Wham, bam, thank you mam

THE stiff, cold wind picks up, and a middle-aged couple hoist a red blanket over their knees. Nearby, a man sitting alone, struggles to keep his newspaper flat in the breeze. A woman pours hot, steaming water into a cup, wraps her hands round it and takes a sip. And, in the middle, Darren Gough - England's ninth most successful test bowler - slams one past off stump at 80mph.

A man responds by pulling on his mittens.

"You want a biscuit, or a Kit Kat?" asks one woman. "I'm not good at decisions," replies her husband. Durham batsman Michael di Venuto pushes Gough for a single. Some spectators, keen to warm their hands, clap gently. It barely pricks the quiet.

The 5,000-capacity Riverside Ground is a fifth full. The average age, at a guess, is 60. This is the County Championship, 118 years old, in all its doughty glory.

Across the country, from Chester-le-Street to Canterbury, the scene is the same: top-class cricketers, backed by local pups, playing four-day games to a few hundred hardened fans. It's an acquired taste, served best with lashings of sunshine. In today's grey, it's harder to love.

Mark Stoneman, the Durham opener, nicks one through static slips. Jacques Rudolph, the South African international, chases as it rolls over the rope.

"Come on, lads," a Yorkshire fan shouts at him. "At least make an effort for the bloody ball." His wife shushes him. "The price we pay for these jokers, we're allowed to shout," he says. "The days of cheap cricketers are over."

More than 5,000 miles from Chester-le-Street, the Yorkshire fan is being proved right. The Indian Premier League - bright, brash, and drowning in cash - is cricket's biggest story since Kerry Packer rebranded one-day cricket 30 years ago.

The 20-over league, which started last month, has eight teams, from the Delhi Daredevils to the Rajasthan Royals. Each team is a franchise, owned by some of India's biggest billionaires. In January, when franchises were bought, Mukesh Ambani and Reliance Industries Limited paid £55m for Mumbai Indians. The cheapest franchise, the Rajasthan Royals, was bought by Emerging Media.

Price? A piffling £33m.

The vast sums coaxed most of cricket's best players. The players were auctioned in February, like cattle with cover drives. MS Dhoni, the bighitting Indian batsman, will earn £750,000 for the season, Brett Lee, the blond-haired Australian fast bowler, will earn £450,000. Other modern greats like Shane Warne, Adam Gilchrist, and Shaun Pollock, are signed up.

Thousands of fans swarm to the floodlights, like moths to the flame. A recent game in Delhi was delayed because the broadcasters' cables were burnt. Fair enough: they paid £500m for the rights, after all. He who pays the piper calls the tune and decides when the match starts. But why were the cables burnt? They'd been hit by sparks from the pre-match fireworks, of course.

The IPL is 21st Century cricket: sweet, swift and easy to swallow. It's a real-life highlights reel, Cricket for Dummies. In Delhi, for example, they import cheerleaders from the Washington Redskins. In Chester-le-Street, the women have perms and Thermos flasks.

SO will Twenty20 kill proper cricket? In 30 years' time, will every game be wham, bam, thank you mam? Like a ball racing across a quick, short outfield, Twenty20's progress has been rapid. The first tournament was in 2003 between English counties - so much for stuffy English administrators - and the first international was in 2005. Each testplaying country has its own tournament, and the first World Cup - held in South Africa, won by India - was in 2007. For English counties, it is the most popular, and profitable, form of cricket.

By contrast, in the five years before 2003, attendances at county grounds had dropped 17 per cent.

"One day we will wake up and (county) cricket will all be Twenty20," says Paul Millman, Kent chief executive. "People will say Do you remember the days when we played in whites over four days?' That is not what the traditionalists want to hear, but I think it is a very real possibility."

Yet despite the sixes and shiny strips, not all agree. Jonathan Agnew, the BBC broadcaster and ex-England bowler, says: "Over-exposure would guarantee Twenty20's swift demise, not least because it lacks real substance. It is light relief, a good night out. It is crass and irresponsible to attach any more importance to it than that."

Four-day county cricket and five-day test cricket has heritage. It's not quick, but never has been. It hasn't stopped it prospering for more than 100 years, in every corner of the world. It is the supreme test of players' skill, and - more importantly - psyche. Games can change in one session, then change back the next. Think back to 2005, when England was gripped by 25 days of Ashes action against Australia. Can you imagine a day's party in Trafalgar Square if England won a Twenty20 series 2-1?

HOWEVER, longer one-day cricket - generally 50 overs a side - could face trouble. If four and five-day cricket is historic and Twenty20 histrionic, where is oneday cricket? It is neither fish nor fowl. Too many games fail to ignite. Too many games drift to expected ends. As Agnew says: "The writing is on the wall for the 50-overs game. It is dull and predictable and has had its day." The first one-day game, in 1962, was 65 overs. Now, 46 years later, it's 45 overs shorter. The shaving stops now.

Despite complaints, cricket is thriving. Test matches - particularly in, or involving, England - sell out across the world. County grounds are full, or nearly full, at least five times a season for the Twenty20 circus. And, in India, billionaires are fighting with dollars to get involved.

Back in Chester-le-Street, Durham are 105 for one at lunch. Di Venuto, the Tasmanian, is smacking them around on his way to 184.

Someone asks a Yorkshire fan if he's coming back for the afternoon session. "'Course I'm bloody coming back," he says. "They could be all out by tea." In proper cricket, hope springs eternal.