So all's well with Test cricket then

Contrary to expectations, Test Cricket is reported to be severely depressed after last week's celebrations, and according to the proverbial Old Man and his Dog invariably found attending the majority of Tests for which no one bothers to show, the traditional form of the game has even taken to drink.

"It all just finally got to the old bastard," said the Old Man. "He put up a brave face this last week, but it was a false front. Like my teeth."

"Everyone knows I'm not the belle of the ball anymore, but you know what? Pretending that I am for a while only makes it worse," Test Cricket is reported to have snapped, before stifling a sob and running down to the corner shop to take home a 24-pack of Stella.

The five-day version of the game was later found locked in the room it shares with someone called Frank, at Shady Meadows, a retirement home for the destitute and abandoned, watching all-night reruns of Friends and talking on the phone to its mother, a box of tissues by its side.

Asked why it was so upset after what appeared to be a successful and popular week at Lord's, Test Cricket embarked on a drunken rant, waving its arms unsteadily in the air as it spoke.

"Oh, please. Who's the ICC kidding? It's bad enough having to suffer through another birthday at my age, but if they think that by blowing out a few - okay, fine, a couple of thousand - birthday candles I'm going to conveniently forget my problems, they've got another thing coming.

"The truth is, no one comes to see me anymore, unless I have something special to offer them. Like the Ashes. Or yes, England-India, these days. Then sure, they'll come for me with whistles and bells, and I get to be wheeled out again for a bit of sun. But otherwise it's like I don't even exist. Soon enough I'll be back here in this dingy room, sitting in my underwear, forgotten as ever. I used to be a star, but now I'm just a washed up has-been.

"Don't get me wrong, I love the English, but I'd like to see how you feel not being invited to a party in the West Indies. Or a good old 'roo hunt in Australia. Or whatever it is they do in Bangladesh."

When told of the measures the ICC has been talking about adopting to popularise Test cricket again, the gentleman's game snorted in derision. "Yes, they're talking about tarting me up so I can play at night as well. Is that what I'm reduced to these days, a two-bit hussy, a night worker?" it moaned, pausing to burp loudly and at length while reaching under the sofa-bed to rummage among the numerous empty beer cans there. "I swear I had one left with something in it," it muttered. "Did you take it?

"Oh, how I sometimes wish that all of you would just let me die in peace. Maybe those Hyde Park loonies who've taken to following me around with signs that say 'The End is Nigh' have a point. I can't argue with them anymore. Maybe I should join them at Speakers' Corner, where I can warn the world about the Mayan calendar, which specifically mentions how Test cricket will die a fiery, horrible death in 2012. But who's listening?"

When asked if it had family or children who could look after it, Test Cricket laughed maniacally, before just as suddenly dissolving in bitter tears. "Don't talk to me about them. I do have children, one halfway legitimate, the 50-over ODI, and one I'm not ashamed to say is a downright bastard - the Twenty20. That's the one who put me in this godforsaken place. You think those ungrateful brats are going to come to my aid if anything were to happen to me? Kids just don't care about their parents anymore. All I have is Frank."

"And I have you," said Frank lasciviously, hobbling over to the sofa and kissing Test Cricket behind the ear, leaving a trail of drool behind.

"Ugh, god" shuddered Test Cricket, moving away. "You won't believe the kinds of things I've had to do here. But what can I do? If I don't put out they don't give me my evening bowl of jelly.

"I don't know about you," Test Cricket went on, "but I believe in a day of reckoning, when all unwatched, unloved sports will go to heaven and Lalit Modi burns in hellfire. Until such time, I'll drink myself to a happy stupor, thanks," concluded the not-so-beautiful-anymore game, before vomiting on itself and slouching forward on the couch. Soon it could be heard snoring softly over the beer belly that protruded sadly out from under the equally sad, undersized retirement-humour t-shirt, a birthday gift from the children, which read "I'm Still Hot. It Just Comes in Flashes Now."