The Surfer

The essence of the complaint is that Allens, while serving the foundation, disregarded \Bradman's repeated instructions that his heirs and successors enjoy right of veto over the foundation's commercial uses of the Bradman name.

This would be X-rated stuff. Recently, observing Collingwood at the crease has been akin to watching a horror movie, a B movie at that. Look on from behind the sofa if you dare. He pulled Makhaya Ntini for four. Somehow he had mustered 20. We dared to open our eyes. The leading edge pierced the cover field. Then he began playing as if his awful form had been a fleeting nightmare.

He was a thickset man with a ponderous gait, leaving you in little doubt that he would be slow on his feet. Engage him in a conversation, no matter what the topic, and you knew he was a thinker. Myriad thoughts would cross his mind in a flash and the man himself was not averse to putting them in words with a kind of lucidity seen rarely in sportsmen.

The "new Bradman", the almost-mythical Dungog Doug, can be found most days in the front bar of the Great Northern. Bent over a beer, one eye on the horses and another on the cricket, he is rendered almost anonymous in the monochromatic half-light.

England have tried many variations in an attempt to unsettle the visitors this summer – including selecting bowlers who no one has heard of — but yesterday their beleaguered captain was reduced to the two most familiar ploys of recent times. Plan A: throw the ball to Flintoff. Plan B: give him half an hour off, then throw him the ball again.

Every time Mendis fools a batsman - which is often - he does so with the ghosts of Bosanquet, Iverson, Gleeson and Ramadhin looking on proudly. Are there common themes that bind these strange creatures together? Mystery is an obvious prerequisite.

His bowling action should be reproduced in coaching manuals which should then be ceremonially burned at cricket academies throughout the planet. In his delivery stride he impersonates an exploding man. Legs, arms, head and shoulders fly in different directions. It is, one might say, a mixed action. This is a pantomime villain of a fast bowler. Remember Ole Mortensen, the Danish tax inspector?

At a ground where the packed stands have roared England on to some famous victories, it tells you that Wednesday starts are unpopular with punters' traditional viewing routines, that five Twenty20 matches in quick succession at this venue may have dulled people's appetites for cricket, and that, as the credit crunch bites, ticket prices of £55 are exorbitant.