South African counterparts, however, are already at the mercy of dieticians, video-analysers, fitness coaches, physiotherapists and a whole army of personnel dedicated (and no doubt paid handsomely) to enhance their performances.

All fatty foods and carbs are off the agenda because, apparently, the brief sugar highs (remember those?) later cause lethargy in the field. The English coach was in awe of his South African counterpart, a towering behemoth of an Afrikaner who cuts the kids’ fizzy-drink intake and bans all sugar. My surprise quickly turned to outrage. Despite the encouraging results, are these food-fascists going to help these impressionable and ambitious young cricketers develop as people? And is cricket now so business-oriented, so intent on producing identical sportsmen off a conveyer belt of strict regimes and rigid policies, that even the naivety of youth is being curtailed? Er, that’ll be a yes then.

I am probably being naïve myself. Given the intensity of the sport nowadays, fitness is more important than ever. Oxfordshire’s attitude to the tour was as you’d expect; the coach, the players and the parents were all intent on winning and having a good time. But perhaps England’s school-cricket is stuck in the dark ages, peering out at the frighteningly fast-moving vista of professionalisation through double-thick rose-tinted spectacles. If nothing else, it is further evidence that cricket is simply no longer just a game, a form of entertainment or exercise once you begin to take it seriously. It is a business which expects its employees to be in peak condition at all times, regardless of age, and South Africans are taking it very seriously indeed.

I’m glad I grew up when I did, though…

My quest to discover the real age of Afghanistan's cricketers continues apace. An unnamed source close to the team for a number of years told me today that one of their players, who sadly must remain nameless for now, claims to be 25 but is in fact "more like 40. Come on. Look at him. He's been playing forever". Forty might sound unduly harsh, and that's because it is. When challenged, my source relented and we agreed on "anywhere between 35 and 38". The player himself simply has no idea; not even his own mum can tell him, though each year she gives a ballpark figure ranging from 21-29, though perhaps her vagueness smacks of her own disbelief at the unstoppable sands of time, and the years that can't help but condemn.

	Raees shows me how it's done © Will Luke

It isn't often you can chat casually with an international batsman waiting to make his nervous way out to the middle. In fact, for "often", read "never", unless you happen to be another batsman waiting.

After a brief chat with Colin Wells, the former England and Derbyshire allrounder now coaching UAE, Raees Ahmadzai was keen to show me his ridiculously-light bat. I didn't see the makers' name, but it was like a feather. And small, too, for someone of 6ft, but it felt perfect in my hands.

So while I shadowed some particularly elegant on-drives, the like of which probably haven't been seen since Mike Atherton last picked up a bat in anger, he stole my camera to take a few snaps. He is not the photographer or journalist he wishes but, clearly, there is untapped talent in my batting.

The UAE and Afghanistan sides are sat almost next to each-other here at Vanderbijlpark, and the cacophonous cries of "shabash" come from both teams and for all eventualities. Be it a wicket, a four, a dropped catch, a comical piece of fielding, a fifty or a hundred, the only plausible response is "shabash" ["come on"].

Shouting it as a neutral and western observer elicits an occasionally unpalatable response of respect and confusion. I am briefly part of the belief and hope. I can't compete with the consistency of noise though. My reserved Englishisms of nodding and applauding politely - seal-clapping is for the IPL or a Lara-esque 400-plus - come deferentially to the fore.

	John Morrison is now a city councillor in Wellington © Getty Images

John “Mystery” Morrison aka the Mouth. Or “Mystery and the Mouth”. A former Test player who is now a city councillor in Wellington. The best man to talk to when rain and spirits are coming down. Not for nothing did he get those nicknames.

First an explanation for the names. “When I first got picked for Wellington, Don Neely, who is now the president of New Zealand Cricket, reckoned that my bowling was hopeless,” Mystery says. “And he couldn’t work out why I was getting so many wickets in local tournaments. And I bowled slow left-armers, and he reckoned they did nothing. I said they do a lot more. Just that you can’t work it out, and neither can any other batsman.

