Don Bradman is a touch testy up in Sporting Heaven.

“What in the name of WG Grace is the cricketing world coming to!” he says loudly, throwing a copy of the Celestial Times down in disgust.

His faithful attendant, Alan McGilvray, rushes in and mops up the Bushells tea the Don spilt during his huff.

“Sir Donald, I really think it would do you good to get out a little more and stretch the wings. Why don’t you hit a golf ball with a cricket stump like in the good old days, instead of reading all the rubbish that goes on down there since you played your last innings … unfortunate as it was.”

“I thought we weren’t got to talk about that any more! Look, I want you to call a meeting of the Sporting Immortals immediately … something must be done about those pesky Indians. They’re acting like they own the game.”

“Last time I looked, Sir Donald, they did … and it’s only going to get worse with the Twenty20 rebel series selling out over there.”

“Twenty20! They used to say my eyes had 20-20 vision but never did I ever see that abomination coming.”

Later, the Don looks across the near-empty cloud and scowls.

“Is this all that could come to discuss a world in crisis! No offence Les, but we need a quorum.”

Boxing great Les Darcy shrugs his shoulder: “It’s no skin off my nose, Donny. Phar Lap sends his apologies – he’s in a scratch race against Tulloch and Seabiscuit – and Walter Lindrum said he was planning to come but sort of snookered himself. Sorry, I gotta skip too. A bloke’s gotta stay in shape for his next big fight.”

“But Les, look down there at what’s going on in the sporting world – that’s the biggest stoush you’ll ever see. Why, the Indians are just another six bad umpiring decisions and one racial abuse charge away from launching their nukes at our great sunburnt land. We’ve got to go into bat for our country!”

“Sorry Donny, some fights you just can’t win.”

A sad Sir Donald takes his bat and ball and goes home, handing his kit to Alan.

“Cheer up Sir Donald, why not tune into the Third Test from Perth?”

“What, and see more displays of grown men patting other men’s bottoms! It’s just not cricket. And did you hear what Anil Kumble said? Only one team was playing in the spirit of the game? The cheeky chap has stooped so low as to start chucking Bodyline one-liners at us!”

“I think it’s all settling down now, Sir Donald. It was all a misunderstanding, it seems that Mr Harbhajan Singh did not call Mr Symonds a monkey – just a Punjabi word that means Mr Symonds does improper things with his own mother.”

“Why, that’s outrageous!”

“No, that’s a sledge and he’ll probably get away with it, because the Australians started it … unfortunately under that frightful Ian Chappell fellow. No more ‘Pip, pip, well played’ when a respected opponent got out’ now it’s a mouthful of gutter talk.”

“How did it all go so wrong, Alan? Having Larwood try to take one’s head off with thunderbolts to a packed legside field was one thing, but one wonders how one would have handled being called a self-abuser like they did to Sir Richard Hadlee.”

“I’m afraid it’s the nasty nature of modern sport, Sir Donald. Sporting heroes these days usually end up serving two years suspension for positive returns or even six months jail. And all the role models are either on page one in their undies with some shady ladies or in rehabilitation.”

“Indeed, Alan, standards are slipping – all you have to do is figure frequently in a women’s magazine before you die and people are rushing to give you a televised state funeral. Never mind, what’s for dinner … and please spare me any more hot curry … it’s bad for my digestion!”