Confession

I have a confession to make. On Saint Patrick's Day, of all days. 

(Deep breath.)

I like cricket.

I like its deep pointlessness. 

I like to fall asleep in the dead of winter knowing that The Ashes is being played in searing Australian sunshine, and that the innings will build while I’m asleep. Or there’ll be a batting collapse, and somewhere in England in the dead of night a journalist is sipping coffee, trying not to wake their young child, typing an over-by-over commentary of what they see on their TV to inform people like me around the world with wit and wisdom. 

And then there are articles, like this one by Robert McLiam Wilson, where a writer says something profoundly important about the world by writing about cricket.

Cricket. Bloody hell.