Warm-ups? Who needs them?

Cricket is entertainment, show business, or it is nothing. Whilst the Ashes is on the scale of a Wagnerian epic (albeit with more Australians and fewer Valkyries) a tournament such as the World Twenty20 is like a glitzy West End show, with the anticipation of opening night all part of the attraction. First the match schedule is unveiled. Then the squads are announced. Cricinfo preview articles begin to appear. People start checking their television listings. The big day approaches and suppressed squeals of excitement gather in the throats of cricket fans everywhere.

But what's this? Televised warm-up games? In the very grounds where the tournament itself will be played? What was the ICC thinking? Would Shakespeare have allowed King Lear to lounge around on stage having a last-minute fag as the audience filed into the Globe? These sneak previews and dry runs have broken the magic spell that a new tournament casts, and not least because they have been conducted in front of half-empty theatres echoing with indifference.

When the curtain goes up on opening night (or opening mid-afternoon in this case) we should be looking upon the stage for the first time. We should be anticipating what Sri Lanka versus South Africa at Lord's or Australia versus New Zealand at the Oval might look like. Instead, we've already seen them, like children who opened their Christmas presents a week early. Has the tournament started yet? Well, no, but kind of yes. It's all very unsatisfactory.

On principle, I decided that I wasn't going to watch any of the warm-ups, lest they sully my appreciation of the event itself. Of course, there is no point having principles if you aren't going to stray from them, so on Tuesday I tuned into England versus Scotland. Half an hour was as much as I could take. If the intention was to tantalise us with a glimpse of the real stuff, I can safely say that my appetite remained entirely unwhetted by this half-hearted motion-going-through exercise in two shades of blue.

Still, my own, untelevised warm-up is going rather well. After a week of hitting my straps and putting in the hard yards, I am now able to dash to the kitchen, produce an adequately infused cup of tea (one sugar) and return to my sofa in the time it takes a second-rate actor to tell me about a car I can't afford. I did damage a fingernail attempting to prise open a bottle of milk, but I've had it looked at by a specialist (Mrs Hughes) and I'm confident my remote-control-operating digit will be fit for the opening ceremony.