“I once said, ‘Well if you are going to argue about who’s the best bowler and that I can’t bowl, everybody put 10 dollars in the kitty, and whoever gets the best figures in Saturday’s club cricket wins the poll.’ You wouldn’t believe it, I actually bowled four overs, four maidens, and took four wickets. Never happened before, never happened since. Two of them were caught at the boundary. And Don was in despair at this point. ‘How can you possibly get wickets? You don’t do anything,’ he said.”

“‘Well you know it’s the mystery of the whole thing,’ I said. They had a sports post that used to be printed here, and the headline was ‘Mystery bowler cleans up Karori’. One of those in-house nicknames that stuck.” And he managed just two wickets in 17 Tests.

If it is not clear by now why he is also called the Mouth, read on. “Maybe I am [the Mouth]. Maybe I talk too much. I did have a radio programme called ‘Mystery and the Mouth’. An English fellow called Miles Davis, and he certainly had a mouth, came up with it. I suggested ‘Mystery and the Mayor’ because I worked very closely with the mayor.

“But it’s fun, it’s rather strange, you can imagine how many times I have been the mystery speaker at dinners and what have you. People call me and ask me, ‘Will you be the mystery speaker?’ as if no one else has thought of it. So it’s strange. Look it’s more fun than being called John.”

But there was a time when the Mouth struggled for words. When the Mouth met his match. When he was doing commentary during the 1992 World Cup, off TV because TVNZ didn’t want to send commentators over to Australia. The Mouth’s match then was Henry Blofeld.

“Henry Blofeld was a guest commentator. And Henry is not afraid of a drink, he is particularly partial to red wine. And a day-night game in Australia - not only does it not start till 2pm, here because of time difference it starts at 4pm. So Henry had had a pretty big lunch, and a very big quota of red wine. And he came in to the room, and with all due respects to Henry he didn’t know which way he was pointing.

“The funny thing was, I think Pakistan were playing Sri Lanka, and Henry for half an hour didn’t mention any player at all. ‘Oh my dear old thing,’ he went. ‘How delightful … Isn’t this absolutely wonderful … Don’t they look wonderful in coloured shirts … Gee isn’t the game wonderful … These Sri Lankans are so exciting, and Pakistanis are so exciting … Mystery, my dear old fellow, pass the glass over, would you?’ He went on like that for half an hour. Never mentioned a ball bowled.

“And I am sitting there saying 'Henry, we are trying to commentate a World Cup match for heaven’s sakes'. ‘Oh my dear old thing, don’t worry about that,’ Henry went. ‘No it’s a lovely day, look everybody is happy. Don’t they look super out there on the field. I am sure they are going to bat well and bowl well.’ And never mentioned a player.”

There are many more funny stories that the Mouth tells, but they will remain a Mystery because of time constraints. “If you need anything, give me a yell,” says John before leaving after the rain has brought an early end to the Basin Reserve Test. A city councillor saying that is a good note to end the tour on.

	Don Neely and his 'monster' © Cricinfo Ltd.

One would be surprised if the book in the picture were not the biggest ever written on cricket, in terms of height and weight. The ‘monster’ weighs “21-and-half kilos” and needs a separate table for itself. When it was presented at Lord’s, John Arlott called it a “pocket battleship of a fleet”.

You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who knew more about New Zealand cricket than the man holding the book, or much more in volume about cricket in general. Don Neely wrote Men In White, a comprehensive history of New Zealand cricket, played first-class cricket for Wellington and Auckland, led Wellington to the Plunkett Shield in his first year as captain without the services of John Reid, Bob Blair and Bruce Morrison, became a national selector, and is now the NZC president.

It took Don five years to write this book, juggling his business tours with writing, which involved research from world over. He doesn’t know how many words he wrote – and literally wrote, for he didn’t use a typewriter.

But he does remember the book has 1600 photographs, each of which is a story in itself. There are about 50 words to each caption, adding up to some 80,000 words just in photo descriptions. Within two weeks 1200 copies of the limited edition had been sold.

Don is the most prominent historian in the country. But he will be given a tough fight, when it comes to history, by his wife Paddianne, who is herself an archivist and has worked hard with him on many of his 30 books. Between them, Don and Paddianne are an encyclopedia of cricket history, delightful anecdotes, and refreshingly a present-day perspective.

