The new season of international cricket is almost upon us. It will be a summer cricketfest of 3 Mobile Tests, KFC Twenty20’s, ODIs and STDs. Sorry, what was that last one?

As we know (and wish we didn’t) Shoaib Akhtar missed this year’s World Twenty20 after treatment for die genitalen Warzen

Warts? Surely, as in the recent television ad, you just call the umpire over to apply some Wart Off. 

But apparently not. For genitals, Wart Off is a no-no. So what  type of wart removing procedure is serious enough to put a cricket player out of action? And how do these strutting, rutting sportsmen avoid the  embarrassment of having their transmitted afflictions, some contracted extramaritally on some Trent Bridge toilet floor, from becoming news on Sunrise?

To find out I go along to the  Sexual Health Centre to interview some of the doctors who have the thankless and unsavoury task of dealing with diseased nether regions.

It is situated at a discreet distance from the CBD but close enough to visit a cafe for a double shot espresso after your genital electrofulgration.

Approaching the counter timidly (there’s a sign saying: “Stand back from the counter until called”) I tell the solemn looking chap behind it that I’m here for an interview. He directs me to the waiting room.

It looks like any medical waiting room. But there is no coughing here, just a hot silence. What do people wear to a sexual health clinic? There are varied fashions but mainly casual. Smart clean looking pants belying the ungodly fermenting truth within. Trousers that can be quickly taken off  and then put back on so the wearers can get the hell out of there. There are also  a couple of primly dressed girls and a middle aged woman dressed to the nines in a Mediterranean outfit.

A young student couple arrive with the man off to see the triage nurse while the girl laconically writes up study notes. There are some reddish faces and greasy hair. Up on the wall there is a poster proclaiming: “Anyone can get genital herpes”. I shift uneasily in my overly warm seat.

I’m greeted by the surprisingly cheery Dr ‘No’. “Hello Andrew!”, he chortles, proffering his hand. Mine is wet and hot from nerves but what’s his excuse? As we head off I notice a blond bloke with meaty fingers texting the triage nurse on his Xun Chi 138. We enter the doctor’s office where in the corner there is an examination table with baking paper on it.  

I  mention the Shoaib Akhtar revelations and how embarrassing it must have been for him.

“There really is no need for anyone to be embarrassed by genital warts. It’s a sympton of the the Human Papiloma Virus (HPV) which well over half the population has”, notes Dr ‘No’.

But surely the treatments can’t be serious enough to stop him playing. “Oh yes”, said Dr ‘No’.

“Mr Akhtar had an intense dose of electrofulgration where his warts were basically electrocuted off. He needed ten days to heal and achieve skin cover before resuming playing. Running would have been very painful.” “There is also surgery”, a voice announced behind me. It was the resident dermatologist and cricket fan from India Dr ‘Yes’ who had popped his head into the room. Apparently surgery is only an option if your warts are so bad they resemble one of those multi-coloured models of a molecular structure. But with surgery, Dr ‘Yes’ warned, “you have to watch out for the bleeding!”.

 The more common and less severe treatments involve freezing (ie burning) with liquid nitrogen or the application of a special cream. In these instances the warts simply drop off after a few days ( “Oh sorry I can’t make the christening. I’m waiting for my warts to drop off”) but do involve some scorching. Was this a health clinic or purgatory? With the electrocutions, the bleeding and the stench of burning papillomas it would be hard to tell.

What measures can a prominent sportsperson take to prevent their condition becoming public knowledge I wonder: “We strictly abide by doctor-patient confidentiality but of course if they want to they can use a false name.”

“Do you have any idea what percentage of clients do this?”, I ask. “About ten to fifteen per cent” .  A Dr ‘Maybe’ enters the room with “Oh I’d guess a lot more!”   

Not expecting an answer I ask if they have treated any cricketers who have used false names. Incredibly, Dr ‘No’ , not being a cricket fan, had got Dr ‘Yes’ to retrieve a number of files for the interview. “Yes, well when I said they could use false names they must have misunderstood because they appear to have given me their nicknames.

“Let’s see now,  there is a Punter here. Oh yes I remember him, a nervous little chap, chewing his fingernails all the time. He thought he may have picked up something from the Caribbean. After I gave him the all-clear he still didn’t relax… he was mumbling something about not knowing she was Chris Gayle’s girlfriend.

