Nearly guiltless

No one has ever successfully explained cricket-obsession, and Marcus Berkmann doesn’t even try. He just expresses it, stamping about like Basil Fawlty in exasperation at England’s nearly constant humiliation at the hands of the Australians. He even confesses to a disbeliever that ‘some of my best friends are Australians’, and puzzles at the way they seem to hate us, whereas we rather like them, an affection which they find patronising. ‘A chippiness they really should have got over by now… However you look at it, we just can’t win — which, by astounding coincidence, is what usually happens on the cricket field too.’

Berkmann also fumes at the many outrageous team selections (and omissions) that England has made over those 35 terrible years, which have infuriated many of his fellow-obsessives, among whom I class myself. For example, no one ever seemed to know how to deal with that Child of Joy and most beautiful batsman of his generation, David Gower. Joyless Gooch even left Gower out of a touring party. ‘Too old’, said Gooch, according to Berkmann. Gower was 35, Gooch was 39. Gower seems to have accepted it all with a shrug, doubtless graceful, but he didn’t invite Gooch to his wedding: ‘Not selected’, said Gower. ‘Too old.’

As for the non-selections of manager Ray Illingworth in 1997: ‘Graham Thorpe, Devon Malcolm and Angus Fraser have all failed to impress Illingworth at various stages, making one wonder, even now, exactly what did impress him, other than his reflection in the bathroom mirror.’

‘Bloody Waugh’, ‘bloody Ponting’, the ire continues, heartfelt and comic at the same time. Oh how we recognise it, we fellow-obsessives, mystifying our friends, slipping off on minor occasions like weddings and funerals for a brief communion with the transistor, greedy for the latest score, returning drawn-faced.