Dom Joly: Mind-numbing basketball leaves me cold

Another invite plopped on to the Joly household's "You're Not Welcome" mat. Following the recent tradition of American Football, US Basketball is coming to the UK. The NBA were scheduling one of their matches – Miami Heat versus New Jersey Nets – at the O2 Arena yesterday. Did I want to come along and watch this "most exciting of sports" asked the invite? The answer was a resounding no on so many levels.

Firstly, I happen to have a personal issue with US basketball in general. When I was in Beijing for the Olympics I got involved in a fracas at the Great Wall when a couple of players from their national team and a gang of their hangers-on queue-barged a long wait for the ride back down. This was in front of a huge assortment of international athletes and journalists. No big deal, really, just an astonishing display of undiplomatic behaviour for the "Redeem Team", who appeared totally unfazed by their behaviour despite being under verbal attack from the whole queue – an assault proudly lead by yours truly. A second, and far more relevant reason for not attending was that I'm in Los Angeles trying to get a movie into production. Oh... I also happen to believe basketball to be the dullest game on earth.

Last time I was in LA, I was given tickets to The Staples Center to see the LA Lakers play. I was very excited. Seeing the LA Lakers is one of those very American experiences. How many times had I seen footage of Jack Nicholson and his various lady "companions" jostling for court-side position with Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon? Getting front row seats at a Lakers game is the ultimate LA affirmation of status and power. It's the equivalent of ringing The Ivy in London, ignoring the three-month waiting list for "civilians" and booking a table three minutes before you arrive with the extra request that all the tables surrounding you be kept empty and be strewn with pink rose petals. It means that you, not the preposterously tall basketball participants, are the serious player in this venue.

Strangely, I did not have front row seats – I was sharing an executive box with what looked like an office outing for a bunch of movie-industry lawyers. None of them were watching the game. Some were huddled together in corners while others chatted non-stop on several mobiles – making deals and shafting dreams. I had a pair of binoculars and skimmed the crowd for proper celebrities but couldn't see anyone. Suddenly, the over-excited PA announcer introduced a well-known face – the cameras zoomed in on a muscled, over-tattooed gentleman who turned out to be "the lead singer of the band Crazy Town..." The crowd went mental as he gave everyone the universally recognised rock greeting of the devil's horns with his tattooed fingers. I was singularly unimpressed. Who the hell was this guy?

Next up the PA announcer introduced a young actor from a TV series that I'd never heard of. The clean-cut kid stood up and forced his gorgeous companion to do the same. This was a big mistake as she was at least two feet taller than him and, by all rights, should have been on the court playing. The kid saw himself on the big screen and realised how dumb he looked. As though pulled by invisible strings, Big Bird suddenly sat down as he continued to wave, maybe a touch too long.... That was that. Where the hell was Larry David, Cameron Diaz, Jerry Seinfeld? I'd been short-changed. This was clearly a low-grade match that wasn't worth the A list turning out for.

Disappointed, I forgot about the crowd and tried to concentrate on the game. It was mind-numbingly dull. On an unbelievably squeaky wooden floor, two sets of unfeasibly tall men ran from one end of the court to the other like baggy metronomes, dropping the ball into opposing hoops. Like all truly dull games, it appeared not to have any midfield action whatsoever. Handball suffers from the same problem. The score rocketed – 32-28, 74-62 –but I'd lost interest. The big TV screen was randomly selecting a couple in the crowd. They would be framed in a heart and if they kissed while on the big screen they won an all-expenses meal for two at Taco Bell. I prayed that I would be selected. I'd kiss one of the lawyers and we could get out of here and get some tacos – who knows, we could maybe even do a deal?

Is Hollywood Pietersen the next step in cricket's global domination?

There's quite a thriving ex-pat cricket scene out here in LA.

About nine teams regularly compete with each other in quite a competitive little league. According to my sources, the teams tend to consist of several fairly amateur Brits, a smattering of fat South Africans and then a core of seriously good Indians. Most of the pitches tend to be concrete strips with matting laid down on them but there is one "proper" pitch under the Hollywood sign.

If we can play teams like Zimbabwe then why not embark on a USA Test series? Forget Twenty20, this could take cricket into a totally new league.

We could have cheerleaders and ginormous hot dogs for the spectators and Kevin Pietersen could come out here and be the new David Beckham. He could marry Jordan and, together, they'd take the US by storm and have their new perfume and... oh forget it, it's a rubbish idea.

Fans will Blanche at new rugby jersey

Stade Français' new shockingly awful rugby strip, featuring images of Blanche de Castille, wife of Louis VIII, is not just unpleasant for the players – pity the porky fans squeezing into the shirt, to be taunted the length and breadth of Europe.

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