Ask them about Eric Tindill, the oldest surviving Test cricketer, and they will tell you how Tindill – at 98 years and 109 days - is a few months short – 215 days to be precice – of becoming the longest lived Test cricketer. Don also remembers that the last two or three oldest surviving cricketers have been from New Zealand. The last was Don Cleverly. “There must be something in our water,” he says. But it’s not just numbers that matter to the Neelies.

Paddianne remembers a call she got from a lady enquiring about the whereabouts of Sid Ward, who is now 102. They tracked him down and discovered he had played with Tindill. A special reunion was arranged.

These two men had played their cricket and rugby (Tindill played both cricket and rugby Tests, and also umpired in both) together in the 1930s, and met again after an average lifespan gone by. The correspondent on the phone, by the way, was Ward’s niece.

Paddianne and Don’s meeting also had something to do with cricket. Don used to play with Dave Crowe, who was Paddianne’s cousin. And Dave was Martin and Jeff’s father and Russell Crowe’s uncle. When the Neelies’ son was getting married, Crowe senior tried to scare the bride. “You need to have cricketing blood to get into this family. We have the Crowes, the Neelies. What do you have?”

Not realising that this was a joke, she went to her father and told him of the predicament. The father told her to ask Crowe if WG Grace would do. And this was no joke, because her great grandmother was a first cousin of WG’s and she didn’t even know of it. The marriage went on, and the Neelies’ granddaughter is named – well – Grace. Now that’s a cricketing family.

Is it a sign of professionalism gone mad or evidence of mollycoddling taken to a new level? It’s difficult to know how to respond to the news that Ireland’s cricketers are being subjected to breathalyser tests, an Irish journalist learned a few days ago. Even non-alcoholic fizzy drinks have been banned and the coach, Phil Simmons, along with Ireland’s manager, Roy Torrens, have also joined in the non-party. Alcohol is not the most forgiving fluid, admittedly, but even in a coaching era that treats and analyses players like precious Formula 1 cars, this is a surprisingly bold move. It does reflect, however, how importantly Ireland’s coaching staff are taking this tournament; how crucial it is that they’re players perform at their maximum capability. Though surely there is a level of trust involved; I can't imagine most of these players would sink a crate of Castle after each game for the hell of it. Or would they? Their chief executive, Warren Deutrom, was none the wiser about the new policy.

"I didn’t know about it until last week, and it made me smile," he told Cricinfo. "It reminded me a lot of what Adi Birrell calls the one-percenters – those little details that make the difference in preparation. It strikes me as a really clever idea.

"After all, no-one will want to be the one to break it, so everyone will look out for each other, ensure that no-one will let each other down, that they’re all preparing as assiduously as each other, thereby bringing the team closer together."

	The scoreboard after New Zealand's first Test win © Cricinfo Ltd

Even as New Zealand discontinues daylight-saving on Sunday, and moves all its clocks and watches behind by one hour, time will continue to stand still at the Basin Reserve. It is an old-world venue, situated bang in the centre of modern and hectic Wellington, almost oblivious to the mad traffic outside. There has been talk a few times of bringing it down to facilitate smoother flow of traffic towards the airport, the eastern suburbs and the south shore, but the Basin, protected by the Act of Parliament, has defied modernity.

If any more proof of this is needed, just step inside the New Zealand Cricket Museum in the Old Grandstand. From the triumphant to the funny, from the tragic to the quirky, from the brave to the under-hand, from the Addington bat (the third-oldest bat ever, used in 1743 and bought for 1600 pounds in 1987) to the aluminium bat (one of the few Dennis Lillee got made, he may or may not have used this dented piece of furniture), it’s all here.

And then there is David Mealing, the curator of the museum, whose beard rivals WG Grace’s. David tells every tale depicted in the museum so delightfully as if he has just come to know of it.

The Museum tour starts with the quote, “Cricket is a game for the low and for the great”, from The Jovial Cricketers, along with other various other definitions of cricket, for the uninitiated. They have the “substitute ball” that the Australian and New Zealand war prisoners in Italy used. The ball's core is made of corks from champagne bottles that their officers gave them, and the outer cover comes from twine (something between a thread and a string) from the Red Cross parcels they used to get. The shape is a perfect sphere. Talking of balls they have the one that Noel McGregor caught to take New Zealand to their first-ever Test victory, in 1956 against West Indies.

