There is no way of writing this without seeming unduly boastful but, look, let me tell you about the day I dismissed Inzamam-ul-Haq. In front of 15,000 spectators. In Waziristan. During a game broadcast live on Pakistani national television. For reasons we will come to shortly, the scorebook does not confirm this wondrously improbable moment but those of us who were present know it happened, even if only for a sweet, incredulous second. But I fear I am getting ahead of myself.

There is no easy way for westerners to reach Miramshah, the administrative capital of North Waziristan. It lies in the heart of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas that, though formally part of Pakistan, have always enjoyed – or, perhaps, endured – a unique status. Islamabad’s authority has only rarely been recognised here. It has, instead, been a hotbed of insurrection and, since 9/11, been a district on the frontline of both the Pakistani army’s counter-Taliban operations and the United States’ officially unofficial drone war inside Pakistan.

Pakistan is a land in which many things seem all but impossible but where, once someone with sufficient authority has decided something should happen, anything can be done. And at a moment’s notice too. When that person with authority is General Qamar Bajwa, head of the Pakistan army, things happen. If he wants to organise a cricket match between a batch of bumbling British amateurs and a Pakistan All-Stars XI then so be it. There is little advantage in pointing out the inherent absurdity of pitting a group of middle-aged duffers against an XI largely made up of former – and current, by god – Pakistani Test cricketers.

Six overs later I tossed the ball to Mushtaq, asking him to bowl the 19th and penultimate over of the All-Stars innings. Mushtaq wasn’t falling for that, however. “Oh no, you bowl. It is your match. You should bowl,” he said with a smile. He had bowled enough, he said, and, besides, his two overs had cost 40 runs. He had no intention of bowling to Afridi at this stage of the innings.

So I did. I have watched what happened next many times on YouTube – one video of the game had been viewed more than 300,000 times before it was taken down – and it never gets any better. Time seemed paused once again, albeit in a terrible way. Afridi spanked the first, relatively respectable delivery over my head for four. Immediately, with what I took to be some uncanny sense of premonition, I thought: “At least he is not going to be Garry Sobers to my Malcolm Nash.” The second delivery went over mid-wicket, the third over extra cover. The fourth was a towering six over long on. And so was the fifth.

Looking back, attempting to bowl some version of a flipper with my final delivery was bolder than the circumstances seemed to warrant. A wide, of course.

I cannot say I looked forward to bowling the extra delivery but nor was I altogether surprised when Afridi skipped down the wicket and sent it rocketing over long off for another six. “Sorry,” he said, smiling, as we walked off an over later. “Not at all, my pleasure,” I replied. “Besides, this is what they came to see.” In that sense it was a very diplomatic over, giving the 15,000 spectators precisely what they most desired. It was, I consoled myself, the right thing to do; the very British thing to do. As spin goes, this was rather more effective than any delivery I sent down in Miramshah.

But I’ll always have Inzamam. I’d like to think he knows it too.