Not a good day at the office.

India 138/8 and Sreesanth’s got hold of Shrek the Musical: The Broadway Cast Recording. Last thing you need as a 36 year old journeyman seamer rips through the heart of your test batting line-up are show tunes sung by a man dressed as a donkey.

Looking on the bright side, losing so many wickets to deliveries well wide of the off-stump could persuade England to stick with Stuart Broad. Wonder if I could get away with claiming that was a deliberate tactic? Help build up the Fletcher mythology? Pretty sure Nasser and Vaughany would pick up suggestion and run with it.


Last time we’ll send Praveen and Munaf on the ice-cream van run. Since when is a Solero an adequate substitute for a Nobbly Bobbly? It’s one step up from a plain orange lolly for goodness sake. And who doesn’t know the difference between a Maestro and a Feast? Well, I do. Thirty pence, that’s the difference. And I’m not paying it.


Yet another press conference this evening. God I hate this part of the job. If I had a pound for every time I’ve attended one of these…well, I’d be the coach of Bangladesh, I suppose.

Instead I’m paid handsomely to sit next to MS and “absorb any negativity radiating from the cold, dead, illuminati hearts of the press corps”. That’s an actual quote from my contract small print.

Not sure if BCCI genuinely believe cricket writers are giant lizards; although to be fair, some of them do look like there’s been an air conditioning malfunction in the make-up trailer of a George A Romero film.