Even by my pitiful standards the start to the cricket season has been one of abject misery as I stand at the crease like Stevie Wonder with his boots tied together, utilising a boomerang as a bat.

When I started to play again about ten years ago, I resembled a one-armed man trying to kill a snake in phone box, but remarkably, sometimes it came off, with a few chaotic scores in the 30’s  satisfying my renewed lust for the most complex of sports.

Not content with these contributions I decided that I needed a 50 before I was 50 (next year) so I set about some open wallet surgery and purchased lessons with a professional at the Dummer Cricket Centre.

Not far short of a thousand pounds later, I fully expected to be in the reckoning for an England place and a punched straight drive for four off a Sunday geriatric and a towering six off of the raw pace of a nine year-old girl (their wicket-keeper called me a cunt) had me convinced I was on the right track for the forthcoming tour of Australia.

A 36 and an agonising 45 not-out followed and it seemed only a matter of time before I kissed the turf and lofted my bat in the air to signal my appreciation to a crowd featuring a passer-by and a confused looking dog.

Alas, my form deteriorated to a point where, as I walked out to bat, the birds stopped singing, the leaves stopped rustling and the trains that pass Oakley Cricket stopped running. I was at a point where I longed to be a bit crap again, rather than absolute, utter crap.

Cutting a Dash: Me in a recent exhibition of ineptitude 

Walking to the crease, I would take “two” rather than “middle” to pretend I knew what the fuck I was doing, but the truth is, I am not even good at being a fraud and it only exposed my stumps further as I played a pathetic forward defensive at thin air and the  ball rattled “through the gate” for which my feet provided an immovable stationery pillar.

I even started playing cricket in multiples of ten (10 being a personal century) to make it more fun but even by using that law, my season has started with 0, 10 and 10, so now I must go to even lower denominations.

Runs are now goals, the game is still cricket but my scoring will be judged in football terms, as if though I were a centre forward. This season I have scored 2 in three outings, which, if you were to ask Harry Kane or Jamie Vardy, is a fair start.

Psychologists are at pains to understand why cricket has, tragically, the highest suicide rate in competitive sports.

A visit to my house after another stressful weekend would offer them clues aplenty.