Three times so far today I’ve started a post, then spiked it, dissatisfied, and started again. Each time I was derailed by the same problem – I wasn’t telling the truth. Enough is enough. The only way is to say what I actually think, because otherwise, on a blog, what’s the point?

There’s no merit in my dishing up an insipid soup of pusillanimous bilge, padded out with fake magnanimity, just for the sake of it. I would be deceiving you.

If you disagree with what I’m about to say, and many of you will, feel free to use the comments board to give me both barrels.

For England supporters, this is a time for unalloyed joy and celebration. England have soundly beaten Australia and won the Ashes. Simple as. Victory over the old enemy is English cricket’s syringe of heroin: an instant feel-good; a balm for all troubles; gratification in and of itself. One of Lou Reed’s Perfect Days.

From the late 1970s to the mid-1980s, England routinely beat Australia. But then began a period of Antipodean dominance so long, so utter, and so unanswerable, that precious few believed the urn would ever return to these shores. Because the Ashes define us, emotionally, the aeon of brutal Australian hegemony corroded our souls and hacked our self-esteem to shreds.

This is why, even though England have now won five of the last seven series, any Ashes victory still creates that moreish, irresistible, sugar-rush of redemption and bliss. Especially so, since the savage humiliation of 2013-14 remains so raw in our memories.

Judging by our questionnaire on Friday night, the majority of you, our readers, are delighted by England’s success. And why not? England won, against the apparent odds. The team played with more freedom and self-expression than for years. Stuart Broad is in the form of his life. Joe Root is now a genuine world-class batting superstar. Ben Stokes and Moeen Ali point to an exciting future.

But now comes the truth. I cannot find it in myself to derive one iota’s pleasure from England regaining the Ashes. And here’s why.

For thirty-one years, man and boy, I gave the England cricket team everything I had. I began following the side during the home series against New Zealand in 1983. And in the three decades which followed, come thick or thin, and it was mainly thin, I was the loyallest England supporter you could imagine. I was emotionally invested, committed, and patriotic.

I identified my own fortunes with those of the England team. Victory brought joy, defeat sorrow. Tense, important, and closely-fought matches reduced me to a nervous wreck. I attended matches in person whenever I could. In the days before the internet, I followed entire sessions of test matches on Ceefax. I travelled to Australia to watch the 2002-03 Ashes.

Why do you think I (jointly) set up this blog? Why have I run it, with James, for six years since 2009? Because I don’t care? We don’t get paid for our writing or administration. We have no connections to the players and management, nor do we have a material interest in the outcome of anything we discuss.

Throughout my years as a supporter, I backed our players without question. I defended the team when they lost. During the dark years of the 1980s and 1990s, no defeat – no matter how supine – turned me against England. Neither results nor the quality of performance were relevant. I gave unconditional love.

Here on The Full Toss, I offered England unambiguous support. Read the archive. I used the first person – we, and us. I greatly admired Andrew Strauss, both as player and captain. I admired Alastair Cook during the 2010-11 Ashes, and the 2012 India tour.

And what I did get in return? What did you get in return? When push came to shove, how were those years of unflinching loyalty repaid?

On 6th February 2014 I wrote the following on these pages:

The ECB has taken a long, slow look at us, and then – quite deliberately – thrown a bucket of cold piss in our face.

I mean it then, and I mean it now. Nothing has changed. The words are as true today as they were eighteen months ago. How can forgive someone when they have no interest in your forgiveness? When they don’t give a stuff what you think or how you feel?

When the ECB responded to reasonable questions and objections over the Pietersen affair by abusing and belittling their own supporters, by telling lies, and by avoiding interviews but leaking innuendo through their friends in the press, they made an important statement. The England side was their own personal property. It belonged to them, and no one else. No England follower, in the ECB’s view, possessed any equity in the team.

When the ECB decided they would pick the England team on the basis of their corporate politics and personal grudges, rather than cricketing merit, they killed stone dead the concept of a national England cricket team. From that point onwards, the eleven players on the field would represent the ECB, not England. And I find it impossible to invest my emotional energy into a corporate entity. I may as well support Vodafone or Credit Suisse.

When the ECB moved heaven and earth to construct the fantasy portrayal of Alastair Cook as a saintly, selfless, national saviour – when their own evidence suggested he willfully helped destroy Kevin Pietersen’s career, for no apparent reason beyond his own benefit – they made another factor clear. Nothing about the England team – what they said, what they did, or how they operated – could ever again be taken at face value. Black was white and white was black. The England XI on the field was a sham.

Because Cook had colluded and connived with his bosses’ skulduggery, he became their place-man, an on-field role of ECB representative which he gladly accepted. And yet the team was built around him, and justified by his supposed virtues. The side became his vehicle and vanity project, further eroding any remaining claim to a representative mandate.

None of this was my fault. None of this was your fault. None of us did any of this. The ECB brought it entirely upon themselves.

How much could I enjoy supporting a side like that? How fervently could I cheer them on? How could I identify myself with England, when England wanted nothing to do with me? What had been the point of thirty years of anguish and heart-break on their behalf? And why should I endure any more, for their sake?

The ECB have had eighteen months to reflect on their misconduct and selfishness. Despite tsunamis of criticism, they have never provided a word of recognition or regret. The substitution of Colin Graves for Giles Clarke has made not one jot of difference. They have no interest in olive branches. They don’t think they’ve done anything wrong. They enjoy being the ‘inside’ and they want you and me to remain firmly outside.

The entire concept of supporting a sports team relies on the principle of joint endeavour. Otherwise you’re spending your spare time cheering on millionaire strangers. The ECB severed public from team and are happy to keep it that way. I can’t get excited about a party I’ve not been invited to. I can’t take pride in the achievements of a project which didn’t want me involved.

James, in yesterday’s piece, is right to say there are far more important problems in English cricket than one player. And I utterly agree. The Sky deal, the Big Three, administrative myopia and self-interest, and the other issues raised in Death of a Gentleman, will all cause English and world cricket far more damage than team selection.

This has never been about one player. It will never will be. It’s about belonging. It’s about ownership. English’s cricket’s moral corruption and destructive conduct – whether at home or abroad, however expressed – are part of the same problem. Because they believe cricket is theirs, and theirs only, they do what the hell they like, and couldn’t care less about the consequences.

I don’t want it to be this way. I want my England back. I want your England back. But we didn’t start this fire. And we cannot put it out alone.