As a Scot, I've always thought that cricket was one of those things that just isn't for us. You know, like independence and guilt-free sex.

Cricket, the more-than-a-bit-narrow-minded me believed, was essentially an English game, redolent of sleepy Home County suburbs, cable-knit sweaters, leather on willow and continual inquiries as to whether there's honey still for tea.

My opinion wasn't lessened by the point that, as far as I'm aware, we're absolute rubbish at it. In Australia, on the other hand, it's an entirely different ball-game.

Cricket here is huge, the national game by some way, a unifying and omnipresent pursuit, evidenced by the recent wide-scale mourning at the tragic death of Phil Hughes, one of its finest players.

And at no time, is the crucial import of Test Cricket more evident than the Melbourne Boxing day match.

Since I live a mere well-struck cover drive from the Melbourne Cricket Ground, I thought it was time I confronted my blind prejudice towards the game, so I bought a ticket and joined the throng.

Throng it is, the MCG - known locally as 'The G' being a massive coliseum of a stadium, able to accommodate 100,000 patrons in a level of comfort totally unknown to regular attendees of any Scottish football ground. (For a start, you can get a drink.)

Australia v India is the match-up, one to savour according to those who know, second only in terms of competition and ill-feeling to the Ashes game against that team everybody loves to hate (I can't quite recall their name).

Now, as every sports lover knows, there's absolutely no point in attending a live event - or even watching on TV - without supporting a team. Being a neutral is all very well in theory, but I've always found it takes a whole lot of the fun away.

No, I thought, I'm going to a Test match in Australia, I live in Australia and therefore, naturally, I decided to support the Indians.

Maybe it's a national characteristic to be perverse, maybe it's an affinity for the underdog and maybe it's because we don't actually like to be winners but, for whatever reason, I'm going for India.

Beautiful sunny weather and it doesn't feel much like Christmas, despite a number of punters turning up in full Santa Claus outfits, their faces nearly as red as their outfits, and significantly more so after a full day in the sun and the downing of a goodly number of amber nectars.

Drinking, it seems, is a major part of coming to the cricket. The queue at the bars is never-ending at 10.30am and they do a roaring trade throughout the day, despite the fact that half-strength beer is sold in plastic cups and is subsequently lukewarm within seconds of being poured.

Never mind, as a dedicated toper of my acquaintance used to say, there's only one thing worse than warm beer. No beer.

A Test match, in case you don't know, lasts for five days - only slightly less than the Tour de France but unlike the thousands of kilometres and buckets of sweat incurred in the cycling race, not much actually happens.

Well, that's not true. Things do happen. But very slowly.

The Aussies batted first and made a good few runs over the course of what seemed like hours, mostly because it was. During this time, the crowd was well engaged in the game, but nowhere near as much as it was in getting outside of plenty of bevy.

Part of the fun was to connect all of the empty plastic beer cups to make a continuous line of them which stretched over a row of at least 20 odd seats.

Chucking a beach ball around the enclosures was also a popular activity, the idea being to prevent the ball reaching the area of play as, whenever it did, it was burst in full view of the patrons by a kill-joy security guard who seemed to have a pen knife on hand specifically for that purpose.

Eventually Australia was all out and the Indians had a bat, making a lot of runs though not as many as the Aussies.

After three days, we were halfway through the game.

One of the more exciting elements (yes, there were some) was the apparent antagonism between the players, not in any way replicated on the terracing. It was obvious that a lot of these guys didn't like each other.

This is more like it, I thought, a bit of dig never hurt anyone, although a cricket ball launched at you obviously can.

Nothing sleepy Home County village-like about this encounter I started to think, as the general atmosphere of tension started to affect me. (Or was it the beer?)

I wouldn't say I've become a rabid fan of the game - I'm some way from becoming a cricket tragic, hey, but sitting in a luxurious sporting ground, continual lazy sunshine, a bit of banter and plenty of booze on hand - I have to say I've had worse Christmases.

Maybe cricket is for Scots after all.