![]() ![]() It is, I thought, a love letter of sorts to Warnie despite its author noting, cleverly and perhaps dryly, that, actually, he never wanted to marry him. It's a terrific read: Clever and dry warm and perceptive. No, you needed that little Australian tick at the end, in the spirit of prezzy, telly and rellie, identifying him as ours, and also making him everyone's." After all you could hardly call him Warne. You can thank television for that - all those exhalations of 'Bowled, Warnie' from Ian Healy filtered through the pitch microphones. On Warnie would be a very silly title for a book but the author notes, on the first page: "Warnie. It is, obviously, about Shane Warne who is invariably Warnie. The finest cricket writer alive is the Australian journalist Gideon Haigh, and I know he is the finest cricket writer alive (I don't know about the dead ones) because I read it on the cover of his book On Warne. Self-deprecating cricket writer is duller than dirt, if you can believe him, but he's passionate enough about the game to keep bats in every room ![]()
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