Wanted: Ian Bell, sublime artist

For this 97%-proof teetotaller of a column to down a whiskey at 3pm on a Sunday confirmed its distress. True, being due for a liquefied reunion with some fellow scribblers at Tunbridge Wells the next day (less a knees-up than a chins-up, as it transpired), a spot of light training was in order. It was also the first weekend of its vacation from the day job. The bottle, moreover, was a gift from a student; ignoring it would have been the height of ingratitude. But there was a far better excuse than that: sheer bloody dread.

Dread that we were about to bid adieu to Ian Bell, the most sensually satisfying British batsman of his generation; Beach Boys yin to Kevin Pietersen's Led Zeppelin yang in the only England Test XI ever to be formally crowned world No. 1; a 33-year-old father you still wanted to cuddle back to form. Not since David Gower took guard against India at The Oval in 1990 had this column felt so tempted to bribe the opposition to ensure a happy ending.

Decline can be excruciating to witness, arousing sympathy even in those who believe in karma. "At times his mind seems to be a rowdy debating chamber," the seemingly age-proof octogenarian Hugh McIlvanney observed of Tiger Woods the other day, "and there is the impression that the figure he presents out on the course is as unrecognisable to him as to everyone else." A mild-mannered, squeaky-clean crusader for non-violent destruction, Bell is the anti-Tiger as well as the anti-KP.

Karma-wise, he deserves sainthood. Ginger beard aside (and it would not be altogether surprising to learn that his agent had proposed it as a means of looking less puppyish), distinguishing him from the Shermanator of 2005 is a tall order.

By way of emphasis, the way he began his second innings at Lord's recalled his Ashes debut on the same patch. Fluking a four to fine leg first ball, atoning with a languid flick that bordered on a sneer, he all but ground to a halt. He advanced by a single from the next 28 offerings, and Adam Voges' slip fluff donated a 11th, edgy, grungy run. Cue alcoholic assistance.

Hope had evaporated into acute, agonising awareness of imminent disaster. Sod impartiality. Sod the common good. Even the result was of no consequence now. A second successive failure for Joe Root; a whoops-I-forgot-to-ground-my-bat cock-up by Ben Stokes; capitulation in 11 sessions; England's heftiest home defeat, by runs, in the post-Packer era: all would be preferable to yet another skinny scorebook entry for IR Bell.

The moment of truth, 16 woozy balls later, was somehow both astounding and inevitable. Having seen off Mitch senior, battle of wills apparently won, Bell pushed forward to Nathan Lyon's gentle but probing spin, perhaps a tad too relaxedly. Bouncing more than envisaged, the ball zapped via inside edge into pad and thence to short leg, echoing his demise against New Zealand at Headingley.

Without awaiting the umpire's verdict, he beat an instant, fatalistic retreat, mouth twisted in that trademark grimace, lopsided and bemused. Still, the booze did its trick, numbing the pain.

Amid the ensuing misery came consolation for the sentimental: next stop Edgbaston. How could the selectors be so heartless as to deny this fragile, priceless artist the chance to finally collect a Test century on his own patch? Besides, even with the pendulum of power having swung so violently in Australia's direction, how could they ditch the hero of 2013 just two matches into a series wherein, despite everything, the scores are level? Better, surely, to remember a) two of his four dismissals have been engineered by superlative deliveries, and b) Cardiff.

Small moments, big truths. Three gems came two weekends ago - one during the first Test, two at the Swalec Stadium's spiritual opposite, the ivy-clad, upper-middle-class fortress otherwise known as the All England Club.

The first of those Wimbledonian insights into the innermost crannies of the human condition followed Serena Williams' triumph in the women's singles final, when the camera panned to her older sister, Venus. Clapping with minimal politeness and maximum acceptable brevity, the five-time champion looked about as pleased as Davy Warner might be if Root asked him to autograph his left nipple. Sibling rivalry dies hard.

Then there was Roger Federer, midway through the men's showdown, re-emerging from the dressing room after rain, gazing at his reflection to check the state of his vaguely unruly hair. Admittedly Novak Djokovic's force-ten-gale-resistant mop could double as a chimney brush, but the difference in priorities felt ever more illuminating as the Serb surged home.

