Like all great art, the former cricketer’s commissioned piece throws up more questions than answers, challenging us to find some meaning behind the chaos

With its overstuffed fixture list and myriad administrative subplots, international cricket now provides the eager scribe with endless narrative possibilities, but sometimes you just have to ignore the everyday happenings and admit that Shane Warne making a blazing foray into the art world is the most exciting story of the day. Today is that day.

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Warne, in case you’re not already aware, decided seven years ago to commission Australian portrait artist Jamie Cooper to create a modern masterpiece, a work that could be proudly displayed in the cricket great’s home. The resultant mural, hidden for all that time and depicting Warne’s dream imaginary backyard barbecue, is a sensation that has only come to the full attention of the masses since UK pay-TV provider Sky aired a documentary about Warne’s private life a few weeks back. In it he details some of the creative inspiration behind the artwork that has brought readers of Wisden and Art World together as one.

As a result we’re now aware that hidden behind Warne’s endless talk of pizza toppings, American Pie characters and Alastair Cook’s limitations lurks a new-generation Robert Hughes, a man whose creative wanderlust has drawn him not to the pursuit of Dutch expressionism or De Stijl works but something closer to the “Dogs playing poker” school of visual art. Everyone gets their start somewhere.

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Where to begin? I guess where the man himself sets off in the documentary, matter-of-factly describing the way he and Bruce Springsteen are just “chilling in the corner”, of course. Tell me you’re not trying to imagine the kinds of cricket conversations they’d be having. Perhaps Warne is explaining the difference between the Kookaburra and Dukes balls. Or maybe The Boss is proffering theories on the day-to-day lives of 1970s Australian factory workers. What are Muhammad Ali’s thoughts on Warne’s Adam Goodes stance? That might be an awkward chat.

Like all great art, this one just throws up more questions than answers, challenging us to find some kind of meaning behind the chaos. What was the dress code for this imaginary event? Did Angelina Jolie comply with it or go rogue? Perhaps only she was told it was a toga party. And there are many ways to cater a party, but surely having Anthony Hopkins forehanding human brains at guests with a burger flipper is a no-no. Personally I prefer to maintain a mental image of my original and far more innocent interpretation, that it was Truman Capote dishing out some rissoles.

Then you get to group dynamics. Shouldn’t Sinatra and JFK have been split up, lest any latent tensions bubble over? What sort of personal security was required at Chateau Shano? Did Warne suggest to the artist that Sharon Stone should be edging in on Marilyn Monroe’s territory? With Jack Nicholson defusing the tension with a slab of Victoria Bitter, you’d suppose it doesn’t even matter. If we know anything about Jack it’s that he loves to knock back a few green demons on his way to the Oscars. Warne knows this too, the genius.

Not being much of a poker fan, I couldn’t claim to know whether the game taking place in the Warne mural is the most star-studded in history but it would have to be close. Everybody’s there – Sean Connery, James Dean, the poker pro Hachem brothers. Warne’s sibling Jason must be a little starstruck, as might former England international Dimitri Mascarenhas, whose inclusion among this roll call of Hollywood elite gives hope to all who aspire to a place in Warne’s inner circle. What a warm feeling it must be when Mascarenhas arrives chez Warne and sees himself chewing the fat with James Bond, immortalised forever in his famous friend’s fantasy world.

The elephant in the room here, of course, is Warne’s great friend Michael Clarke, whose exposed “guns” were surely not the accident Warne is trying to sell them as. Again, you can only imagine what Clarke and Coldplay singer Chris Martin are whispering among themselves. I’d like to think they’re trying to figure out why Elvis has employed the guitarist’s version of the switch hit and gone lefty. You couldn’t really blame The King if he was a little startled by the airborne human brains and unsure what to do with his hands. We’ve all been there.

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What I’m left pondering though is the chagrin of those who missed the cut in this modern-day Last Supper. Would Kevin Pietersen, Terry Jenner, Ian Chappell, Richie Benaud, Ed Sheeran and Warne’s beloved Victorian team-mate Darren Berry not feel aggrieved at being edged off the invite list by a bunch of celebrities probably indifferent to Warne? Perhaps Berry is just out of sight, crouched behind Springsteen in the hope of a leg-side stumping.

You can only conclude that much good can come of this; a limited edition print of the masterpiece to be savoured by fans around the world (memo to Channel Nine: if this isn’t happening by summer Tony Greig will be rolling in his grave); Warne should almost definitely curate a wing of the National Gallery, perhaps collaborating with Cooper on a triptych based on this gem. The punters will be pouring through the doors.

If this seismic art happening is anything to go by, we should also now admit that reality TV cameras should be following Warne everywhere. He wasn’t the figurehead the art world asked for or perhaps the one they wanted, but surely he’s the one Australia deserves.