MARTIN JOHNSON

Whatever recreational substance Alex Hales was on, presumably from somewhere other than over the counter at Boots, there was a time when it wouldn’t have affected his career in the slightest. A time when a player could have fallen over giggling in the Press box, claiming to be Napoleon Bonaparte or two poached eggs on toast, knowing that it would never make it into the newspapers.
This was when cricket reporters wrote only about the cricket, and whatever went on off the field never made it into the public domain. On the field was a different mat...