Oram Orbits like Occidental Orb

Let me set the scene. New Zealand were 120-4. Brenda McCullum was seriously maimed by Stuart Broad. The ball was swinging like Peter Stringfellow. And the English press was refining their pre-written “walk-over” pieces.

In came Jacob Oram, owner of the biggest teeth in international cricket, to steady the boat. Although his early innings was dogged by narrow chances and dodgy footwork, he fended off the under-achieving England bowlers and saw his side home with one of the best centuries recorded on the Lord's Honours Boards.

His Worzel Gummidge hairdo, which is the source of all his strength, flapped gaily in the Spring-time cool as he wofted another powerful boundary.

The cleanness of his striking and the freeness of his scoring was emphasised by his apparently useless partner: Daniel Flynn.

Flynn looks like a young Ian Bell, who has just been told that Katie Jenkins in form 9B fancies him. He hit 29 from 118 balls. I suppose we should say that he preserved his wicket. But I have decided that I don’t like him. I’m not sure why. He just offends me.

Rather like the girl in the office with the “hilarious” sneeze.

Both teams, I think it is fair to say, performed admirably in rather difficult conditions. Despite what the rabid English press say, England did not run away with it. The sides are even, and the series is setting up to be a real coochie snorcher.

Jacob Oram and his deadly straight one

Being a self-obsessed pom, I spend a lot of my time whinging about my deficient team and ignoring the efforts of the natives.

Tonight, I hope to correct this.

In this latest test match, Jacob Oram bowled 29 overs, 11 of which were maidens, conceding 46 runs and taking three wickets. The economy rate was just over a run and a half an over.

As far as my sleep-deprived, semi-unconscious brain is concerned, Oram was far and away the best bowler for New Zealand.

He has a bowling average of 31.74, which is either equal to or better than all of England’s bowlers. He is also better at fielding and batting than the lot of them.

Now this is odd. I’ve seen him. He looks like young Norman Mailer after a heavy session of pumping iron and downing Ouzo. He is a lumbering brute of a bowler, who delivers balls at a modest pace that should be biffed as the stiffness of his action deserves.

And yet, he quietly sidles up, pitches on a length and tantalisingly close to off stump time and again. And even though he seems ripe for some seasonal tonking, his relentless accuracy avoids this.

We must assume, the commentators tell us, that his metronomic precision of bowling in the right area shows you the value of persisting on line and length.

I don’t buy this, partly because I’m so exhausted by staying up so late to listen to those goons throw away their wickets, and partly because I demand more of expensive international batmen.

No. I say that his bowling is so boring that, in this world of wayward Harmison wides and huge Murali spinners, that the honest straight ball is just an unexpected novelty in modern cricket. Batsmen are so busy working out the complicated trajectory of the next delivery that they overlook the devious undeviating ball.

And that’s your answer. Bowl boring balls; bowl batmen.