Brisbane used to have fabulous reputation for rain, the Ashes Tests of 1928, 1936, 1946 and 1950 spiralling down the drain for whomever was the butt of the conditions. So farcical was the last, featuring one day in which twenty wickets fell for 120 runs, that Marylebone requested Brisbane’s removal from the rota of Test match venues ‘for climatic and financial reasons’; the Australian Board of Control for International Cricket insisted that the Gabba remain, ‘in the interests of Australian cricket’. These interests were well served when Australia, under pitiless sun, won the next Test there by an innings and 154 runs.

There has been some harking back to that Test in the last week, the Sunday Times among others invoking the example of Frank Tyson as a possible inspiration for Steve Harmison, the Douglas Corrigan of fast bowling. But the belief in the significance historical antecedents is perhaps even emptier than the trust in rain. How many series, and games, and careers, genuinely parallel another, in anything other than the most superficial senses? Cricket, of course, is a game replete with superstitions. But as one who has put his left pad on first for decades and still hardly made a run, I can assure you that they are not much help and little consolation.