height of his powers, anachronistically electing to model his work on that of Jack Vettriano. That Pietersen’s first foray into the Indian Premier League led to the injury that ruled him out of almost the entire Ashes series of 2009 seemed an indecently cute potted commentary on the warped priorities of both him and of cricket itself. He has become a disappointment like few in memory, and an embarrassment to the country he loves so deeply that he left South Africa for its glorification. That, at least, is what he would have us believe. Those who doubt that he’d be on the first plane to Harare with a passport application in his pocket if Robert Mugabe offered him £1 million to become Zimbabwean are directed to an interview he gave GQ magazine not so long ago. ‘Do you get weird fan mail?’ asked the interviewer. ‘Yeah, pictures of girls with their tits out.’ ‘That’s outrageous.’ ‘I know,’ agreed Pietersen with a snigger. ‘But look, it’s your nation, not mine.’ Precisely. Whether Pietersen would have shown more application and commitment had he stayed in South Africa and defied that quota to become a fixture in its Test side we will never know. Perhaps the lure of easy money would have been resistible had he played for a country to which he felt emotionally bonded. More likely, perhaps, contemplating the Olympian self-regard (his interview persona reminds me of Hollywood stars with contractual clauses dictating that no crew member may look them in the eye), he would have succumbed to the temptation of the Indian Premier League all the same. The solitary benefit to emerge from Pietersen’s involvement in that cattle auction has been the most exquisitely perfect nickname in sport. One Indian headline-writer, tiring of him relentlessly throwing away his wicket with insanely stupid strokes in 223
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