There is an utterly ghastly period known to us all, a hollow, empty void, a stark, barren wasteland.
Douglas Adams called it the long, dark tea-time of the soul.
I call it Monday to Wednesday, that awful, fallow, sportless period which condemns you to watching reruns of events from the 70s and 80s whilst you wait for the golf and cricket to begin on a Thursday.
You lie abed, drenched in pitiful apathy as the clock strikes 9. There is little point in stirring from your pit, unless you delight in the perversions that are darts, ice-skating, badminton and the like. These are not sports, merely hapless games which have no place on the plasma.
And then the winter of your sportless discontent is made glorious summer by this sun of sport, as Thursday dawns, another epic Ashes content looms, European golf, American golf, tri nations rugby and more, a veritable flood of quality live sport upon which to feast.
You gorge yourself with great gluttony, mindful that such a repast can only last until Monday, when once again you are deprived of the very life-blood that is top-class international sporting action, that very reason for being.
Ah me, the ebb and flow of life!
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