"Earth is still going round the sun, and neither the dictators nor the bureaucrats, deeply as they disapprove of the process, are able to prevent it." - Literary genius and stump cricketer George Orwell
It's been an interesting week inside the rollicking two-wheeler that is the Alternative Commentary Collective caravan. Itsure seems a long time ago when we were harping on about Hamid Hassan's Charlie Sheen impression and the Afghan national sport of buzkashi.
We've been caught in a vortex of Gatorade, misunderstandings, politics and bewilderment. But the support from the ACC listeners who bother to stream our aural treacle has been staggering. Humbling.
We were mostly confused about it all. The listeners were mostly angry.
We're rapt the show will go on. We just want to watch cricket and keep the nation's not-too-serious cricket lovers happy.
The ACC operates from a Sprite Alpine caravan made in Otorohanga in 1975. It has stained yellow curtains, a door that needs a good slam and a grimy viewing window.
Until the recent arrival of a Fujitsu heat pump, player comfort levels have been at a depressing nadir in the van as a result of the humidity emerging from the seven-strong commentary team.
For the past two summers, we've gallivanted around the country and been somewhere close by for every one-day international played by the Black Caps. Together, we provide genuinely expert ball-by-ball commentary, accompanied by obscure, irreverent and at times wildly odious "colour".
We have no former international cricketers on our team. Our designated stats man is good at speed cooking but terrible at arithmetic. Most are worse at bowling than their offspring - the eldest of whom is 12 years old. But there are cricket hearts beating in these chests, beneath the mild gynecomastia. We love this game.
This is commentary for backyard cricketers with a passing interest in things scatological and a penchant for off-the-wall observation. Cricket is a ridiculous game with absurd gear, riddled with impenetrable jargon, played by obscure countries by players with preposterous names and faces. It seems appropriate that the soundtrack mirrors its eccentricities.
We love what Orwell called cricket's "forlorn hopes, sudden dramatic changes of fortune and ill-defined rules". We get excited. We hate Warner, Watson and England in an unprofessional way. Our words are rife with deadpan self-deprecation.
Dale Steyn rides a Gatorade drinks cart similar to the one at the centre of this week's scandal. Photo / AP
Yes, the ACC is made by people who know the game from a lifetime of sitting on the embankment with their mates, drinking beers, playing in social teams and staying up all night to watch five-wicket bags and ignominious defeats.
We have $149 suits, complemented by black ties and white shirts. We sit on rickety stools and our phone can only do text messages.* We're on Tinder, Twitter and Facebook because we love involving the listeners - they're literally on our wavelength.
The ACC's unscripted shenanigans and anecdotes - and unwavering commitment to describing the ball-by-ball minutiae - have connected with a lot of people. The best cults happen by accident, not design.
We get that it's not everybody's cup of tea - but it provides an occasionally squirm-inducing option to the predictability of most commentaries. Listeners can escape into a non-pompous world filled with passion and obscure references to Sylvester Stallone and komodo dragons. It's been an extraordinary thing to be a part of. The ACC is dead. Long live the ACC.
* 022 1CURLY6 if you've got anything to share.
• Paul Ford ( @beigebrigade) is a co-founder of the Beige Brigade. He can't wait to hear Jason Hoyte say "Mohammad Mahmudullah from Mymensingh" tomorrow.