Cardiff, conversely, offered a snapshot of prime self-assertiveness. When Steven Smith poked Stuart Broad into the cordon soon after lunch on day four, Bell, so wobbly against New Zealand, held on nonchalantly then flung the ball away as if swatting a gnat. Disconcerting as it was to see him with collar flamboyantly, assertively upturned, it was a shock to see anger inflame those enduringly cherubic features.

"That one," it spat, "was for the Shermanator." Nor did the ocular mind game with Smith end there. "Wait until you've played 100-odd Tests," his eyes growled, "and you're still having to prove everyone wrong." All the same, to hear David "Bumble" Lloyd call him "the Duke of Bellington" - well, we have just celebrated the 200th anniversary of the Duke of Wellington's finest hour, the Battle of Waterloo - was to snicker at the irony.

As played by Stephen Fry in Blackadder the Third, the "Iron Duke" was a ludicrous figure, a supercilious bully with a deafening voice (pretty close to the mark, apparently). For all his infinitely more pleasurable feats - that 140 to set up an innings win in Durban in 2009 stands shoulder to shoulder with 2013's glidefest - it has never hitherto been possible to accuse Bell of being even a teensy bit cocky or provocative. Still, maybe he'd earned the right.

Ten years ago, his introduction to the most revered rivalry in the history of international ball-abuse was the subject of intense debate. With Pietersen scheduled for his Test debut, should the fall guy be Graham Thorpe, the veteran gunslinger with the cricked back, or the baby-faced starlet from Coventry? Thorpe had been in decent nick in South Africa but was now a pain-riddled grinder. Youthful zest was on the wish list; Bell, in fine fettle against Bangladesh, got the nod.

Ten Julys later, he was in Thorpe's shoes. Few survive a trot of 11, 1, 0, 0, 1, 29, 12 and 1, even someone who will always be recollected - ungratefully - for style more than substance. Not since 2008 had he gone that many Test innings without a 50, and never before that. At the same time, he was smarting not only from being dumped as vice-captain but being displaced by Root, the loudest whippersnapper in town, twinkle-toed symbol of an impudent new order; the anti-Belly. Come Cardiff, with Jonny Bairstow on song for Yorkshire, the mission couldn't have been clearer: board the Assertiveness Train or wave goodbye.

Not since Jeff Thomson has a white man derived such obvious delight from breaking toes as Mitchell Starc. So there was no shame in succumbing to the yorker that did for Bell on the first morning of the series, only the depressing knowledge that a sixth binary score in eight attempts is not a sign of success.

One can only imagine the inner turmoil as he walked out shortly after lunch on day three. "C'mon Dukey, settle down. You're an artist. You've never been an initiative-taker, more a wait-and-seer, more Laxman than Lara. You can't go prancing down the track like Stokesy or Buttlery to impose yourself. Even when you do, it never works for long. You can't help believing there's something ugly, even shameful, about hitting the ball upwards. You can't help it if nothing gives you more intense pleasure than sending it zinging through the grass like a turbo-charged anaconda. But maybe Todd Rundgren was right? How can I change the world if I don't change myself?"

Against the backdrop of two early losses and a far from defeat-proof lead, what ensued was not quite a transformation, more a willingness to trade a couple of stripes for a brace of spots. First ball from Starc safely repulsed, the second, a rearing chest-hunter, was comfortably evaded, the next dispatched through the covers with the air of someone harbouring so many scores to settle it hurts, but damned if he's going to let on. As ever, it flew on angels' wings, surfing the turf.

Two more boundaries followed, oozing sweatlessness. Cue coup de grace. Facing a wicketless, luckless, infuriated Johnson, Bell let fly at a full one just outside off with a flourish bordering on the indignant. "Are you daft?" the shot roared as it screeched feet over Smith's leap. "Don't bowl that filth at me." He always did let his bat do the talking.

These are not sepia-toned memories. They're not even a month old. To classify them as irrelevant would have been illogical as well as unjust. Time, then, for the final challenge: with the selectors having perceptively repeated that (ultimately successful) dice-roll at The Oval in 2009 by elevating the Duke to No. 3, a 23rd Test century would put him clear of Boycott, Cowdrey and Hammond, never mind level with KP.

Much as it wishes it could be urging him on from the Hollies Stand, this column will be in Coco's Outback, an Amsterdam bar - brain on hold, heart in mouth, whiskey at hand.