One of my friends has decided to take an interest in cricket.

Which I would usually applaud, except her interest has nothing to do with the actual game.

No, her interest is squarely due to the men playing the game.

Or one man in particular.

Stuart Clark.

She thinks the New South Wales pace bowler make it worth sitting around watching men clad in whites stand around a field occasionally scaring off flocks of birds with a little red ball.

I disagree.

Firstly, I don’t think she has a chance.

I mean yes, she is gorgeous, but she is not blonde.

And I’m pretty sure that being blonde is a perquisite for becoming a WAG.

I think an appearance in some sort of women’s magazine, preferably in your bikini after almost stealing the husband of another WAG, is another useful, but not necessarily required, trait.

But my friend’s small infatuation with Sarfraz got me thinking about the distinct lack of talent in the Australian cricket team.

Obviously I don’t mean their talent with a bat and ball.

They get enough write-ups about that already.

But considering the good-looking women they pull, you would think they could offer some man candy while out on the field.

Yet not only is it very slim pickings – which is why I think anyone who is not completely unfortunate looking, like Stuart Clark, looks even better – they put their face and name to things which are distinctively unattractive, like hair treatments for balding men.

Oh be still my swooning heart!

Seriously.

Cricketers are like the anti-sportsmen.

They don’t seem to be particularly buff, are more famous to the non-sport-watching public for their drunken antics than the actual game they play and have no problem putting their names to things which are not even remotely sports orientated – baked beans, cigarette replacement products, beer and goodness knows what else!

I’m also pretty sure that it is the only sport in the world where if you are feeling a bit off, someone else can do the running for you.

They break play for dinner, tea and probably brunch, hold world records in drinking, don’t seem to have a lot of humbleness and have no problems with sledging the opposition.

They talk about their great rivalry with the mother land, then go and play for them in the winter.

They defend Shane Warne as an “all right bloke” cos he can throw a ball.

They dress up in deodorant cans for television ads.

They try and impersonate Richie Benaud (seriously, how is that man still alive) – and do a very, very bad job.

And to be honest, in the looks department, there is no Craig Wing, Chris Tarrant or Pat Rafter among them.

And they wonder why women start snoring during the summer.