Graham Thorpe's autobiography

I was lucky, if that's the correct word, to receive Graham Thorpe's autobiography the other day (there are perks to my job!), and skimmed through it on the train on Friday. I was unfortunate enough to be sitting next to an impossibly large gentleman who spent the three hour journey scribbling numbers on a curled notepad. I never did decipher what he was doing, but in a moment of panic and fantasy, thought perhaps he was a spy for the government.

Anyway, such was my predicament and general lack of space that I settled down to read this book. And what a great disappointment it was.

I should point out that I didn't, and still have yet to, finish the book and I admit that I'm not very well qualified to complain about it. But balderdash to that - I'm going to. While I have a lot of time for him as a batsman and cricketer, I couldn't decide whether this was simply an honest portrayal of his life; an extended therapy session (he suffers from depression) or an attempt to remove several large chips from his shoulder. I don't doubt that what he has been through has ruined him and his life - it has. But I question his reasoning behind publishing it. Worryingly, an extra chapter looks like it's being released in June this year.