MY insomnia could only ever be described as a good thing once every four years at a time when the festive season is approaching.

And for all of us restless sleepers, at least those who know our gullies from our short-legs, very soon it will be Christmas before it’s actually Christmas.

The Ashes is almost upon us, this time played Down Under, when the sentence said silently to one’s self “I’ll just stay up one more hour” is followed shortly by “I’ll watch the end of this session and then go to bed.”

There are sports-mad people who do not get cricket and I get that. The matches last five days, there are far more periods of nothing happening than actual action, and after over 40 hours of play it could all end in a draw.

Ah, but if you can get into Test Match cricket, especially when it is Australia and England, two countries which really don’t get on, then it is sport at it’s best.

I support England. I call the cricket team “them” and “us”. This is the only time I do so.

My dad was a cricket fan and so we would watch the Tests together. Back then, I loved the West Indies who not only looked cool, but could also bowl a rock-hard ball at 100mph towards an opponent’s head. What wasn’t to love?

However, it was in the 1990s when I became an England supporter because they were, well, rubbish. They couldn’t beat anyone and when it came to The Ashes, one or two decent performances aside, they were thrashed.

I decided they needed my help.

It felt then like there was no way back, that English cricket was, at least on the international scene, on a terminal decline.

Then came the classic Ashes of 2005 and everything changed.

I attended two days of the final Test at The Oval when England, inspired by Kevin Pieterson and helped by a bit of rain, saw out a draw meaning they beat the Aussie 2-1 in a series which gripped the world or at least those who don’t hate cricket.

Going to an actual match is superb. When the ticket warns the spectator that they are “only” allowed four cans of beer and a bottle of wine into the ground – where there are bars – you know the day is going to be a good one.

Sure, one of our group fell over into broken glass and cut his hand to the bone – but this is professional sport and sometimes people get hurt.

However, the best thing about it all is seeing in real life, as it were, is to be spellbound as to just how fast the bowlers are and how little time the batsmen has to avoid being hit and secondly to guide the ball to a boundary. The skill and bravery involved is a wondrous thing to see.

So, when the first ball is bowled in Brisbane on Thursday, I will be glued to my television, unable to take my eyes of the drama which consists at varying times of a man shining the ball by rubbing it on his trousers, the game stopped so people can have drinks, a batsman mending the divots on the wicket and the cameras catching a grown man dressed as a baby.

The Ashes is the best thing in cricket. Australia don’t like the English and vice-versa. Every wicket, catch, stumping four or six feels twice as important because it is. The history of the Ashes is a hard-to-beat sporting story.

I fear this is not going to be a tour to remember for England. They are without Ben Stokes, a brilliant all-rounder who got involved in a pub brawl. The superb Moeen Ali, my favourite, is not fit, Alastair Cook looks over the hill and there are one or two in the squad who really are only there because there is nobody else.

So, it’s Joe Root and Jimmy Anderson against 11 angry Aussies.

Give it a go. I can guarantee you won’t be able to go to bed and when the morning comes, after too few hours sleep, you will promise yourself it will be an early night, and then you will do it all over again.