But equally, the sliotar knows, as does the hurl, that, at the end of the day, it's only he, the sliotar, that can go over or under the crossbar and put points on the scoreboard.

Allow me to pose a question to you that has so occupied my thoughts for the last number of years that I am confident, at this stage, that there are a countless number of irreparable holes in my brain. What is the fundamental purpose of music criticism?

If I write a review of a concert, is its purpose to a) file a report of the proceedings for those who missed the concert, b) inform the musicians who performed at the concert of all their mistakes, c) confirm or refute the opinions of those that attended the event, d) give people ideas for what to say at the next concert or e) get a few personal biases off my chest and onto the printed page?

It doesn't matter what I think the answer to that question is.

What matters more, for the validity or even necessity of music criticism, or perhaps any kind of criticism, is why someone, whoever they may be, is compelled to read the review in the first place.

Most musicians I know don't care what critics think of them;

they would probably stand by the British novelist Jonathan Priestley's affirmation: "Critics are parasites, who, if nothing had been written, would find nothing to write about." Besides, if the answer to the above question is option b), you can bet your bottom dollar the musician himself doesn't need to be told about those mistakes.

Inevitably, audiences are more vulnerable to the persuasion of the printed word. Somehow, it seems that greater authority on a subject can be commanded if a person is able to verbalise a negative analysis of the subject rather than a positive one . . . and music criticism, albeit subconsciously, feeds into this protocol.

Composers such as Berlioz, Wagner and Schumann were noted music critics of their time.

As composers, they certainly knew the ins and outs of their subject. But more importantly, they were all inextricably entwined in the War of the Romantics, that 19th-century debate around the 'right' kind of music. That is to say, they each had several drums that required loud beating.

Every music critic, whether they aspire to being the epitome of impartiality, has a drum to beat. Music critics have the luxury of having the very best amplification for their drumbeat so that theirs is louder than most.

But anyone who listens to music also has a drum to beat. To illuminate my point without the cloak of metaphor . . . we all have our likes and dislikes.

Music can but be a subjective experience. It is an aural encounter that moves you emotionally and therefore it is impossible that we all experience each musical encounter in the same way.

I love Mahler but I don't much care for Dvorak. I enjoy the Bach partitas for violin more when they are played on a Baroque instrument. I hate when vocalists overuse glissandi (sliding) to move between notes.

Is it right then that by virtue of the printed word, someone might inadvertently adopt mine or another's prejudices?

Isn't there, in fact, something more important going on in this game than the eternal struggle between the sliotar and the hurl?