Or rather, people messing with my old-established favourites, as it's probably fair to say that if they ever changed the rules of cricket to incorporate a bonus musical chairs round, I almost definitely wouldn't give a hoot (Ed – Now we know why women weren't let into the pavilion at Lord's for more than a century).*

Change itself I'm not adverse to – I went from calling it Jif to Cif without so much as a batted eyelid – but it's when they take something perfectly brilliant, more brilliant than lemon-scented bathroom cleaner, and then ruin it just for the sake of meddling, that's when I get angry.

For starters, Kid Rock.

Let's all take a moment to join together and use the power of our minds to send some laser hate-rays to Kid Rock.

Done it?

Good.

Obviously slaughtering classic musical gems because you've got no talent to write your own is hardly a new idea (Jamie Cullum, one day may I forgive thee), but he's taken it to a whole new level of aural anguish by cocking up two old favourites in the same song.

To get a bit mathsy on you, it could be said that two musical positives combine to make a negative.

Yes, in the same way that Maltesers and guacamole, to my surprise, don't actually combine to make something doubly delicious, it turns out that shoving together Warren Zevon's wonderful Werewolves of London, and Lynyrd Skynyrd's not so wonderful but equally treasured Sweet Home Alabama, results in a big pile of musical excrement.

It seems being married to Pamela Anderson doesn't necessarily qualify you to successfully handle two big, er, hits.

The worst thing about it, though, is not that the song itself is cack, but that it's cruel.

Every time the opening bars start playing on Radio 2 (which is once every 4.3 minutes, as far as I can tell.

Sometimes I think they start playing it again before the last loop has even finished), I go "Ooh! Werewolves of London!," get a bit excited, then realise it isn't and get disappointed.

Then the next time it plays, I do exactly the same thing again, and get a bit more disappointed.

By the fourth play of the day, I'm throwing things at walls.

Some 60 miles down the country, my mother is doing exactly the same thing at the same time.

Add her to my cumulative disappointment scale, then consider all the people who will be saying "Ooh! Sweet Home Alabama!" then getting disappointed, and multiply that by the length of the entire summer, and we have a rough idea of the misery Kid Rock is causing.

He must be stopped.

Though if I were to hunt him down and give the Stetson-headed oaf a good bashing, it apparently wouldn't be with a bit of lead piping.

Or a candlestick.

No, says Hasbro, I must use a dumbbell, because that's what all the 21st century murderers are using, and it would be a crime not to keep up with the homicide trends.

Another ruined old classic, ladies and gentlemen – they've gone and updated Cluedo.

Alright, so in our age of ASBO-happy aggression, all the class has gone out of murder.

Nobody kills in billiard rooms anymore, while wearing a cocktail dress and drinking port from a little round glass, and I personally think that's a shame.

But why take the glamour out of the board game?

Revamping the stately home with new rooms such as a spa and "home theatre", the toy manufacturers claim the old version wasn't "in tune with modern society" – but, er, when was it ever?

Did every house actually have a library in 1946?

Were 40s mothers fretting over the ration book from the comfort of their ballrooms?

Has history lied to me?

And, clearly, making murder more relevant to the yoof of today is just asking for trouble – the more archaic and stuffy you keep the game, the fewer ideas it'll give our potentially psychopathic kids.

Want to smash a pensioner's head in down an alley way, little Jimmy?

Good luck finding a silver candlestick!

Maybe next Kid Rock and Hasbro will team up to produce their own hashed-up versions of everything in the world that is good.

Until that day, however, I'm basking in a small victory – yesterday, Werewolves of London actually came on the radio.

I'm having a celebratory party in the billiard room if you'd care to join me.

*Re-reading that, it actually looks like a completely inspired idea.
Maybe a rousing pass-the-parcel interlude is just what the sport needs to give it fresh appeal. If one of the innings involved a blindfolded session of Pin The White Nose On The Batsman, I think I could confidently say I'd become a cricket fan.

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