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Writing5th December 2010

Kevin Pietersen is born again. I don’t mean that in a happy clappy, excepting without question the bloke who lives with Cliff Richard is just his friend, way. I mean he’s a born again batsman. What team England refer to as KPv2.0.

The new Kevin is a more reflective, mature, and, let’s not beat around the bush about this, far less stupid, batsman than he used to be. Now when he nears a hundred a little voice appears in his head that says “hang on, playing a one-legged flamingo shot down deep mid-wicket’s throat may not be the most tactically astute move to make right now. You know what; you’ve enjoyed making these runs, how about trying to score a whole load more?”

You can see the mental jump he’s made.

KP is no longer the young impetuous bull who wants to run down the hill and fuck a cow. Now he’s the wise old bull who wants to walk down the hill and fuck all of them. Australia’s bowling attack being the herd of Friesian’s wearing a startled expression after spending the best part of two days being molested by a giant Aberdeen Angus cock. KP being the giant cock.

Mmm, that analogy ended up in a rather dark, unpleasant place didn’t it? And yet it still seems a fitting summation of Xavier Doherty’s Test career. Poor Xavier. Only Jesus and Bryce McGain know how he feels right now.

Rain. Bollocks.

This is terrible news. If there’s one thing worse than watching our batsmen scoring runs, it’s having to hear them talk about it. This is my worst nightmare. Two hours in the Adelaide Oval dressing rooms, face blanked over, nodding my head as KP talks me through his innings, trying desperately not to picture him running amok at milking time.

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