If his Lordship had no real inkling of what it would be like attempting to rouse someone from a coma while armed with nothing louder than one of those 19th century summon-the-servant bells, he does now. For the former chairman of Tesco, it was the equivalent of devising a plan to take on Sainsbury and emerging with a mandate to move the Brillo pads a couple of yards to the left.
It is arguable whether splitting the County Championship into two divisions would have any bearing on improving the fortunes of England's Test team and there are those who would claim that it is as suitable a vehicle as a skateboard on a motorway. However, that is not really the point.
The point is whether the counties have any serious inclination to relegate their own interests for the benefit of the national team, and on Tuesday we got the answer. The net result of months of research, questionnaires, working party reports and midnight candles is this. A bit less one-day cricket. There are far-reaching implications to this decision, the most obvious one being an outbreak of uncontrollable mirth as far away as Wagga Wagga.
Raising the Standard? Do me a favour! It will raise standards as much as a swear box in the Vatican would raise money but at least our county committees can now start concentrating on the things that really concern them. Such as whether to change the colour of the paper in the ladies, or writing stiff memos to the caterers for leaving the rinds on in the cucumber sandwiches.
It has long since become a conflict of interests between the game as a game and the game as a business. In the early days of match sponsorship, Leicestershire pitched marquees on the outfield, which led to shorter boundaries, which led to an even shorter fuse from their captain, one Raymond Illingworth.
`` 'Ow can I bowl spinners,'' he would wail, ``when bloody ball keeps being plonked into strawberry ruddy mousse.''
Whatever effort is being made to raise playing standards, then at least triple the effort goes into raising money. The majority of pinstripes at Lord's (and they are multiplying faster than the average swamp mosquito) are not so much concentrating on whether Devon Malcolm can land the ball on the correct pitch, as to whether his run-up will take him over a painted logo urging TV viewers to buy their next car from Bloggs' Motors.
Whether or not the panacea for improvement will come from two divisions, less one-day cricket, full-time contracts for England players or everyone wearing silly hats and red noses, is not really the question. Is there the collective will for change? The answer is no, and sometime towards the end of the next century, when England lose 0-5 at home to the Outer Hebrides, the answer may still be no.
IF Clive Woodward's playing career was anything to go by, England's rugby team may soon be making the Fijians look like the 1970s equivalent of Pontypool. When England's new coach wore Leicester's letter L, the L used to stand for ``where the L's he got to now?''
With Leicester and England, Woodward's centre partnership with Paul Dodge was an interesting blend of styles. Dodge, Mr Dependable, the pipe and slippers man; Woodward, Mr Totally Unpredictable, a will o'the wisp capable of slicing open any defence or alternatively beating half-a-dozen of the opposition players at least three times while losing his side about 30 yards.
If English rugby is to continue to aspire towards the southern hemisphere brand of 15-man rugby, then Woodward is the ideal appointment. As a player, he never lost his instinct for attack and innovation, not even after a traumatic experience for England in Cardiff.
England, not having won at the Arms Park since 1963, were grimly hanging on to a one point lead in the last seconds of the 1981 international when the Welsh scrum-half threw a dummy to his three-quarters. Woodward bought it so spectacularly that it resulted in a penalty under the posts and a consoling word from captain Bill Beaumont.
As Steve Fenwick lined up the winning kick, Beaumont put his arms around the disconsolate Woodward, looked him in the eye, and said, with all the compassion he could muster: ``Clive, you p**t.''
IT is not yet clear how Miguel Angel Martin's wrangle with the Ryder Cup committee will be resolved, apart from further boosting the profits of the legal profession, but when Martin withdrew injured from this week's British Masters, it went a long way towards vindicating the decision to throw him out of the team for Valderrama. If Martin was willing to delay his fitness decision until the last possible moment, it says a lot about his fitness to appreciate what it means to be part of a team.