Unsung poets

We might actually be glad of the time difference over in Australia this Christmas, so that we can switch on to Aggers and co. and listen in peace long after Aunt Maud has been safely tucked up with her mug of Horlicks and hot-water bottle. The Fourth Test in Melbourne promises to be the best present of the season, cheering up the nation and turning us all into Yes We Can people after decades of No Can Do. Who can remember a time when cricket has been so incredibly exciting, with England’s batters whacking the ball into triple figures, and wickets falling ball-on-ball not to the terrifying speed of the West Indians or the crafty spinning of those turncoat Aussies but to our own Broad, Swann and Anderson? It’s enough to turn me into an ardent member of the Barmy Army.

Don’t bother with the TV highlights, though; they’ll give you nothing of the real flavour of the game, with its graceful pacing and carefully plotted psychological drama.