When touring the sub-continent, some things prove to be timeless. The overwhelming sights. The deafening sounds. The startling smells. The teeming masses in oddly outdated clothes. The cries of poverty in pigeon English. Yes, nothing defines the Indian cricket experience quite like sharing a hotel bar with the press pack. Certainly the sight of Jonathan Agnew’s armpit sweat relentlessly spreading across his chest like revolution raging through the Arab world will be familiar to tourists of years gone by.
Cricket journalists are a frightening sight when gathered together as a group. I believe the collective noun is a ‘stupor’. They form a great mass of passive-aggressive humanity. Thank goodness the print media in particular is on the tipping point of being replaced by a younger generation of web-based journalists far too interested in video games and pornography to venture out of their rooms and block my path to the Grand Marnier and bar snacks.
It’s a sign we’re evolving as a species. That and the return of hot pants.
Speaking of over exposed arses, it’s nice to see a tournament being run over here with no involvement from Lalit Modi. When you watch one dictator after another being deposed on the nightly news it makes you realise how ahead of the curve cricket was with that guy.
Thought for the day: Shocked to see Andre Botha playing against Bangladesh. Can’t the ICC do something to stop Ireland drafting in players from England’s talent pool?