The rare DVD footage at the museum is the real gem. There’s Bert Sutcliffe talking about the legendary last-wicket partnership between him and Bob Blair at Ellis Park against South Africa in 1953-54. “Seven sixes later they [the crowd] were still going wild,” Sutcliffe says. “One of those lovely stupid things.” He talks of the “eerie hush” that surrounded the ground when the crowd saw Blair come out to bat. It is a story, as Dick Brittenden mentions in The Finest Years, that “every New Zealand boy should learn at his mother's knee”. But Sutcliffe, in a moist voice, says, “It was a day that never should have been.”

There is Peter Petherick talking about his hat-trick on debut, and it was three fine batsmen he picked: Javed Miandad, Wasim Raja and Intikhab Alam. Ian Smith, the interviewer here, talks like a wicketkeeper should. “It is rare footage [as on the big screen Intikhab Alam walks to a bat-pad appeal] to see a Pakistani walk.” Petherick remembers looking at the umpire in despair, and then at Intikhab in pleasant surprise. “It was really good of Intikhab to walk. I would have been surprised if I had got him lbw.”

Talking of umpires, they have Fred Goodall’s boots too, and also the footage of Colin Croft shoving him out of his way as he went close to the stumps to deliver. Goodall stood his ground there, but the stumps that Michael Holding kicked didn’t.

The teams of the 80s, New Zealand’s most successful, is given a different section. John Wright remembers his debut, when a charitable decision by the umpire let him off, and he played a part in New Zealand’s first Test win over England. “I went on to thrill the Basin crowd, with 55 in a day [at a strike-rate of 22.54].”

Another section tells the story of how Clarrie Grimmett was “brought home”, when the museum bought every memorabilia put on auction. Grimmett’s Bodyline blazer now hangs proudly there.

The most interesting and amusing wall of the museum is the one covering the New Zealand players’ experiences on tour, outside cricket. The base of a case has the tiger skin that the Maharajah of Vizianagram gifted to John Reid on the 1995-56 tour to India. There is a ticket to the Foolish Kings by the Crazy Gang in Victoria Palace from an England tour.

	Bert Sutcliffe finds a place in New Zealand's all-time XI © Cricinfo Ltd

The players talk of how the New Zealand administrators didn’t know anything about India’s culture or weather when they sent the team out, in woollen pants. Harry Cave, the captain, was a keen diarist, and his hand-written diary extracts are there. Some of the players remember wearing the towels as nappies and playing, one remembers putting in too much effort in the delivery and s***ing his pants, and running straight through to the pavilion. The longest follow-through ever.

Don Neely, former first-class cricketer, historian and now the NZC president, Frank Cameron and Gavin Larsen have selected an all-time New Zealand XI, whose pictures and stats take one section of the museum. In batting order, according the New Zealand Cricket Museum, the best-ever New Zealand XI is: Glenn Turner, Stewie Dempster, Bert Sutcliffe, Martin Crowe, John Reid, Martin Donnelly, Chris Cairns, Richard Hadlee, Ian Smith, Daniel Vettori and John Cowie.

There’s a theatre inside where “Great Moments of India Cricket” is playing, to cater to the Indian audience that the Test attracts. The theatre’s seating is like it would be in a dressing room of the old, wooden benches lined up opposite each other. The theatre is where the groundsman’s seed room at the old Basin Reserve would be. The rest of the museum was the change room, the lunch room, etc. until the ground was reformed in 1981. Don tells the interesting story of how the museum came about.

“[After the reform] So now we got an empty room over there. Local umpires used to meet there once a fortnight. It wasn’t until another benefactor of Wellington cricket, John Oakley, went over there one wet day, and saw the umpires had decided they’d get some ties from different parts of the world and stick them on the table, some old books. It rained. If it rains, people have got to get some shelter, so people went in there, and thought it was a museum. Hopefully looking for shelter, and maybe going into a museum. And at the same time John Oakley walked over, and thought this could be turned into a museum. He was a businessman, and he spoke to a handful of other businessmen, and we started working and finding bits and pieces and we have added to it.” That was in 1987.