“Dr ‘Maybe’ treated someone going by the name of Binga. It was syphilis,with complications. Antibiotics did the trick but he had left it a bit too long and will probably experience a weakening of his joints and have a susceptibility to side strains.

“There are two who had genital herpes….a Mr Cricket and….Pup. Mr Cricket had severe itching and hasn’t been able to keep still for the last two summers. Pup was fuming that he had waited so long to lose his virginity to a model only to get herpes.

Before leaving I ask Dr ‘Yes” if that was Warnie out in the waiting room. “Oh yes, he’s come for his free Hep B shot”

 Glad to be out of there, I step out onto the street trying not to look like I’m leaving a sex health clinic (is that a CCTV?) and go for a nice strong flat white.

After watching the first Four Nations encounter between Australia and England in Wigan I started to wonder if BBC stood for Blatantly  Biased Commentary.

Knowing that the final was to be telecast on Sky Sports I was expecting it to get worse.

And I was right. On Inglis’s first-half try we had a: “There’s a BIG question mark on that. A BIG question mark on that!” It was palpitating with loathing, dread, and wishful thinking.

Now these chaps sounded exactly like the ones calling the Wigan match. Perhaps they were the same commentators but with the accent it’s hard to tell. It was also difficult to tell how many were commentating. There was definitely Sky’s main league commentator Eddie Hemmings known for his biased commentary on Super League. There were also ex players Phil Clarke and, I think, Mike ‘Stevo’ Stephenson who apparently at times has to have the “sense knocked into him” by his fellow commentators.

What is it with this spectator commentary? What makes them carry on with such unashamed barracking?

Throughout, England was referred to as “we” with plenty of: “Australia was VERY, VERY lucky to get away with that”. And a “Did Slater knock on there?”, with a “Was Thurston hanging on then?” thrown in. During England’s early strong showing there was much childlike rejoicing and patriotic fervour: ” Look out Australia I’m coming. Sheer celebrations from England!”.

But of course this annoying bias is a symptom of their awe (not as bad though as the embarrassing awe middle aged Australian men have for Tiger Woods: “He signed my cap, I think I’m going to cry!”) for the Australians.

So when they established a lead, lost it and then regained it  the nervous excitement was tempered with an awful dread of  what Australia’s backs could do to them: “They’ve got the POWER , they’ve got the SPEED!”  As soon as Slater scored in the 56th minute: “It’s not over yet we’re just two points down”. Of course it wasn’t over yet. Unless deep down you believed you weren’t good enough.

Over the next 24 minutes it became obvious that was exactly what they believed.

Praising  St George to high heaven one minute and spouting self abuse the next, the unintentionally comic duo entertained Australian audiences (and the Australian commentary team of Peter Sterling and Phil Gould sitting dutifully silent in the Channel 9 studio) :-

Anon 1: “From a an English point of view it’s disappointing but from a neutral point of view it’s a joy to watch Australia execute their plays”

Anon 2: “No, I’m sorry. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of seeing it. Year after year, time after time. I really am!”

To their credit they are not anti Australian; just pro and anti English at the same time. You almost feel sorry for them and for a moment wish they would win until you realise what nauseating patriotic celebrations that would bring on.

There looking at us after the live coverage ended were the smirking faces of  Sterling and Gould: the men who, with Ray Warren , should have been calling this match. Perhaps in the future Sky Sports can give us the visuals and we’ll supply our own professional (ie passionate, insightful and ultimately objective) commentary.

Referring to the English team, one of the callers lamented: “We’ve still got a long way to go. Sadly we thought we had made up”.

He could easily have been talking about the commentators.

I despised Andre Agassi when I first saw his long wispy hair and that gold earring; a desert rat with tacky jewellery. He came from Las Vegas. That explains it I thought.

But now that I realise he hated tennis and took crystal meth because of his overbearing ex-boxer father, who “built a backyard prison just for him”, I feel a little sorry for him. The brash demeanour of those early days was the product of a tortured soul. 

It is apparent now that the professional era of sport has been awash with infusions, injections,  and enhancements.  Sport is a livelihood and for some a source of greatness so the urge to maintain or improve performance illegally must be a powerful one.  And then to live the life of the famous, or to escape it, there are the ‘recreational’  drugs.

So with the current knowledge it’s a little more difficult to be judgemental and perhaps it’s even time to right past injustices. 

