Whilst I love Test cricket, no one could describe me as a die-hard purist.

Twenty20 cricket has, for me, been a ray of sunshine into the sport since its conception in 2003. It is my favourite part of the season, kicking in between the Friends Provident and the Pro40 and lifting everyone’s spirits as the County Championship hits its slump in interest between the impassioned start and the intense climax (or as impassioned and intense as the County Championship gets, anyway).

Twenty20 is fun, watchable, exciting and most importantly it doesn’t take itself too seriously, and is always unpredictable. The domestic Twenty20 competition is my cricket must-see of the year, the one day in the world cricketing calendar I always make sure I have a ticket.

'How can a cobbled-together band of individuals, however talented, simulate the energy of a national or county side?'


So why does it hardly seem worth the effort of switching on the radio, turning on the television or opening a magazine for the IPL?

My first stumbling block as far as the IPL is concerned is the ‘teams’. An English county has a long history and a feeling of belonging, unyielding passion and strong loyalty on the part of its players who may have grown up watching their county battle for glory since before they could pick up a cricket bat.

They are teams, every player rooting for their team-mates every step of the way.

To my mind it is no wonder that the IPL has ‘franchises’ rather than teams. How can a cobbled-together band of individuals, however talented, simulate the energy of a  national or county side? There is certainly no love lost between Shane Warne and Graeme Smith and for the IPL they have found themselves team-mates (or should that be ‘franchise mates’?)

The thought of those two slapping each other on the back or embracing after a wicket with any sincerity is somewhat less believable than if the IPL bosses were to suddenly announce they were giving half their profits to the ICL cricketers in a compensation package.

The Australia vs Rest of the World charity series of 2005 proved that there was no substitute for being a real team and having the inspiration of representing your country or county as a driving force behind you. The Rest of the World team were almost effortlessly felled by the cohesive unit that was the Australian side. They had the individual players for a different result but the Rest of the Word squad failed to be more than 11 individuals and as such the series was a resounding disappointment.

With every franchise a band of individuals, it seems a real danger that the IPL will be the start of cricket without true team spirit or loyalty.

If domestic cricket were a rock band, built up gradually, developing chemistry between its members over a long time whilst building, growing, improving and tweaking its sound in the pursuit of success, then the IPL would be a manufactured boy band. The freshest faces and the best voices, plucked from hundreds of hopeful auditionees, and with enough glitter and shine to provide plenty of interest but essentially lacking the substance and longevity and, most importantly, the soul of its non-manufactured counterpart.

Similarly, on the surface, it would seem logical that the more extraordinary players a tournament has, the better it will be. Unfortunately, when a tournament is made up of extraordinary players, the extraordinary becomes ordinary – no one shines, no one stands out. The best batsman in the world will nearly always entertain, likewise the best bowler but if you pit them against each other they will cancel each other out, leaving behind a boring stalemate.

Perhaps the best way to understand how I feel about the IPL is to compare it to chocolate fudge cake. The icing may seem like it makes the cake, but if you make a bowl of icing you will soon discover that the sponge was the really important part.

For me, the IPL is a big bowl of icing, and I wager it will get sickly quickly.