All good in Great Britain

May 15
Minutes after I arrive on British soil following a long flight, people are looking at me like I am a miscreant.

I had put £20 into a vending machine that sold pre-loaded SIM card packs, only for the machine to swallow the money without properly releasing my purchase. I looked around for help initially, then tried calling the helpline number on the side of the machine, all to no avail.

Tipped into a fury, I soon found myself shaking the machine violently, occasionally aiming kicks at the base, looking increasingly dishevelled while cursing loudly at Focus Vending Machines Ltd (bloody thieves!), Heathrow (get some manned telecom booths like a real f*****g airport!), and the Queen (what kind of fairy-tale country still has a monarch?), until I realised my pathetic matchstick arms were no match for this hulking steel box. A few minutes later, after the veins on my forehead had become less active, I noticed the small, disapproving crowd that had gathered to regard me through narrowed eyes.

Partly out of wanting to prove I'm not a degenerate, I feed another £20 note into the machine, collect the two SIM-card packs it spits out, and shuffle off to the Tube station.

May 16
Just after midnight that same evening: a more touching British welcome.

As I lug my bags towards my hotel, a young man lopes unsteadily towards me, head preceding the rest of his body like he is being invisibly dragged along by his hair.

"'Scuse me mate," he says. "Would you know way to hammersation?"

"What?" I reply.

"You know hamner's patient?"

"Do you mean Hammersmith Station?"

"Yeah, hammer Asians."

I point him about 50 metres down the road, where I have just come from.

"I love you mate," he says by way of thanks.

"It's all right."

"Nah, nah, nah." He places both hands on my shoulders. "I really love you."

Then he's off down the road again, stumbling diagonally, head hanging over his body.

May 18
Leeds is a lovely old town, with the domed Corn Exchange building, grand old arcades, a quiet wharf area on the river, and the world's most optimistic advertising executives. It is barely 15 degrees, with a chill wind blowing through the city, but on bus ads and billboards, it is a tropical island. "Bikinis from 5.99" reads one ad. "Summer is here," suggests another, selling sunscreen. Meanwhile, people walk wordlessly from building to building in the freezing rain.

May 21
England barely need three days to wrap up the first Test, and I find myself alone in the lift with Michael Holding on our way out of the stadium.

"A couple of golf days for you before the next Test?" I ventured. "Great weather for it, no?"

"No," is his reply, in a deadpan bass. "Not for me. I don't play golf."

"You must be the only commentator who doesn't," I respond, trying to salvage the nervous chat.

"No. Gower doesn't play golf. Atherton doesn't play golf…"

He goes on to list pretty much every former cricketer who doesn't play golf, and still, this ridiculous lift has not arrived at the ground floor.

"Hope the weather turns anyway," I offer inanely, trying to fill the silence like an idiot.

He looks straight ahead and utters no further word until the doors eventually open, months later.

May 25
Newcastle is beset by winds blowing off the North Sea and steady driving rains, but its grand, grey buildings and imposing statues exude a defiance of the elements. The train in and out of the city takes one of the many beautiful bridges across the River Tyne - the oldest of these was built in AD 120, by the Romans.

May 29
In the approach to the Test, the Sri Lanka batsmen had netted in hoodies worn under their helmets. It is a little warmer once the match begins, but some players are still clearly struggling. On one day, Rangana Herath wears two jumpers and a woollen vest over his whites.

Newcastle's Bank Holiday Sunday revellers are made of sterner stuff. Even at 8pm, while mild sunlight lights the city, the pavements are crammed with barely clad bodies. It grows colder through the night, but people seem only to be shedding clothes. By 1am, the amount of fabric Herath was wearing could have clothed an entire Newcastle club.

May 31
The second Test having ended in four days, I make my way to Durham - maybe the prettiest English town I have been in, with long cobbled streets, curious alleyways leading nowhere, inviting town squares, and a glorious 11th-century cathedral overlooking the wooded banks of the River Wear.

