The ECB’s campaign to “sex up”  the image of English cricket seems to be gathering momentum as this “Exciting Summer of Cricket” (copyright the BBC) proceeds.

We have already had a prominent campaign featuring Michael Vaughan in his long johns and another featuring Broad, Anderson and Cook stark naked (I can’t remember what the excuse for this one was).

In today’s Observer we have a curious kind of unofficial advertorial for Hugo Boss (an England partner) –  based around Adrian Deevoy  observing the players getting fitted out with their uniform Boss suits – which takes the homoerotic nudge-winkery to new levels.

On the cover we see  Strauss and “KP” doing up their ties (or possibly taking them off).  Inside we have an advert for Boss featuring Flintoff (I think, though someone’s clearly been at him with an airbrush), Anderson and Cook (like two brothers from a Godfather film), Pietersen (looking relatively restrained) and on the end poor old Monty (who a. looks like he’s going to a wedding and b. looks like he’s standing in a hole, inspite of the fact that he’s 6 feet tall).  They are all standing in that strange pose - chests out, stomachs in, arms by their sides – that signals “oi mate – you want some?”.

Moving on to the actual article “England suits up for battle” (not a very idiomatic phrase, to my mind) we find further moody shots of the boys robing and disrobing.  Matt Prior adjusts Andrew Strauss’s tie for him.  There’s a hint of Caravaggio there and a bit of Reservoir Dogs. 

The text begins “Dont mention the A word” – at first I assume he means ”Ashes”, but by the end of the article I’m not so sure (perhaps it’s Armani).  First KP pitches up, removes his camouflage shorts , offers some thoughts on the merits of the England football team’s suits, puts his shirt back on and then “the man who moisturises nightly is out the door”.  Next is Collingwood, who is reminded that he wasn’t wearing any underwear the last time he was fitted for an England suit, followed by some banter about what size underpants he needs.  “Member of the British Empire,  indeed” comments the Observer.

One by one in they come.  Cook is “unpardonably pretty” and has “the detached air of Flashman-like cruelty to match”.   ”An anonymous off-spinner” (i.e Swann) comments about Broad “I’ve often said to him if he had a pair of breasts I’d fancy him too”.   Even Matt Prior’s “even blue gaze and close crop give him the look of an assassin in a TV crime reconstruction”. 

The only one a little left out in the unfortunate Panesar. In spite of having “mesmeric cola-coloured eyes” “there’s a seriousness,  sadness even, to the be-patka-ed leggy”.  Perhaps that’s because the reporter can’t remember what type of spin he bowls (or perhaps by “leggy” he means he’s got long legs).

Onions  – “willowy” - wears baggy, brightly-coloured underpants, whereas, as AD gravely notes – “uniformly his colleagues have favoured the tight, short-legged variety of pant, preferably in simple black of white with, perhaps, a waistband of complementary hue”.

Ravi Bopara (”compact physique”) wonders about his suit “Do you think it should be tighter here … or would that look a bit … you know?”.

And finally, Andy Flower – “commands a respect that slight men with strawberry-blond hair who were once known as “Petals” are seldom afforded”.

Now it’s not – as a good Guardian reader - that I have any objection to That Kind of Thing, but I am a bit worried that team selection may come to depend on looks rather than ability, if this trend continues.  We have already had poor Patel being dismissed from the side for being overweight – ostensibly because his fitness level might affect his form, but actually I supect because he isn’t “buff”  enough to look good in one of those tight undershirt things.

And what, I wonder,  would Adrian Deevoy have made of the English dressing room of forty years ago?  How would he have described say Cowdrey, Milburn, Sharpe and Parfitt in their underwear?  And what poetic epithetics might he have found to match the eyes of – say – Fred Titmus?

Deep waters, my friends, deep waters.