It feels like a very muted summer on the international cricket front. A clearly transitional and tired Sri Lanka did as they were told and succumbed to a distracted England during a mildewy June. Bell's caressed a few and increasingly looks like England's banker - Barrington with flair? - and Mahela J dazzled with his all-surfaces timeless class. Sangkarra confirmed what a sublime touch player he is towards the end whilst Mister Anderson showed the flickerings of his winter fire. Cook and Swann look in good nick but the silver flecks in KP's hair might point to too many cricketing miles on the clock. Albion needs him for what I fear could be one last hurrah before a 20/20 hay/pay day.
Beyond that, what can we recount of the summer so far? Probably not much, and the merry-go-round of domestic cricket, all fresh-youngsters, past-it Saffies and transferable England skippers (Strauss? Somerset? One too many ciders I fear) all point to a fairly interminable middle five hundred pages in Wisden 2012. I might find the pages on public schools cricket more digestible. Harrow 2011, now they were a side!
Mercifully, Middlesex (and the Cider Men's) finest looks in better nick this evening, a sprightly ton taken off a Zaheerless India on a West Country featherbed. He's up for it, I'm sure, especially after Vaughan's barbs in the press. But what of the rest? And us?
In part the season reminds me a little of 2005. Bangladesh did bugger-all that year, Thorpy bid adieu and the outsider KP was given his head, with some trepidation. For Thorpe read Colly; for KP, Morgan? As then, England are the coming team, India the ageing masters. Day in, day out, you'd bet on South Africa trumping our young bucks, but with a bit of luck and the wind up Tremlett's tail, it doesn't take much to see a lissome, agile, dynamic England trumping India and their mighty middle order. Maybe not number one but next best, and we'd almost forgive them if they slid a little in the winter.
How do England get up for this? Of course, in the post-Hussein/Fletcher era they are professionals all and need no other incitement than ten grand in their pocket a behelmeted Bengali to get their dander up. But playing, and commentating, for 11 months a year takes its toll and perhaps we are destined for a damp squib series in an unseasonably damp July? What if an end of play kowtow with Mark "Dreamy" Nicholas doesn't float your cricketing boat? How does one "get up for it"?
Bumble, bless 'im, did his best to stir an Irani-blighted England of the mid-90s with stirring tunes. Jerusalem this, Churchill that, probably a bit of Gracie Fields for all I know. All very left-field at the time, dangerous almost, but strangely current in the week in which Clive Woodward has encouraged our future Olympians to mind their Ps and Qs, floss regularly and tie a neat Windsor at all times. You need a bit of rabble rousing and I fear that this cerebral - quiet, without Broad - England team miss a cheer leader. In short, we need a bit of ginger. Steve Kirby is too much, Bell's strawberry curls don't count. Colly. We. Need. Colly.
I'm a big fan of an obscure Radio 3 show called Late Junction. It's fronted by an assortment of silkly-voiced temptresses who insist on playing obscure Malian thumb piano ensembles or interminate Tuvaluan throat singers. If you've heard one grio player, you've heard them all, that's what I say. Once in while though they play a track that transcends the moment. It came to me - and Durham's finest, I like to think - last night. Listen here - http://youtu.be/DUu0flJ2O-o - and fail not to be stirred. It's from a tribute to the mining heritage of the North East, all brass band and atmospheric effects. Picture this there's Colly and his smoke-blackened two up, two down, nursing his 7th born through dropsy, polishing his fugelhorn in the outside lavvy, tear in his sooty eye, wor lad fancing one last crack at the Nawab of Pataudi. Maggie Thatcher, Sir Ian McGregor, Mahatma Bloody Gandhi - and his flipflops - Shilpa Shetty! Bring the buggers on!