A Christmas wishlist

Dear Santa,

Apologies for not being in touch lately - okay, for the past 49 years. In the interests of truth and reconciliation, I should come clean: the last time I sent you my demands I mistakenly assumed we played for the same team. Hard to credit, right, but I honestly believed you were a Jew - or at least Jew-ish.

Yes, yes, I knew you were a mite too blond, but I thought mythical creatures were contractually obliged to be both different and instantly recognisable, so liberal use of peroxide was understandable. I'm fairly sure I wasn't the only eight-year-old Jew living in North London in 1965 who kidded themselves, somewhat conveniently, that you were Father C*****mas' agnostic dad.

Still, let's not let a silly thing like belief get in the way of what I'm pretty confident we have in common. Given how you inspired WG Grace to renounce shaving, not to mention your legendary connection with the owner of my all-time favourite bowling action, Hedley Howarth - who was born on your big day of the year, after all - I don't think it would be wholly preposterous to suggest you have a soft spot for cricket.

When I last bothered you, a Mr GA Boycott had recently won the Gillette Cup with an exuberant display of unfettered strokeplay. In addition, the planet's foremost fast bowler, Mr WW Hall, had his sights set on becoming a religious minister, while the finest batsman, Mr G St A Sobers, had been born with an unusually large number of fingers. I'm reasonably certain, therefore, that you can appreciate my outrageous optimism in resuming relations.

Why am I writing now? Desperate times, desperate measures and all that. Mind you, if you have to ask, with all due respect, you really need to stay in more - and perhaps even pay your Sky Sports subscription. Quite frankly, the past 357/364ths of a year has been the most lurid of nightmares, albeit leavened by teasing glimpses of wondrousness from the likes of Mr MM Ali, Mr M-u-H K Niazi, Mr MY Khan, Mr MG Johnson, Mr DA Warner and Mr BB McCullum.

Even if you haven't heard how the game has grown progressively and outlandishly unequal, or of the astounding contrast between the Test farewells of Mr JH Kallis and Mr KP Pietersen, or even the Gidman boys quitting Gloucestershire (shame on you), I refuse to believe that the death of a batsman has eluded your attention.

If nothing else, you owe every child under your jurisdiction a sign that 2015 will be a conspicuous improvement. In other words, only miracles will do. Still, given the myriad other pressing matters on your plate (word has it that the Association of Elves and Reindeer is threatening to do what is referred to in these parts as "a West Indies"), you may be relieved to know that those of a minor vein will suffice.

So here I am, cap in hand (dark blue, assuredly not baggy green), begging you to give the following wish list some consideration. Bearing in mind your somewhat advanced age (and if I might belatedly indulge in some schmoozing, you don't look a day over 175), please note that all relevant names are expressed as they would have been when the game was in its infancy.

None of these pleas should be beyond someone of your prodigious talents. Last week alone, the US made peace with Cuba and the Church of England appointed a woman bishop, so you're clearly in decent nick. Besides, name me someone else who has retained a global following for a couple of millennia despite persistently dressing in the same outfit? (A tip: if you're ever tempted to go into the replica shirt trade, the only way to generate big profits is to make barely discernible changes on a regular basis.)

A legal, world-beating Test spinner
You don't have to be a paranoid ex-offie like me to wonder whether the word has gone out: terminate spinners with pitiless and shameless prejudice. At the current rate of culling, the entire species will be extinct come the 60th anniversary of Mr JC Laker's 19 for 90. To fearlessly misquote Mr J Lennon and Mr P McCartney, you know that can't be good.

Fortunately, albeit not coincidentally, not a single one of those banned twirlers has been a specialist wristspinner, so it shouldn't be that big a stretch for you to push things along. Better yet, while there's hardly a queue of plausible wannabe Shanes or Anils, one of the less unlikely contenders happens to be an Englishman, of all things.

Granted, Mr AU Rashid sounds a good deal less English than Freeman, Greenhough, Hobbs, Salisbury or Schofield, but the world has moved on a wee bit since you began stacking shelves in the Tower of Babel branch of Tesco. How can it not appeal to your romantic, goodwill-to-all-men nature to make my country Adil-addled?

Muted mute buttons
If ignorance is bliss, do the knowledgeable go to hell? The more we hear what pleasantries players utter to each other in the middle, the more those of us in possession of a fully functioning guilt complex feel ashamed to splash out on cable TV fees. On the other hand, semi-ignorance is far more dangerous than complete ignorance. We already have a pretty good idea of what it takes to reach the top of the sledgers' Premier League nowadays.

Expose the yellow-bellied verbal warriors, I say. Strip 'em bare, name and shame, and let 'em dangle. And that means turning up the volume on every stump and/or pitch microphone, past 11 if necessary.

Persuade the BCCI to adopt the DRS
Now this one, I readily admit, is a proper toughie. Even if I unravelled those fearsome-looking acronyms for you, only a trillionth of our problems would be over. Put it this way: without wanting to complicate matters or offend anyone any more than is absolutely necessary, let's just say the rich kids are throwing their weight around for no other reason than the sheer fun of watching the English media writhe in blathering impotence.

So here's the script: World Cup final, India need two runs off the final ball to beat Australia, and on strike is Mr V Kohli, 99 not out. A thick edge into his pads ricochets for four, but at that very instant the umpire feels a sudden urge to scratch his nose, whereupon the crowd surge on to celebrate lbw and victory. Peasy.

Make a World Test Championship happen
My dearest, most fervent wish, and hence the only one you have no choice but to grant. Better yet, I've been working on something.

Loath as I am to confess it, the inspiration came from rugby league, a game for ruffians about which a chap of your unquestionable class and taste doubtless has only a suitably dim awareness. A couple of decades back, World Cup ranking points would be at stake for the last match in a bilateral series. Why not copy that?

If the last Test of every series is designated as a World Championship qualifier, and the result of the series also carries points (more, obviously), we would kill two birds with one stone: 1) pave the way for a quadrennial World Championship final between the leading sides and 2) kill off what at least one semi-respectable sociologist has reportedly defined as mind-numbing, anti-competitive, corruption-enticing, dead-rubber syndrome (but never DRS for short).

Yours pleadingly (and almost sincerely),
A born-again semi-believer