TEN minutes into an interview with Monty Panesar yesterday, it occurred to me how patronising it is for us to expect sportsmen who just happen to be dark-skinned to articulate the merits of multiculturalism. How absurd it is for us to demand that a finger-spinning Sikh (or, for that matter, a pugilistic Muslim) hold forth on British race relations or the all-too-present threat of religious terrorism.

As I probed the poor lad on these non-cricket imponderables, his face slowly contorted into an expression of bemusement, as if he suspected that he had turned up to the wrong interview. “I don’t really think about stuff like that,” he said. “It all sounds a bit too deep for me. I just like to concentrate on cricket.”

But do you not, I persisted, feel any special responsibility as the first Sikh to make it into the British sporting spotlight? “I have not thought about that either,” he said. “All I am really focused on is getting things right on the pitch when I get selected for England.” The 24-year-old sounded like that kid in Jerry Maguire, who kept saying: “I just want to play football.”

This is not intended as a criticism of Panesar but of those of us, like myself, who indulge in this form of inverse racism. We would not expect Andrew Flintoff to express an opinion on, say, religious tolerance, so why do we demand it of Panesar? “I think that multiculturalism is, you know, OK,” he said (eventually) in desperation, hoping that it might steer the interview on to a question actually related to his sport.

“It’s good for Britain when people, you know, live in a multicultural situation.”

Panesar is an ordinary Luton boy who happens to tie both his hair and batsmen in knots. He is not an intellectual or, for that matter, particularly religious. He is simply passionate about cricket and understandably thrilled that his wicket- taking, kangaroo-jumping, catch-spilling antics have catapulted him into the national spotlight and made him the frontrunner for the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award.

He has not, however, allowed the adulation to turn his head. “My popularity has probably gone up,” he said with characteristic understatement (he uses “probably” to qualify almost every answer). “But a lot of the interest in cricket is because of the Ashes. Things are on the up for me but they could easily go down again, so I try not to get ahead of myself. My friends do not think that the fame has changed me but they are impressed that I am actually playing for England.”

When I asked him the extent to which his religion has shaped his attitude towards his sport, I was again struck by the matter-of-factness of his reply. “It probably helps me with my cricket,” he said. “I keep my hair covered and go to the temple, but it is all pretty low-key. I do normal things like any other young person in this country. Cricket is the most important thing in my life — nothing has made me more happy than being selected for England.”

After half an hour he was sufficiently relaxed to indulge in a bit of banter and to start posing questions of his own. He asked what kind of music I was in to and giggled when I confided a secret admiration for ABBA and Level 42. “I’m into RnB,” he said. He went on to tell me that Penelope Cruz is the most attractive woman in the world (I snorted), that The Green Mile is the greatest film (I scoffed) and that Hilary Swank is the best actress (I nodded sagely).

Panesar, who was in Birmingham to present kit to a local cricket club as part of the Barclays Spaces for Sports scheme, was starting to look completely at ease. He put his feet up on an adjacent chair and gave a belly-laugh when I ridiculed his assertion that he had not yet started to think about his upcoming speech at the BBC awards night. “You will have to see on the television,” he said. “Assuming I win.”

Only when I asked him about his personal life did he clam up once again, betraying the fact that he is no longer someone who can talk without inhibition. “I don’t want to go there,” he said when I asked if he had a girlfriend. Not wanting to hurt my feelings, however, he continued rather charmingly (if naively): “I don’t mind telling you so long as you promise not to print it.”

I was left with the impression of a shy young man who will be misunderstood by anyone who thinks that dark skin and a patka are indicative of an informed opinion on the issues of race and religion. He has rightly been hailed as an icon of modern, multi-ethnic Britain. But does that give the British public the right to demand that he perceive himself as anything other than a Luton boy done good?