So the fearsome Beige Brigade, New Zealand's on- and off-field hard men, plan to sledge Michael Clarke over his less-than-private life. Their threat, which has summoned no less than Michael Hussey to muscle up as Clarke's wingman, raises one question that the Beigistas may not have thought through.

What can they possibly say? Pup, your ex is a twit? Hey Pup, have you sent the roto-rooter down your toilet? What, Pup, no pre-nup? Or the more censorious, Michael, you are not a fit and proper person to occupy the office held by Ricky Ponting, Kim Hughes, Ian Chappell, Herbie ‘Lucky' Collins and the father of leg theory, Warwick Armstrong?

The problem with sledging Clarke over Lara Bingle is that presumably her neuron shortage is no news to him. That's why she's his ex. New Zealanders can't be that slow, can they? And the problem with sledging him over his fitness for the captaincy is that he never did anything wrong. In approximately five minutes, let alone by the time Ponting makes way for a successor, Bingle's name will be the answer to a very difficult question in Talking Bout My Generation.

The real legacy of the affaire Bingle is a sadder one, as it reiterates a dreary rite of passage high-profile sportsmen undergo. It's a simple three-act play: they come into the sport fresh-faced and likeable, they suffer some kind of crisis that scars them and turns them aloof and mistrustful, and finally, when they retire, they revert back to nice. Almost invariably, this is the case with Australian cricketers. The more ‘professional' among them, such as Ponting, sublimate their hurt and contempt into a robotic dedication to their role. The more human, such as Steve Waugh, carry their chip on the shoulder as a constant low-level prickliness, almost, in Waugh's case, maturing into self-parody. Singular characters such as Shane Warne manage to rise above it all, or sink beneath it all, it was never quite clear, or just get through it all, ending up giving the impression that their playing years were the worst years of their life.

The narrative is always the same, and even those who are actually very decent individuals, such as a Glenn McGrath or Hussey or Damien Martyn or Justin Langer, manage to invent some kind of slur and grudge that they can carry around with them, at the very least so they can to fit in with the prevailing changing-room ethos.

It's all very sad, and from here on we can expect to see a Michael Clarke hardened and suspicious beneath the scar tissue of public embarrassment. Henceforth he will dislike the media and close himself off against members of the public in case they're carrying a concealed camera. The media-trained emptiness of his press conferences will be reinforced by a bruised, violated sense of self. He'll become yet another cranky old man of sport - a perfectly fit and proper character for Australian captain! - until he retires, when all the frown lines will lift from his face and he will suddenly look 10 years younger, like a corpse.

Oh well. We have nobody to blame but ourselves. Celebrity, as John Updike said, is a mask that eats away at the face.

As for the cricket, please God allow the New Zealanders to provide a contest. My feeling is that they will. Australia's home Tests against the West Indies and Pakistan were only half-interesting because Australia's standard has fallen back deeply into the second rung of Test nations, a rung we share with New Zealand. Next summer will test this theory, but my guess is that since they beat us in the last Ashes series England have got better, joining South Africa and India in the top group, while Australia have declined. New Zealand should be a good match for them. Allan Border was the last Australian captain to lose a Test to the Kiwis, and it won't be surprising if Ponting is the next.