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I consider myself an aesthete. The cultured ying to the vulgar yang of my fellow Sofanistas. Fine wines not Stella; authentic Tuscan peasant food courtesy of Signora Sophia, not a Scotch egg from Costcutters. We're a Strictly household, not X-Factor. And if Grange Hill were still on it would be barred on account of course language and racy hemlines. Tricia Yates, really, what were you thinking? Brian Sewell's bastard love child, if you like. Simon Heffer's bessie mate.
 
So it's fair to say that a lot of the modern world grates on me. I had to lie down for a week when The Daily Telegraph changed its typeface a while back. Don't people carry handkerchiefs these days? Do we really need Bargain Hunt when Pages from Ceefax encouraged reading? Alesha Dixon!
 
But nothing grates on me more in the modern game than Graeme to fuck buggering Smith.
 
Where do we start? He straddles the crease rather in the manner of a choleraic man chancing upon a French latrine. Do you have to make such a spectacle of your derriere, young man, enviably pert though it no doubt is? Then there's the railway sleeper for a bat. No Hutton-esque rapier for the Big G. Why bother with a sublime Mark Waugh-esque ondrive when a clanking inside edge to cow corner will do. The hands dear boy, the hands! They grip the blade like he's wringing a towel out on some ghastly Iberian beach. I can't lip read but I fear his language is rather choice. All this from a nation that gave us Mandela and Barry Richards too. Don't even get me started on the expectoration. I just feel sorry for his mother.
 
At least the Ashes and NZ v India offers us some hope. A dreamy duel between Dravid and Vettori, the Geek of Tweak. Swanny's loop versus Ponting's crisp shotmaking. Anderson's lissome trebuchet of an action and Clarke's delightful touch. I'm salivating just at the thought of it all. Only a few more sleeps to go. Tuck me up Hendo. Read me a story Tom.