Nugget: Stop the summer, I want to get off.

Everything is too hard. I am not winning any games. The pitches are too fast and the people we are playing against are being ever so mean to us, hitting the ball over the fence and then bowling their nasty balls into our unprotected stumps.

Mmmm, do I sound like a whiny little girl, complaining like a toddler who didn’t get a packet of Smarties at the Woolies register? Or do I sound uncannily like an Indian cricketer ... for about the fifth time this season?

Crow Boy: Dead set, Nugget, I’ve had a gutful. Who died and made the Indians gods of all things cricket?

I thought VB had already done that for us and installed Boony and Warnie into those roles?

But the International Cricket Council is to blame. They’ve allowed this bunch of sooks to do what they like, and now they’re holding everyone else to ransom.

N: Remember when you were young, and there was always that fat kid who had the stumps and ball, and if he got out too early it’s off home for another half-dozen cream buns? That fat kid is India.

They have the entire cricketing world treading on egg shells and frankly something needs to be done, before this Indian summer becomes more unpleasant than a long car ride with a handsy Wayne Carey.

CB: And you’d wanna make sure Wayne was only given Tupperware cups.

This ridiculous attitude adopted by the Indian team’s hierarchy has trickled down to their youngest member. Ishant Sharma not only thinks he’s too good for a hairdresser, but he also has the ability to send off players after they have belted you for a half century off as many balls.

N: The Sharma outburst after dismissing Andrew Symonds in the Tri-series game on Sunday was the most upsetting thing I have seen on a cricket field since Greg Ritchie took to the SCG for a Test match against Pakistan after fashioning his creams into what can be best described as buttless chaps.

In Ishant Sharma I saw two things: 1. The little warrior kid from The Neverending Story who loses his horse in the bog of despair. (I still cry whenever I see that poor nag struggling for his life.) 2. I saw the future of Indian cricket, away from the spoiled millionaires we see today, harking back to a time of Indian gentleman like Kapil Dev, Sunil Gavaskar and Apu from The Simpsons. That dream has been shattered.

CB: Even the Indian supporters have lost their ticker. Only last month we saw one patriotic fan burning an effigy of Ricky Ponting.

Not only did it look more like a scarecrow than Punter, but he had to drop it when the flames came to close to his “office hands”. Here’s some advice to that bloke and your team choc-full of handbags – if you can’t handle the heat, go play soccer.

N: Hey mate, come on let’s not say things we can’t take back. No one should have to play soccer. But you are right nonetheless. These blokes are continuing the poor record of blokes in sky blue, the Swedes, New South Wales and don’t start me on the Smurfs.

CB: At least the Smurfs had a reason to be angry. There was only one chick in the village and do you reckon Poppa was going to share the spoils? No wonder they were all blue!

Not only do the Indians whinge, but they also cheat. The captain comes out with keeping gloves more inappropriate than the ones worn by Michael Jackson who gives new meaning to treating things with kid gloves.

N: Oh, were they gloves. I was sure that MS Dhoni was sporting a pair of MC Hammer style parachute pants on each of his mitts. The only reason he caught Gilly on Sunday is because the ball wedged somewhere in the mezzanine floor of this massive bastards.

CB: Here’s a tip. Next time this bargain pack of ladies underwear want to have a cry and threaten to leave, send the bus to their hotel and take them to the international airport.

They can then take a leaf out of George Michael’s book and play themselves to avoid any nasty future clashes.