The Stanford Super Series - has anyone realised that there is a chap called Stanford behind it? - came to a rousing anticlimax in Antigua on Saturday night as England, dazzled by the glaring light cast by the prize-money, gave a performance of epic ineptitude and the Stanford - same chap, actually - Superstars won by a hilarious ten wickets.

The format, in which the winning team got $1million (about £619,000) each and the losers nothing, was always designed to produce not heroes but goats, to find the man who cost his mates their millions. In a desperately poor showing, a goat-count of 11 can't be ruled out - but in such circumstances, one man must carry the load.

The horns and the beard, then, go to the captain, Kevin Pietersen, to the artist formerly known as Midas. His magic leader's touch went into reverse on Saturday, not least when he went out to bat, when he turned crisis into debacle.

He came in to steady the ship at 22 for two: don't worry, lads, KP's here. Pietersen's greatest strength has always been his ability to rise to an occasion. But this time he was overwhelmed, out to an ugly and irresponsible shot, one that made certain that England revived their ancient tradition of trade union collapses - one out, all out.

It has been a shattering week for the Pietersen leadership, as England attempted to play an uncomfortable tournament based on a vulgar premise, heavily criticised by anyone who could string a sentence together. The fact is, they were only there for the money and they didn't get any. It leaves Pietersen with a crisis more serious than a single batting collapse. The absurd Stanford enterprise has effectively destabilised the England team and their leadership at a hideously sensitive time. England are about to go to India, and the Australians will tell you how hard that is at present.

And next summer we have the Ashes, in which England will have a chance if every player is at the very top of his game and filled with that sense of corporate self-certainty that can come only from the captain. Pietersen, then, is left with a rebuilding job.

I don't know if his self-belief will be damaged by his week in the Caribbean; conventional wisdom suggests that this is as hard to dent as a Centurion tank. But I'm not sure if I go along with that. Pietersen's confidence is of a twitchy, neurotic kind, so it needs constant reassurance. That characteristic need to get off the mark - the Red Bull run, as it has been termed - indicates a man unable to bear the nagging question asked by a nought.

The week has been a thoroughly chastening experience and Pietersen knows that he has been the central part of a process that cost ten of his colleagues a million dollars. This has raised more nagging questions and it will take more than a few handclaps and huddles to answer them.

Haven't I seen that face before?

My colleague Mike Atherton suggested that Allen Stanford looked like Basil Fawlty. I was more inclined to think that he looked like King C. Gillette, the razor blade-selling hero of all business studies courses (he invented the loss leader, you see). But now I've sorted it out. Stanford is Fred Scuttle, the lisping Benny Hill character, who was always trying to sidle into shot and get his face on television. Thcuthe me, thir, I'm Allen Thtanford.

The eyes have it, but do Martin Johnson's coaching skills?

Just how far can a set of eyebrows take an international rugby union team? The answer, as we stand, is all the way. But can the eyebrows do it twice? That's the question that hangs over us as Martin Johnson prepares to lead England once again.

As a player, he had presence. This was not just a matter of size and menace and ability, although he had all these things. It was something within, something of which the eyebrows were the outward manifestation. With a different man behind them, they just would be things that kept the sweat from his eyes. With Johnson behind them, the eyebrows made him a living icon of corporate will.

Clive Woodward, when England head coach, was asked about how Johnson took to being demoted to the bench. He said: “He gave me the eyebrows look and said, ‘Fine'”. One of Johnson's great strengths was the way he gave the eyebrow look to referees. It was never aggressive, it merely implied a hope that the referee would do better next time. Generally, he did.

Johnson was England captain in that extraordinary year that led to their World Cup victory. The triumph came about because he made a crucial career change. He went from bruiser to victor, preferring to win the match rather than the head-butting contest within it. He had worked out the way of causing maximum pain to an enemy.

That massive self-discipline, once established, set the tone for the entire side and it led to triumph in Sydney in 2003. But now Johnson, without any coaching experience, is England's team manager. The appointment is an act of faith, nothing less - a tribute to the force of the eyebrows look.

Johnson has won everything, but now he faces the most searching test of his life. Can he create a team like himself without playing in it? Four immensely tough matches lie ahead in as many weeks. I have established a working method: I'll not be trying to catch his eyes after a defeat.

Pleasure and pain of warring football dynasties

The Montagues and Capulets of North London are at it again. It seems as if each can profit only at the other's expense. Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur have shifted their beliefs and their principles in a dismaying fashion over the years, but whatever shapes they take, they always remain an opposed pair.

A couple of decades ago we knew where we stood: Arsenal were boring artisans while Spurs were swashbuckling sophisticates. Then Arsenal had a Damascene conversion to sophistication and embraced continental role models and a French manager.

Spurs fell behind, while Arsenal prospered in prizes (some) and beauty (lots). It was as if Arsenal had filched Spurs' personality from beneath their noses. So Spurs tried to be more continental than Arsenal and it got them nowhere.

So Spurs have brought in the archetypal no-nonsense English manager in Harry Redknapp and started a revival, while Arsenal are moving towards a suave and sophisticated crisis, one in which every cliché thrown against continental-style teams seems to be made flesh: lack of height, lack of relish for physical contests, dodgy goalkeeper, vulnerability at set-pieces, lack of will in a tight match. And Arsenal's pain can be measured by the Spurs revival, while the joy for Spurs is an aspect of Arsenal's decline.

And finally . . .

Andy Murray's amazing run of 14 consecutive wins came to an end last week when he was beaten in the quarter-finals of the BNP Paribas Masters in Paris by David Nalbandian. Murray, who failed in his quest to win a third successive Masters Series event, looked drained, but if you keep winning, they keep making you play one more match. It was still a moment to savour: a British tennis player loses and we're surprised.