This little children's TV cartoon character has obviously penetrated deeply into the national consciousness and has an awful lot to answer for.
I don traditional gardening attire, underpants and T-shirt, shoulder my trusty spade and hi-ho into the garden ready to test the efficacy of JonnyB's advice to flip them up and carefully observe their trajectory before driving them through the covers for four.
Having been a reasonable middle-order batsman, I am looking forward to finding out if the old hand-eye co-ordination is what it used to be and set to excavating one or two of the fifty or so mounds now dotting my particular portion of the landscape.
I haven't even broken sweat when I notice my 'good' neighbour eyeing me with a rather puzzled expression. We have the following conversation which I shall translate into the dialect for verisimilitude.
"I kiss your hand, Uncle Pista."
"Nah then, son. What the fuck's tha doin'?"
"Cricket practice, Uncle Pista."
"Well, actually...I'm endeavouring to dig up a mole. I shall then toss it into the air, twat it with the spade and see just how far into the next field I can hoick it."
"Oh, aye? I mun let them on t'other side o t'fence catch thi at it."
"Why's that, then?"
"Tha'll be oop in front o t'beak. Them uns protected species, dun't tha know?"