Test cricket: 'Worried, me?'

This column recently interviewed the most divisive figure of our times: Mr Test Cricket. Or as close friends call him, TC. To the discerning, he's the indisputable leader of the gang, the most tip-top Top Cat. To most, he's a mangy, decrepit tabby with three feet in the grave.

We meet in a sleazy hotel called, quaintly, Death Row, where TC has been endlessly redrafting his memoirs while continuing to protest, not just his innocence but his enduring relevance. When you've seen off attempts to ban the draw, and exterminated pad play with extreme prejudice, blind faith comes easy.

Refreshed after an unusually lengthy vacation, TC boasts about his timing: "First match back and I give you a 100th cap for a lad from Burnley who's poised to set a major wicket-taking record. Be honest - there's nothing like me." The lad Sinatra should have been so frank.

People say you're too full of yourself.
Not full enough, frankly.

So how does it feel to be 138?
TC: Pretty chillaxed considering I only received one bloody birthday card, signed by a "Sir Geoffrey". Go on, name another game that not only rewrites its record books regularly but still arouses seething hatred after a century and a half.

Sure, it was all rather fitful in my pale-faced youth, but look at things now. The Aussies always hated the Poms and Saffers; now they hate the Kiwis and the Indos, even the Lankans. Then there's all the other up-and-coming arch rivalries - Saffers v Zims, Windies v Banglas, Indos v Pakos. And once the Afghans get to grips with the whole hitting-the-ball aspect, those Poms will break their own record for career enemies. Without the edge only accidents of birth can instil, sport is meaningless.

What would you say to those who insist you're living on even more expensively borrowed time than Alastair Cook?
One, I've been living on borrowed time since Eric Hollies delivered the greatest googly in history. Two, bollocks. The future Sir Alastair possesses all the qualities to represent me, i.e. the three Ps - patience, persistence and pig-friendliness. Sorry, pig-headedness.

Did you see what the lad Sangakkara wrote about his pal Mahela in the new Wisden? "Strong and disciplined, with a correctly aligned moral compass." Correctly aligned moral compass? Can you imagine any sportsman outside my jurisdiction saying that? Even if you deplore the fascistic notion that a moral compass can ever be correct, can you imagine a game that didn't test the mind as much as I do inspiring such depth of thought and profundity of expression?

But surely, in the T20 era…
No comment.

I haven't finished the question…
I refuse to dignify any question featuring the numbers two and zero. Next.

Let's put it another way. Doesn't a sport whose survival relies on 21st-century concentration spans need to be a bit more than worthy? Shouldn't it thrill?
Thrills come in all guises and volumes, my dear young philistine. However few spectators were present, the final hours of last year's Pom-Lankan epics at Lord's and Leeds were as tinglingly thrilling as it gets. Ask the millions who watched or listened to the broadcasts or followed the online commentaries. Besides, I get vastly more coverage these days than I ever did when the Bowral bruiser was around.

What's the secret?
Simple: the longer the game, the more wickets matter. And nothing, absolutely nothing, in all of sportingkind, is quite so electrifying as the fall of a desperately sought wicket. Similarly, nothing is as life-affirming or mesmerising as a passage of play where that wicket, against all odds, refuses to fall.

So what should be on your gravestone DVD: the Inzi-Mushie match-winning last-wicket stand against Australia in 1994, or Joe Solomon's throw to run out Ian Meckiff in 1960?
Neither. Give me the last three sessions of that 1981 Headingley show. Mind you, it really bugs me when people whinge about my allowing just one post-follow-on victory per century. The rarer something is, the more precious it is.

So why not make yourself as scarce as you used to be?
I'm giving the players what they want. And what they want, what they really, really want is to beat each other's records. That's why the best still see me as the ultimate yardstick. And that's because TC markets itself on four primary assets: fabulous history, world-beating loathing, radical anti-modernity and ace stats. Nobody dreams of hitting the fastest century in those bowdlerised, bastardised abominations that so sneakily finance my entire existence. Cricket dreams are all about instant recall - 800, 15,921, 99.94, 51, 624, 974, 19-90, 10-53, 400 asterisk. Mine, all mine.

What about that cheeky new ECB chief who says you need to shed 20% of your Body Mass Index?
You mean cut back to four days? As you'd expect of a chap who made his pile running a supermarket chain, he's just boxing clever. By giving the old farts something to ridicule, he's easing the passage for marginally less ludicrous ruses, such as two, um…

T20 tournaments?
No comment - but strictly off the record, yes.

