Paul Collingwood, the little brown that could

Paul Collingwood. Can you believe this man? Can you believe that this ginger Northerner, so handicapped at birth, can go so far in the real world?

Of course, as an exponent of treading water myself, I admire his grim refusal to do anything beyond the bare minimum. He doesn’t so much as force his way into the side, but refuse to be flushed away. When the ECB pulls the chain, some items are dispatched merrily into the water network, on their long journey through the Thames, and then Bognor Regis beach, Ian Bell and Monty Panesar for instance, but Collingwood just seems too stouty and the wrong shape for the pipes to boot.

Where most people would be a bit concerned about this situation, we’ve got some Australians coming over soon and they sure can pack a lot down there, and might consider breaking apart the offending remainder with some sort of stick, or your big sister’s toothbrush, the ECB seemed stunned by the awesome sight of persistence that floats before them.

The ECB likes Collingwood. He’s ginger, and has a red face. What’s not to like?

But the problem is that he bats like a one-legged pirate with a Geoff Boycott fetish. Never once, not even during his Australia tour, have I watched him bat and thought, “he looks in good form” or even a “that shot wasn’t remotely unattractive, I don’t want to gauge out my eyes with the sure cringing awfulness of this innings, OMG!!!1!”

I’d rather witness the true time line of six thousand years of history unfold than endure that any more.

So, once again, out of the jaws of certain dropdom, he flukes a century in the most benign conditions imaginable, and looks certain to keep other, good, players out of the side.

Flan-effin-tastic.

There’s no pleasing some people.

Dammit. Why can’t we have some more middle order sloggers? Or any sloggers, for that matter. What's wrong with the world, all the grit is in the England cricket team, leaving bugger all for the ice-covered streets.