How is life now for poor Ben Johnson? Impoverished, disgraced. Why? We now know that Carl Lewis was on drugs too. Johnson beat Lewis with that scintillating display in the 1988 Olympic final. It was a performance that should have led to the Olympic recall of the 60 metres – the real sprint. Unfortunately the sight of its runners at the indoor event slamming into a mattress on the wall hasn’t done it any favours. 

Johnson had the explosive power of the true sprinter. Lewis had the wind up action of a two legged giraffe in white socks.

Johnson was using good old fashioned anabolic steroids which build muscle mass. The history of isolating steroids from testicles involved a Nobel Prize winning German chemist wading through “tens of thousands of litres of urine”.

Another product used by athletes in power sports is the equine-derived growth hormone (Lewis must have used giraffes).  Australian track sprint cyclist Mark French was convicted (later rescinded due to lack of evidence) and banned in 2004 for using it. At the initial hearing  he implicated track legends Shane Kelly and Sean Eadie.

 Now while ‘recreational’ drugs like crystal meth and cocaine taken prior to a game can assist a player by enhancing concentration and reducing fatigue, long term use is actually performance inhibiting. It is only a matter of time before your career comes crashing down in shards of … crystal.

If a long term user of recreational drugs can win an elite event it is, in fact, a great achievement. Perhaps, as with the Special Olympics, categories can be introduced to highlight this fact. The legacy of Andre Agassi would have been even greater if there had been an Olympic Mens Singles – Crystal Methamphetamine Affected.

It’s also hard not to be impressed , and sickened at the same time, by some of these drugs and doping methods. 

Crystal meth. A great sounding name that, if you ignore the meth (too like metho). So  gorgeously twinkly, like something Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka would have dreamt up (what sort of trip were they on in that boat tunnel?). Johnny Depp in the lame remake looked like he may have been on something too.

I’ve always loved the name of Crystal Palace for a team (Tottenham Hotspurs is a good one also) and imagine them prancing around inside a glistening gilded dome, instead of the concrete and wet brick dive of South London they actually train in.

The major practise in endurance sports appears to be the use of EPO, a hormone that can be used to increase red blood cell production. EPO was also used by sprinters such as Johnson and Marion Jones because it can assist in recuperation from events and recovery from injury. It may also reduce lactic acid and hence the extent of  “jelly legs” experienced by sprinters over the closing stages of a race. 

The French sports daily L’Equipe claims it has EPO samples from Lance Armstrong taken during the 1999 Tour de France.  Armstrong may have used EPO when it couldn’t be detected but then so was everyone else. The French don’t like Armstrong because he’s so un-European – and Texan.  He dominated their race with the meticulousness and mind numbing banality of a NASA mission. He even looks like Buzz Aldrin.

It’s more likely that Armstrong’s survival from cancer (strengthening his resolve,  changing his personality and body shape) was the reason a one-day Classics specialist was transformed into a Tour legend.

Clever, and no doubt highly paid, doctors have continually altered the molecular structure of the hormone to avoid detection by the prevailing anti-doping tests. As Dr No said: “The successful criminal brain is always superior. It has to be”.

The other known methods are testosterone injection (Cyclist Cadel Evans sounds like he’s on  female hormones), and blood doping. The latter involves injecting your own, or someone elses, blood.  

 To do this you need to keep the blood satchels in the refrigerator and be wary of raids by  doping officials and family members:-

Mrs Vinokourov: “Alexander, those raspberry pops I found hanging in the fridge taste        absolutely AWFUL!”

A legal form of blood treatment used on rugby league player Daniel Mortimer’s injured hip involved withdrawing blood, infusing it with an increased concentration of platelets “rich in healing properties” and reinjecting it into the hip tendon. That brings to mind unfortunate images of Manly players slurping on their calves’ blood smoothies: “Can I have some soy milk in this Des?”

Apparently cyclists have a good idea when a competitor is doping. The key indicators are : continual surges during a stage  (eg Vinokourov- blood doping 2007 Tour de France), extreme fluctuations in performance (eg Floyd Landis-testosterone 2006 Tour de France) and marked improvements (eg current Tour champion Albert Contador’s change of status  from poor time triallist to one of the best has raised some suspicion). 

So, for anyone presently struggling in suburban sporting competitions remember to embrace your ordinariness because apparently the only way to sporting greatness is to have one, or a  combination, of the following: a) a terrible upbringing  b) drugs or  c) a terminal cancer prognosis.

P.S. If you can’t afford crystal meth is there a glass version?