How do you think your great-great-step-grandchildren are going to be persuaded that you are worth their time and money?
Hang on. I was only married once, to the lad Packer, the original KP. And that only lasted two winters, thankfully, during which we always slept in four-posters in adjoining palaces. Couldn't stand him smoking in bed. And while I'm about it, there's another scurrilous rumour I'd like to scotch. The only error I've ever made was not in being too tame for your Pollards and your Taits and your Nanneses, but that I allowed myself to be blackmailed by the East Sydney branch of the Association of Surly Spadeowners - ASS(ES) by name, asses by nature. I still bitterly regret giving up being timeless.

Admit it: you hate change.
I resent that. I only loathe, despise and detest it. Besides, I like shaking things up in years ending in three. I killed off Bodyline in 1933; in 1953 I gave the Poms the Ashes back after a record sequence of futility; in 1963 I gave you the only Test where the final ball was bowled and all four results were possible; the ball of the century and the only one-run win to date both came in 1993; in 2003 India won in Australia after conceding 556. I'll even give you an exclusive: Sachin personally assured me he would retire in 2013. Need I go on?

Some say that's all you do.
How droll. Remember this, young philistine: the Murdochs simply adore me. How else can they guarantee three consecutive days of top-ish-class cricket, let alone four or five? Where else are they going to find six weeks' worth of features, previews, downloads, highlights and postscripts that can be spun off into DVDs and reruns? Want another exclusive? Rupert has been president of my fan club since 1999.

The only change I could even contemplate would be a proper championship - let's call it the WG-Braddy-Garry-Dolly-Immy-Tendy-Murali-Sir Dick Trophy so nobody takes umbrage. Sadly, for reasons that would stump the lad Hawking, those dolts in Dubai say they can't work out a format. Ungrateful bustards. I give them storylines, they only see bottom lines.

What about national teams making way for franchises?
This will amaze you, but I'm really not 100% against that. It would certainly help those brought up in the wrong place at the wrong time - Ireland, Kenya, Nepal, Australia, Leicester. How many more wickets would the lad MacGill have bagged had he been eligible for the Kiwis? Eliminate nationalism - after all, we've already done so with coaches - and we could have Hashim and Moeen batting together: Beards United. Or Dale and Jimmy sharing the new cherry: Stroppy Buggers United. Or ABD facing Dale with overs uncapped. How could that not be good?

Exactly.
Ah, but what would you call the teams? London Albion? Nicely Arthurian. Jo'burg Wanderers? Perfecto. How about Melbourne Identities? But seriously, city-based teams would alienate the majority. Imagine all those toxic tweets from Brummies, Bridgetownians, Durbanites and Dunedinians.

Why not more teams?
Because that would dilute the spread of talent, stupid. There aren't enough people out there who can survive consecutive intervals as it is, let alone deliver 30 half-decent overs across two innings. Mediocrities may have their moments in the cartoon formats, but TC only has time for those who fully comprehend the metaphorical resonance of the day.

So the solution is?
Restrict squads to ten homegrown players - thus prohibiting a wholly local XI - then lightly rebrand. In fact, I've compiled a list that kills three Dickie Birds with one Oliver Stone - enlivening team identities for future generations and attracting new sponsors while keeping all those marvellous records relevant:

Zimbabwe Lakers
Bangladesh Magic
India Indians
New Zealand Islanders
Pakistan Rovers
England and Wales United
South Africa Rhinos
West Indies Giants
Sri Lanka Dodgers
Australia Pharoahs

Interesting, but I don't get the last one…
"Advance Australia Fair"…Pharoahs…geddit? Ah well, suit yourself. Note how cleverly some names draw on leading brands in other sports - that's my big vision: inter-faith partnerships.

What next, Afghanistan Yankees?
On second thoughts, Zimbabwe need something more contemporary. How about Zimbabwe Bobs? Being associated with absolute, unapologetic ruthlessness certainly couldn't hurt the box office, plus the bobsleigh link would go down well with my burgeoning Scandinavian market. Sign KP to double up as captain and chief promotions officer, and Bob's your uncle. Geddit? My, I'm in the groove today.

Tell us something you've never told an interviewer.
KP also stands for Kaleidoscopic Pyrotechnics and King Prat.