Is there any sport that divides people as much as cricket? There are those who don’t understand it and don’t care; then there are those who understand it and still don’t care; and then there are those for whom the whole of life is viewed through leather-on-willow-coloured spectacles. For them, cricket’s not just a game, it’s the Ultimate Metaphor. Not long ago, a friend told me that the problem with the Middle East peace process is that everyone’s bowling left arm over the wicket. So that’s that sorted then. He recently got divorced, or, as he put it, declared on 17 for 2 (that’s 17 years and 2 children). Most of us in his social circle agree it’s a miracle his wife never hit him for 6 (months in intensive care).

Cricket brings out the Dan Brown in an Englishman (and we are talking mostly the English and mostly men). It’s the Knights Templars of competitive sports. There’s the mysterious numerology (4 for 32), the esoteric language that doesn’t quite make sense to the uninitiated (“silly mid-on”, “lbw”, “an England victory”), the immensely powerful secret names bestowed upon its members (“Johnners”, “Athers”, “Boycs”). No wonder freemasonry never really took hold in England. Who needs to roll up a trouser-leg when you can take off a whole jumper and give it to some bloke to wrap around his middle alongside six or seven other jumpers?

Michael Simkins ( nom de cricket : Simmo) offers us an entertaining example of the Nick Hornby fat-lad-chosen-last-for-the-football-team genre of autobiography (NevergotpickedLit?), only for “football” read “cricket” and for “fat lad” read “obese ahead of his time” (his parents owned a sweet shop). The book’s saving grace is that Simmo may be a shockingly average amateur cricketer, but when it comes to self-deprecating wit and telling a good anecdote, he’s as sprightly as Garry Sobers in his prime (was Sobers sprightly? — I’m not sure, but you get the point).

The young Simkins was first inspired to take up his bat by Colin Milburn, one in a long line of England cricketers who were undoubtedly sportsmen but whose waistlines challenge you to describe them as athletes. We follow his obsession into adult-hood, where he runs a Sunday team of similarly devoted nutters. The anecdotes and quirky characters hurtle down at us like yorkers bowled by a fast bowler that I’m not quite knowledgeable enough to name, but, like other good examples of the genre, Fatty Batter isn’t really about cricket. Wistful and nostalgic about an England that’s now more Abi Titmuss than Fred Titmus, as Simmo puts it, the book is about men and how we deal with lives that didn’t quite turn out how we dreamt they would through a combination of back-slapping camaraderie, beer, nicknames and jokes (Doctor, doctor! My wife’s swallowed a cricket ball! — What?! How’s that? — Don’t you bloody start!). An entertaining read indeed, or as my recently divorced friend might say: Enjoyment wins by an innings and 95 runs.

FATTY BATTER: How Cricket Saved My Life (Then Ruined It) by Michael Simkins

Ebury £10.99 pp314

Available at the Sunday Times Books First price of £9.89 (inc p&p) on 0870 165 8585

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