Test cricket is the ultimate version of the athletic chess that is a fine sport. It is an ambition to get to a Test before I snuff it. County cricket - two innings each - over four days, is a fine spectacle, but too many of the top players rarely get a knock or an over because of the Test contract thingmer. Twenty Twenty and The Hundred (or Sixteen Point Six Seven Sixteen Point Six Seven as it’s disparagingly-known by fellow disparagits) is just rounders, so just fucking stop it. Limited overs stuff is fine in first class one-day trophy cricket, and when on holiday, I always take in the local village cricket where available. Ageing spin bowlers, batsmen like Desperate Dan, someone from the crowd asked to fill in fielding at deep third man (ie unlikely to be called into action), a beer tent or ‘refreshment stall’, athletes with the dietary awareness of Billy Bunter scoffing pies, sassidge rolls, and fancy pieces at the tea interval, and the inevitable six hit to cow corner where the windscreen of a Fiat or Skoda belonging to the fielding team’s wicket-keeper is shattered by a spectacular miscue from a number nine batsman. What’s not to love?