But I do know he has been guilty of diverting the public's attention from the sporting duel which really matters this summer.

This is how much I love cricket:
Not too many moons ago, I caught a plane to Kuala Lumpur. Then I caught another one to Melbourne and, after a quick wash and brush up, boarded another one to Hobart in Tasmania.

At which point I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the university ground where the club side which contained an Aussie mate of mine, was playing.

Then, as I contemplated journey's end, a nice cold beer and an afternoon of exciting stroke play, the heavens opened.
Cheers God.

Such are the perils of cricket-watching. It is the most frustrating game on the planet, for player and spectator alike.

But if you are hooked, so to speak, there is not the slightest thing you can do about it.

By the time the game of cricket is done with you, if you know nothing else you will be an expert on cloud formations and which of them is most likely to dump a reservoir's worth of wet stuff on your head.

All of them.

As a player, I never really cut the mustard, as my first captain was able to confirm that Wednesday night on a field in Adlington when I was knocked briefly unconscious on the boundary by a ball which should have landed in my hands, but landed on my head.

Still, not many debutants can lay claim to scoring a headed six for the opposition.

At school I became known as an SLA which was no surprise to most of my teachers, who assumed it stood for Slow Lazy Ass. The games master knew better. He said I was a Slow Left Armer.

In theory this meant I was able to spin the ball away from a right-handed batsman, thereby getting him out by one means or another.

In practice it meant my cunningly flighted deliveries usually landed somewhere near Yorkshire.

The club career upon which I embarked was mercifully curtailed when the newspaper which had given me my first job, suggested I should instead write about the senior team's exploits from the sidelines.

And it's where I've been for 41 summers, although the pen long ago gave way to the pint.

Also, I got a coaching badge which entitled me to take charge of a junior side, but when we got to the final and looked like losing, I couldn't stand the pressure and nipped off to the village pub.

Two calming drinks later I sneaked back on to the ground to discover that my boys had pulled it round.

Thus far I have not had a reply but I remain confident that the MCC will adopt my suggestion for a beer break and include it in the next edition of their coaching manual.

Anyway, just a day or two to the Ashes, indisputably the greatest sporting contest of the lot.

People write off England's chances against Australia but we have recently won both the 50-over World Cup and the World Twenty20 trophy.

True, these heroic victories were secured by our women's team but it is clearly an omen.

When I wur a lad you had more chance of spotting Elvis at the chippie than a girl in cricket gear, but things have changed.

Which is why, when my grandaughter was born a few weeks ago, I resisted the urge to abandon plans for a practice cricket strip on the bottom lawn.

She who must be unpaid says the recent arrival has lovely long fingers, the sure sign of a piano player.

I know better, of course. If she's not a future SLA, my name's Freda Flintoff.

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