I rarely rant about cricket – the other love of my life – so I want to establish my credentials before I do so.

That I share the same initials as The Don – that’s right; DGB – must surely be the first clue that cricket is special to me and my opinions on the gentleman’s game should therefore be respected.

But the similarities go well beyond that! Like The Don, I could score effortlessly for my team – for hours at a time with no loss in concentration at all – and I never had to use a rubber once!

Scoring and umpiring were my go-two activities, especially seeing that as an opening batsman, I was available to offer my services for those tasks often before the first over had been completed by our opponents.

So, satisfied I know what I’m talking about?

Good. So here’s my rant. What the fuck were the Channel 7 commentary team watching when they declared to a man that that South African slipper had clearly caught Marnus Labuschagne on the first day of the SCG Test.

Can we crowdfund – or should that be clown fund? – some Specsavers appointments for them?

They all got that call horribly wrong which I admit came as a real surprise as I’ve finally gotten used to the Seven commentary team.

I’ve downloaded the app that slows down Ricky Ponting’s speech to only 150 words a minute, making some if his comments almost comprehensible.

And I’ve now come to grips with the fact that Justin Langer is blessed with an amazing, encyclopedic, knowledge of just about any topic under the sun and not just cricket, coaching and sports psychology.

And I’ve got no objection if Australian commentators favour the opposition – as long as they get it right.

But here’s the catch. Or more correctly, no catch. Blind Freddy could have seen that the ball clearly had come in contact with just one blade of grass – and one blade is all it takes – as the fielder’s fingers grabbed at either side of the ball.

It’s why I’m so upset about this, being probably the fairest and most decent person I know when it comes to watching sport.

You accept the decisions made by the referees and umpires conducting games and that’s why I have never, ever, blown up whenever those slimy cockroaching Blues cunts snatch a State of Origin win on the back of a pass that was clearly metres forward and, fuck me roan, were the linesmen asleep or on the take!

Let me paint another scenario to show you how fair I am. Let’s assume that there’s one ball left in the entire Ashes series coming up at the centre of Empire. The Poms are leading two-one in the series and with nine down at the Oval, their Mr Root simply has to defend that final delivery to seal a draw and reclaim the Ashes.

And I’m telling you here and now that if he then edged that final ball to slip and the endless replays were the exact mirror image of that Labuschange non-dismissal, any hatred I might have for those whinging, cheating, lolly-sucking, pommie cunts with plums in their fuckings mouths and silver spoons up their private-school arses would be put to one side and unlike the Channel 7 commentary team, I would be shouting “That’s not out!” and lifting a can of XXXX to my lips to congratulate the English side on their totally undeserved victory.

As I’ve said, that’s the sort of guy I am.

And maybe in view of those amazing attributes which allow me see things clearly and plainly as they are and not let all reason and fairness be hijacked by partisan, selfish, needs, maybe Channel 7 should invite me on to their commentary team. I’d gladly take the place of the fuckknuckle who shouted “No, That’s out for me. That’s clean. I’m giving that out!”

Apart from the need to go to Specsavers with his colleagues, this visually challenged chap seems to have totally forgotten the basic rule of cricket that comes before what countless replays may or may not show: the benefit of the doubt should always go to the batsman.

That benefit of the doubt was never given to me, for fuck’s sake, and where, oh where, could my career have ended up if the fucking myoptic cowboys standing behind the stumps at the bowler’s end had remotely understood that fucking basic tenet of the game we flannelled fools love.

Yes, I’m talking about you, the “umpire” unaffectionately nicknamed Quickdraw McGraw, and the countless times you wrongly sent me back to the sheds and my scoring duties at Chermside’s Marchant Park.

With so many others of your ilk, you effectively robbed Australia of probably the greatest Test batsman this country could have ever produced apart, of course, from my initialssake, The Don.

Don Gordon-Brown.