Ah yes, my loyal reader. If I were put in a chair, light shining in my eyes, and the torturer ready to water-board me, I’d still refuse to confess that I thought that Andrew Flintoff’s first autobiography was anything other than the most unadulterated, ill-researched, awfully written profiteering exercise ever in the field of cricket books. It was woeful. It had errors throughout, and they clearly couldn’t be bothered with a researcher. The book is gathering dust at the back of my cabinet, as I one day anticipate dragging it out and torturing someone else with it.

I couldn’t recall who the ghost-writer of this crock of crap was until I read barely sentient Charles Sale’s column, when he reminded me that it was one Myles Hodgson. Described by Sale as “a leading cricket journalist” (I’ve no idea he did it, but looking at journalisted to see his latest work, it is little wonder why. I’m not Scottish, and the Independent? Is it still going?) and the “highly respected” Press Association cricket correspondent (is he a mate, Charlie?), Myles is taking on a new role (moonlighting) because his obvious skills have ended up with him getting the push. Indespensible, Charlie! Anyway, he’s joining Freddie Flintoff’s management team so he’ll be fine. Then came the scariest news possible…

Flintoff having Hodgson, who is also writing his next book, Ashes to Ashes, due out this autumn…..

Oh My GOD!!!! He’s writing the sequel. Run for the hills….. He needs Hodgson’s help like a fish needs a bicycle.