For 16 years, the museum was run by volunteers, and in 2003 Don found David Mealing. David had worked previously in a museum, was a cricket nut, and his beard made him an automatic choice. “When I hired him, I said to him, ‘There’s one thing David. You cut off your beard and you are fired.’” The beard is still there, quite happy to take visitors around, telling every tale as delightfully as if he has just come to know of it.

	Picturesque Potchefstroom © Getty Images

Despite mass warning from locals and hysterical friends back home, I hired a car (a mere £35 for those interested) and ventured my untroubled way to Potchefstroom for Afghanistan’s match against Bermuda today. The venue is already a firm favourite: almost circular, with grassy banks all around the ground and some shaded seating for the hosting of larger matches. It’s a picture, as is the outfield, which is bowling-green flat. The Australians love it here apparently, and it’s easy to see why. Grassy banks just make a cricket ground.

The crowd, well – let’s not mention that. Those found to be clapping were either on the players’ balconies or, even more fervently, Tim Albone and his crew. Albone, 31-year-old film-maker, has been following the Afghanistan team for a couple of years in a documentary he is making called Out of the Ashes, tracking their rise from obscurity to (potentially) the World Cup in 2011. He’s joined by Lucy Martens, the camera person who is constantly glued to a lens of some sort, and Leslie Knott, the producer. All three were only moderately interested in cricket but, now, they’re fairly hooked as their whooping and cheering at each Afghani boundary began to demonstrate.

It is quite a challenge to follow Afghanistan, though all three of the crew are regular travellers to the country. Alongside them today was Dr Sarah Fane who founded the Afghan Connection, a charity that has provided medical assistance to remote Afghani communities. And now, Sarah is involved with the Afghanistan cricket team, building pitches and providing equipment as well as building schools (which now serve more than 26,000 people). The MCC’s Matthew Fleming is in support, and Sarah is clearly committed to helping promote the sport among a population who are used to bowling seam-up with balls made out of cloth and rubber.

Cricket draws all sorts of people and characters together. Afghanistan have a long way to go if they are to even reach the World Cup, but their rapid rise is already beginning to have an impact on their country, not just the sport.

Even Associate cricket needs security, apparently. But is it really necessary for a match that has attracted roughly five fans for there to be four green-jacketed officials to protect the pitch from an invisible invasion? It is searingly hot in the sun today, yet each of them are dutifully stood at each corner of the pitch, eyeing the phantom crowds warily, just in case there's a sudden monsoon of fans flooding onto the pitch.

At least it's not raining.

There may not be any advertising or signs promoting the forthcoming Indian Premier League but, like an impending lunch with inlaws, it looms large in the back of your conscience. Here in Benoni, where Ireland are taking on Scotland in the World Cup Qualifiers, the crowd can generously be described as a smattering. Less complimentary an adjective might be paltry, for there are only 40 people on a glorious sunny day. In contrast my spies tell me there are already hordes of media, BCCI officials and IPL administrators loitering around one of Johannesburg’s more opulent hotels.

Those permitted accreditation for the IPL would comfortably outnumber the loyal Ireland and Scotland fans here at Willowmore Park. It was ever thus for Associate cricket; crowd-numbers are never enormous and it struggles to gain global coverage, though the local media from the representing countries are always in attendance and do their best to promote the game back home. Still, it remains a disappointment that a tournament as prestigious as this – and it is, for the development of cricket – is about to be dwarfed in publicity by an event whose Man-of-the-Match cheques alone could transform some of these countries’ facilities and ambition.

My half Welsh blood came rushing to the surface this morning. On my way to Willowmore Park in Benoni to cover Ireland and Scotland's first match of the tournament, we happened to drive down Tom Jones Street. Could it really be? Was Tom here? If not now, then at one point? My Serbian taxi driver, demonstrating a surprisingly broad tonal range, broke out into a ropey but guttural version of Sex Bomb, showing little or no respect for Jones's greatest hit, It's Not Unusual. A Serbian-born South African, who is borderline tone-deaf, singing a song from the Pontypridd preener? It was undoubtedly unusual.