I arrive too late in the afternoon to catch a guided tour of the cathedral, but soon run into the final tour group of the day, in the nave, beneath the famous vaulted roof. I catch nuggets of interesting information as I hang about on the periphery of the group. The memorial on one side, I learn, for example, was built for the miners of Durham. The bishop's seat was built to be the highest in all Christendom.

But soon, the paying members of this group catch wind of this interloper. Whispers begin to spread towards the tour leader - a woman in a red smock. I swiftly look in the other direction and pretend to be studying the opposite wall with intense concentration. This convinces no one. Soon enough I hear the tour leader holler: "Can I help you?" in my direction, and I all but bound towards the exit.

June 1
Intending to do a couple of interviews on the way back to London, I hire a car from Newcastle, and drive through Yorkshire Dales National Park. Even on a cloudy day, views across the rolling hills are captivating in a soul-soothing, pastoral kind of way. A low stone wall keeps vehicles company through the northern dales. Countless sheep and stone farmhouses whizz by the window.

In the hamlets are buildings that can't have changed in many decades - like the workshops with firewood piled in one corner and tractor parts in another. The bridges are even more ancient.

The people are very patient, especially when a Sri Lankan tourist loses his way several times on the narrow roads, and has to orchestrate 17-point turns while queues of traffic collect around him.

June 3
Locals complain that property prices in London have become unmanageable. I am confronted by an aspect of this reality when I check into my hotel. It is the most expensive room I have booked on this tour, but also by far the smallest. There is barely space for the bed. The room faces a road, which at night becomes the world's pre-eminent police-siren superhighway. The breakfast also only runs till 9am, which, to be honest, is pretty barbaric.

June 4
London, for a city of its population, is a rampage of order. Pedestrians largely pay heed to traffic signals. Commuters stand patiently at train stations until the platform information is displayed on the screens. Buses are almost always on time, and almost all Londoners are grand masters at queuing.

During the week there is even a news story that Marks & Spencer has turned off music in its stores, thanks in part to the efforts of "anti-noise campaigners". I assume these people celebrated the victory by pouring water over fireworks and pushing toddlers into rivers.

June 6
Colleague Alan Gardner and I have arranged to play squash, and I demoralise him before we even get on the court by turning up 20 minutes late to our 40-minute booking. Riding on this early momentum I secure the first two sets, before he surges back to claim the third. I sew up the encounter 3-1 in the end. Initially I am quite pleased with the result, but it soon dawns on me that Sri Lanka's first victory of the tour has been delivered by someone who frequently trips over his own shoelaces, stumbles down stairs and lumbers into walls, so the win loses its sheen.

June 9
At Lord's the media lunches consist of dishes like duck confit and lamb shank. For afternoon tea, there are egg and cress sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and jam, three different cakes, and coffee brewed by an in-house barista.

Outside, the cheapest lunch is £6.50. There is a mobile upmarket wine store, a van selling Veuve Clicquot champagne, and a large picnic area on the nursery ground. Light blue shirts seem to be in vogue among London's moneyed classes, with at least half of all Lord's patrons seemingly wearing the colour. Pink shirts are popular as well.

June 11
The Tube in London also has to be one of the triumphs of this civilisation. Almost every location in the city is within 20 minutes' walk from a station. Everyone stands to the right on escalators to allow those in a hurry to pass on the left. Many of the stations have disabled access. Some have buskers performing unobtrusively in corners. Every half hour or so, the station announcer gives the system a pat on the back, announcing "a good service on all lines".

The only real inefficiency stems from the British notion of personal space. Even in rush hour, people attempt to keep three inches of fresh air between themselves and their neighbours, which, of course, means that the carriages are not as full as they could be.

Perhaps there could be an exchange programme. England could send over a few decent swing bowlers to Sri Lanka, to give batsmen exposure to the moving ball. In return, Colombo bus conductors could be flown to London, where they would bully commuters into piling together in sweaty-but-efficient human stacks.