Test cricket: 'Worried, me?'
An interview with cricket's long-suffering format
Not full enough, frankly.
TC: Pretty chillaxed considering I only received one bloody birthday card, signed by a "Sir Geoffrey". Go on, name another game that not only rewrites its record books regularly but still arouses seething hatred after a century and a half.
One, I've been living on borrowed time since Eric Hollies delivered the greatest googly in history. Two, bollocks. The future Sir Alastair possesses all the qualities to represent me, i.e. the three Ps - patience, persistence and pig-friendliness. Sorry, pig-headedness.
No comment.
I refuse to dignify any question featuring the numbers two and zero. Next.
Thrills come in all guises and volumes, my dear young philistine. However few spectators were present, the final hours of last year's Pom-Lankan epics at Lord's and Leeds were as tinglingly thrilling as it gets. Ask the millions who watched or listened to the broadcasts or followed the online commentaries. Besides, I get vastly more coverage these days than I ever did when the Bowral bruiser was around.
Simple: the longer the game, the more wickets matter. And nothing, absolutely nothing, in all of sportingkind, is quite so electrifying as the fall of a desperately sought wicket. Similarly, nothing is as life-affirming or mesmerising as a passage of play where that wicket, against all odds, refuses to fall.
Neither. Give me the last three sessions of that 1981 Headingley show. Mind you, it really bugs me when people whinge about my allowing just one post-follow-on victory per century. The rarer something is, the more precious it is.
I'm giving the players what they want. And what they want, what they really, really want is to beat each other's records. That's why the best still see me as the ultimate yardstick. And that's because TC markets itself on four primary assets: fabulous history, world-beating loathing, radical anti-modernity and ace stats. Nobody dreams of hitting the fastest century in those bowdlerised, bastardised abominations that so sneakily finance my entire existence. Cricket dreams are all about instant recall - 800, 15,921, 99.94, 51, 624, 974, 19-90, 10-53, 400 asterisk. Mine, all mine.
You mean cut back to four days? As you'd expect of a chap who made his pile running a supermarket chain, he's just boxing clever. By giving the old farts something to ridicule, he's easing the passage for marginally less ludicrous ruses, such as two, um…
No comment - but strictly off the record, yes.
Hang on. I was only married once, to the lad Packer, the original KP. And that only lasted two winters, thankfully, during which we always slept in four-posters in adjoining palaces. Couldn't stand him smoking in bed. And while I'm about it, there's another scurrilous rumour I'd like to scotch. The only error I've ever made was not in being too tame for your Pollards and your Taits and your Nanneses, but that I allowed myself to be blackmailed by the East Sydney branch of the Association of Surly Spadeowners - ASS(ES) by name, asses by nature. I still bitterly regret giving up being timeless.
I resent that. I only loathe, despise and detest it. Besides, I like shaking things up in years ending in three. I killed off Bodyline in 1933; in 1953 I gave the Poms the Ashes back after a record sequence of futility; in 1963 I gave you the only Test where the final ball was bowled and all four results were possible; the ball of the century and the only one-run win to date both came in 1993; in 2003 India won in Australia after conceding 556. I'll even give you an exclusive: Sachin personally assured me he would retire in 2013. Need I go on?
How droll. Remember this, young philistine: the Murdochs simply adore me. How else can they guarantee three consecutive days of top-ish-class cricket, let alone four or five? Where else are they going to find six weeks' worth of features, previews, downloads, highlights and postscripts that can be spun off into DVDs and reruns? Want another exclusive? Rupert has been president of my fan club since 1999.
This will amaze you, but I'm really not 100% against that. It would certainly help those brought up in the wrong place at the wrong time - Ireland, Kenya, Nepal, Australia, Leicester. How many more wickets would the lad MacGill have bagged had he been eligible for the Kiwis? Eliminate nationalism - after all, we've already done so with coaches - and we could have Hashim and Moeen batting together: Beards United. Or Dale and Jimmy sharing the new cherry: Stroppy Buggers United. Or ABD facing Dale with overs uncapped. How could that not be good?
Ah, but what would you call the teams? London Albion? Nicely Arthurian. Jo'burg Wanderers? Perfecto. How about Melbourne Identities? But seriously, city-based teams would alienate the majority. Imagine all those toxic tweets from Brummies, Bridgetownians, Durbanites and Dunedinians.
Because that would dilute the spread of talent, stupid. There aren't enough people out there who can survive consecutive intervals as it is, let alone deliver 30 half-decent overs across two innings. Mediocrities may have their moments in the cartoon formats, but TC only has time for those who fully comprehend the metaphorical resonance of the day.
Restrict squads to ten homegrown players - thus prohibiting a wholly local XI - then lightly rebrand. In fact, I've compiled a list that kills three Dickie Birds with one Oliver Stone - enlivening team identities for future generations and attracting new sponsors while keeping all those marvellous records relevant:
Bangladesh Magic
India Indians
New Zealand Islanders
Pakistan Rovers
England and Wales United
South Africa Rhinos
West Indies Giants
Sri Lanka Dodgers
Australia Pharoahs
"Advance Australia Fair"…Pharoahs…geddit? Ah well, suit yourself. Note how cleverly some names draw on leading brands in other sports - that's my big vision: inter-faith partnerships.
On second thoughts, Zimbabwe need something more contemporary. How about Zimbabwe Bobs? Being associated with absolute, unapologetic ruthlessness certainly couldn't hurt the box office, plus the bobsleigh link would go down well with my burgeoning Scandinavian market. Sign KP to double up as captain and chief promotions officer, and Bob's your uncle. Geddit? My, I'm in the groove today.
KP also stands for Kaleidoscopic Pyrotechnics and King Prat.
Rob Steen is a sportswriter and senior lecturer in sports journalism at the University of Brighton. His book Floodlights and Touchlines: A History of Spectator Sport is out now