With the signing of wholehearted uphill trundler Iain O’Brien, is Gus Fraser seeking to remake Middlesex in his own image? His diary reveals all…

Met O’Brien to have a chat about contracts. We walked from the Grace Gates to my office; by the time we got there we were both sweating buckets. Iain had done his hip and I had a bad feeling my left leg was going to fall off again. I was pretty bloody exhausted after the slog, so I just sat on the floor for a bit eating salt tablets and muttering. I don’t think people realise how much hard work walking from one end of the ground to the other can be.

His agent said something like: “Iain’s really looking forward to playing for Middlesex.”

I have to say, I nearly dropped the painkilling injection I was in the middle of sticking in my backside. I like to make sure the needle is good and rusty just to keep myself honest.

“What’s he looking forward to that for?” I said. “This is professional medium-to-fast bowling. It’s going to be bloody misery.”

“Too right,” said O’Brien, who was carving in his own arm with a small axe, just to stop himself getting too comfortable.

“If I were you, I’d try and get him a job breaking rocks with his teeth, or dragging pianos upstairs using only his testicles,” I said. “Not hard bloody graft like bowling for Middlesex.”

“Well, I just meant, erm, he’s excited to work with some of your young bowling talents,” said the agent, who I should think has never run up a hill wearing razor blades inside his shoes while hitting himself in the face with a shovel a day in his life.

“I tell you, Iain,” I said. “It’ll be nice to have another bloke here who understands what cricket is all about: heartbreak, agony and sheer human misery. Do you know, I caught young Steve Finn smiling during net practice only last month?”

“Bloody disgrace,” said O’Brien. “I expect he wasn’t even wearing a leg brace or thumbscrews.”

“I like your way of thinking,” I said. “How do you get yourself motivated for the day’s play?”

“I listen to a bit of Leonard Cohen, maybe watch Leaving Las Vegas, read a bit of Angela’s Ashes, that sort of thing,” said O’Brien.

I pulled a picture out of my wallet. It’s of a Golden Labrador puppy being run over by a bus.

“If I ever start to enjoy cricket too much, I just take a look at this picture to remind myself that life is a series of cruel disasters to be endured as manfully as possible,” I said.

We both started sobbing, and I felt my back go. Good times.

By Alan Tyers