Passion, pressure and the switch hit

I have a complaint. I know that Sunday evening's game was jolly important and England really really wanted to win and everything. But was it necessary for the curliest left-armer in world cricket to give vent to such a guttural roar, looking for all the world like a Viking who'd come back to his longboat and found a parking ticket on the prow? I was so surprised that I dropped my digestive biscuit into my mug of tea. All across north-west London, startled pigeons scattered into the air, and heaven only knows what effect it had on the elderly MCC members.

We are told that such roaring is evidence of "passion" and that displays of passion by a sportsperson are the very thing, the cat's whiskers. But I can't agree. Call me prudish, but I feel that the sight of Ryan Sidebottom's sweaty face all twisted up with passion is something only Mrs Sidebottom should have to be confronted with. If he wants to show us all how passionate he is, how about composing a love sonnet or two during the half-time interval; or maybe performing a romantic ballad, accompanied by Graeme Swann on mandolin and Daisy Anderson on tambourine.

Still, after all the roaring, the booing and the nail-biting, India are gone. All those glorious stroke-makers, all those impeccably dressed supporters: gone. Was it the pressure? We heard a lot about pressure from the commentators. There were pressure deliveries, pressure situations, pressure shots. There was so much pressure, you'd have thought the game was taking place at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. But were these superstars really under pressure? Or were they just frightened of losing? Twenty20 is a casino. It welcomes gamblers, but today India played like accountants.

That said, England's batting garden is still deficient in rose bushes. In particular, their fondness for the switch hit is starting to become an unhealthy obsession. Kevin Pietersen owns the patent on the turn-around slap shot, but when he tried it on with Harbhajan Singh, the spin meister spotted him and Big Kapes was forced to unswitch, rather sheepishly. A little later, Paul Collingwood, perhaps wondering whether his left-handed alter-ego might turn out to be a dashing strokeplayer, hopped round optimistically. Sadly he failed to unleash his inner Gower and got himself leg-before-wicket. Finally, the third Billy Goat Gruff, James Foster, had a go. Agile as a panther, he leapt nimbly into position, skilfully flourished his blade and guided the ball straight into his face. Some work required, methinks.