"Howzatt?" Guilty as charged.

Today a former England cricketer was sentenced to 13 years in chokey for smuggling cocaine. Chris Lewis was an excellent player when he tried, sadly he didn't try often enough and his career was littered with lost opportunities. From the little I have read about it, his venture into drug smuggling was equally half-baked. He and a friend imported liquid cocaine in containers labelled as fruit juice. Most comical of all was the pair's decision to blame each other - the classic "cut-throat" defence.

Smuggling drugs is fraught with difficulties. Actually, I'm not in a position to say how difficult the smuggling itself is but I can say something about the difficulties faced if caught. You see, there's no such thing as a good defence. The tin of pineapple chunks in your luggage turns out to be full of cocaine, what can you say that might possibly make sense?

"My mum likes pineapple chunks so I bought them as a present." OK, so how did it happen that the tin of innocent fruit turned into thousands of pounds worth of Colombia's finest? How did it get onto the shelves of the QuickyMart in the first place? And how very lucky that it was intercepted by HM Revenue & Customs before dear old Ma wolfed it down a drop of Carnation milk.

Or you could try this one: "I never knew it was there, it must have been planted in my luggage by an unknown stranger." Bit tricky that, how do you explain that you didn't notice it? Say it wasn't in your luggage but you came over by car and it was found under the spare tyre in the boot. Then you have to explain how the intended recipient was going to recover it from you. If you have no connection to the importation chain this might prove a little impractical.

And then there is the defence run by Mr Lewis and his chum: "My friend gave it to me to bring over for him because he feared his luggage would be overweight." In this case each said it of the other. Now you know the real reason we are asked that seemingly daft question at airports: "has anyone given you anything to carry?" It isn't so that we will say "yes", it's so we will say "no"; then when we are caught and say we were just carrying the pineapple chunks for a heavily laden friend we find we shot ourselves in the foot at the start of the journey. Of course when travelling with a friend you might find that one of you is over the baggage weight allowance and the other is under so spreading the load makes sense, but only a moron takes a container of anything, sensible people relieve their friend of clothes or stolen hotel towels.

A necessary part of the defence is that you didn't know the stuff was cocaine. This aspect of it tends to stand or fall alongside the inanity of your excuse for carrying the package in the first place. Once a jury dismisses your story about how the stuff came into your possession it follows almost as night follows day that they won't believe anything else you tell them.

Following that theme, I now arrive at the "cut-throat" defence - where the two defendants blame each other. Amateur criminals rather like the cut-throat defence. They talk about it while awaiting trial and conclude that by blaming each other they will both get off because the jury won't be able to decide which is guilty. Or they fall out before the trial and blame each other out of spite. Either way it is an almost guaranteed route to conviction because it appears cowardly and unrealistic. Professional criminals rarely use the cut-throat. Where the evidence is very strong against one and a bit weaker against the other they prefer to sacrifice the one who is going to be potted anyway (in the general run of things his guilty plea earns a reduced sentence). He then gives evidence against the other and enhances his friend's chance of acquittal by making mistakes in his evidence thereby creating a hole in the prosecution case that was not previously present.

Mr Lewis and his friend played it all wrong and will have seven or so years to think of a better defence if ever they are tempted again. They didn't keep their eye on the ball.

The political truth of the Bearded Wonder

A true legend died today, Bill Frindall, the cricket scorer and statistician who turned the recording of sporting feats on paper into an art form. Perhaps there is something inherent in the game of cricket that makes its followers get excited about statistics. The same is seen across the pond in relation to cricket's distant relative, baseball, so it might well be something in the game itself rather than just a nerdy streak in those who watch and/or play. You see it at every test match and frequently when county cricket is played, people of all ages sit in the stands with their own scorebook marking dots and symbols in little boxes in the time-honoured fashion. Frindall developed his own method of scoring so that he had a record not just of whether runs were scored or a wicket taken but of who scored them and how, and many further details besides. His skill and knowledge enhanced the summer for more than forty years because they enhanced radio coverage of cricket in his capacity as resident scorer on Test Match Special. He was only 69 and contracted Legionnaire's disease.

Hearing of his death made me think about cricket scoring. It is a necessary aspect of the game and I learned to score as a small boy because you were only allowed to play if you also had a session on the scorebook. For me it was usually a bit of a chore but others really loved it. Indeed some enjoyed scoring but not playing - every school team wanted one of those on board so that the players could sneak behind the pavilion for a cigarette while awaiting their turn to bat. I discovered later in life, on joining an adult cricket club, that some enjoy scoring so much that then fulfill that role week in and week out. At my own club there is an old boy who has been doing it for donkey's years. He has his own table on which sits a vast array of coloured pens and pencils and in the winter he compiles detailed statistics about the previous season's games. Such work helps to make a good club and allows us all a permanent record of those rare days when we played really well (ok, really well according to our pitiful standard).

The position of scorer gives the lie to one of the sacred cows of the contemporary left. I have waffled on before about their apparent belief that inequality is a bad thing (except when they are on the up-side of the deal). This is just one aspect of the wider evil of uniformity. It is hard to tell whether they seek uniformity because they think it will reduce inequality or whether they seek uniformity for its own sake. Some will argue that it is all part of a desire to control, imposing a requirement of uniformity is itself to seek control over people and the more uniform everyone is in behaviour and tastes the easier it is to maintain control over them. There might well be something in that but I am not sure those who impose uniformity would ever think of it in those terms. What I can be sure of is that imposing uniformity ignores human nature by stifling the individual spirit in a way that will eventually backfire on those who want us all to think and act in the same way.

We do not all hold the same opinions and we do not all value everything in life the same way. That is an inevitable consequence of the plain and simple fact that we all live our own lives and are subjected to different influences and experiences. We have our own minds, so we evaluate those influences and experiences and reach our own judgments about what we enjoy and don't enjoy and about we consider beneficial and what detrimental. And that is where we get back to Bill Frindall, the bearded wonder.

Not everyone enjoys cricket. Not everyone who enjoys cricket enjoys scoring. Not everyone who enjoys scoring seeks to improve the system of scoring. Not everyone who seeks to improve the system of scoring is prepared to devote years to the task. Not everyone who is prepared to devote years to the task is willing to make it their career. His life was proof that uniformity is impossible.