To what woefully whacky depths will this Windies series plummet?

Sure, to poo-poo West Indian cricket these days is to lazily feast on the low-hanging fruit, but what can I say? I appreciate an eye-level nectarine, and more importantly, I care about the sanctity of the Australian summer.

That’s why I’m panting into a brown paper bag about this suspiciously described ‘contest’ for the Frank Worrell Trophy that’s scheduled to begin in Hobart on Thursday in front of a bumper crowd of janitors and security.

Despite this readership being way more nice than it is naughty, I fear there’s no amount of good behaviour we can produce that will help Santa deliver us anything remotely competitive in this series as it plays out over the upcoming festive season.

And as a complimentary shareholder of the Australian cricket family who generously contributes to the national team’s cause with yearly subscriptions to their free-to-air broadcasts, I feel I have a right to be concerned.

My mind races with the possible record-breaking that awaits us. And that’s heinous, undesirable record-breaking I’m referring to, like bending a copy of Phil Collins No Jacket Required over your knee. Wholly immoral record-breaking.

What are we to fairly expect? Will there be embarrassing five-session Tests and gory 15-wicket thumpings? Will our grand cricketing cathedrals be depressingly sparse? Will there be more perfectly able Caribbean cricketers in Big Bash League trackies than bored punters?

Should there be a serious discussion about protecting the Frank Worrell Trophy from the contest? Should there be an emergency substitution in exchange for a more apt Wank Forrell Carafe?

And what can we reasonably ask from Jason Holder and his troupe, some of whom may allegedly be cricketers?

As we know, West Indian cricket in modern times is regularly described as a well-oiled, efficiently purring machine, much like an industrial vacuum that possesses the suction power to completely hoover the life out of a summer with Scandinavian engineering quality.

But in a small positive, the tourists will enter this series with some momentum. They’ve beaten Zimbabwe and Bangladesh on the road somewhere in the last 20 years, plus they recently avoided the follow-on in a tour match against an acne-studded Cricket Australia XI.

Sure, they may have eventually been trounced by 10 wickets, but you know what they say; one should never look too far in to the results of warm-up games, especially if the opposition who beats you can’t grow a moustache.

However, this is where the good news screams to a halt. Unfortunately, the West Indian goal of making Australia sweat in to a fourth day is already nobbled due to one tiny facet of their game, and that’s their personnel.

Like the later works of the American Pie franchise, their squad is a mishmash of the unskilled and the vaguely identifiable. In both cases, critics Googled the whole cast upon announcement in the abject hope Chris Gayle or Shannon Elizabeth may have changed their name by deed poll.

Barring divine intervention or a face-saving cluster of hidden Bravo boys we don’t know about, they could be the worst side to tour Australia since Ricky Ponting’s Abominables of the 2010-11 Ashes summer.

This current Australian side – who with all due respect isn’t much chop itself – will barely get out of first gear and, in fairness, could probably get the job done batting with a toilet brush.

And people, that’s why this will be the red-headed step-child of three match series.

In fact, it could quite possibly be the most painful series of anything since the series of uppercuts I inflicted on myself when I remembered I’d bought tickets. So email me if you’re interested in some 50 cent corporate box seats, because I’ll be setting my eyebrows on fire instead.

But that’s enough pecking at low-level nectarines for now. In all seriousness, West Indian cricketers are sabotaged enough by their own administration and burdened by their own history, so let’s afford them a break. Best to wrap this up before I head down the well-worn path of reminiscing about their good old days and lamenting how they ended up in their chasm of hopelessness.

We love our summers of fiercely fought cricket provided Australia eventually wins, but this one is too sick to save. So to manage our expectations and soften the blow of this imminent unprecedented drabness, let us reach an agreement on where this diabolical operation is headed.

What is the West Indies’ pass mark? A competitive session? A competitive day of play? Even just a full day’s play? Now that would be most refreshing.

Personally, as a negligent gambler and hopeless dreamer, I might whack a dollar on a two-leg multi: one draw and no pay dispute.