While Ireland's cricketers covered themselves in World Cup glory back in spring, they did of course receive the sport's equivalent of an assault and battery at the hands of Australia. It could have been worse . . . they were spared legendary leg-spinner Shane Warne, who had loing since been retired from the one-day game is the subject of Portrait of a Flawed Genius.

If Warne had turned out last April it is a given his bowling would have tied Irish batsmen up in knots.

It is also clear he would have flung fairly salty sledges from ball one. Post match, he would also have been the first into the Ireland dressing room with a sixpack of beer and a barrel of banter. The Irish lads could also tell their children they played against a man who is in many minds the greatest bowler the world has ever seen. If that was not enough, Warne made his name bowling wrist spin, the most difficult bowling art in the game.

Equally reviled and adored, Warne is the Aussie counterpart to our own Roy Keane. Simon Wilde's look at Warne's life starts off with a 'you are there' scenario in which he puts the reader in a batsman's place as Warne bowls. It's a clever device but not that clever, given Wilde has used it before. We then see the massive contradictions at the heart of his character . . . his absolute confidence in his own abilities countered by his insecurities and need to be loved.

There's his boorishness on the pitch that is in stark contrast to his graciousness off it. These contradictions extend to his private life . . . he is married with two children and uses every occasion to express his love for wife Simone even though the marriage foundered because of Warne's sordid activities.

Warne's life is perfect for sporting biography. His story resembles Frank Sinatra's . . . early highs, midcareer dip, loves and losses, and finally a triumphant return to the top. It's a story full of brio, colour and scandal and its telling should be a case of pizzaz over precision. Sadly, Wilde is no Kitty Kelley. Portrait of a Flawed Genius suffers because Wilde's style defeats the content. It should have and could have been a definitive volume and a rattling read. It is neither and as such represents a missed opportunity.