FREDDIE Flintoff's life could be played out to the theme tune of Entry of the Gladiators (the one they play when the clowns come out at the circus and that some wag sings in a football crowd when a goalkeeper falls flat on his back after taking a goal kick).

He's no stranger to a pint of lager and makes a cracking fool of himself after going out on the lash.

Falling out of a pedallo into the sea at four o'clock in the morning, 36 hours before a World Cup match, is typical Freddie.

It has brought him plenty of slaps on the wrist from the morally righteous, and he has had to do the embarrassing repentant naughty boy press conference where he has held his hands up to all his misdemeanours and promised not to do them again.

Yes, right.

Now the motions have been gone through, I reckon he'll be more likely to listen to the opinion of his 80-year-old granny, Elsie, who said: "If they can't go out on a binge now and again, it's a poor do."

Here, here. There are enough clean-living, boring sportsmen around and we need a few more characters like Freddie.

It just wouldn't be the same without him going out getting drunk and staggering around with his dopey smile and vacant eyes barely visible beneath leaden lids.

English sport has been built on flawed geniuses and anyone who thinks Freddie's bad influence and lifestyle will cost England the World Cup are wrong - it's our rubbish bowling attack that will do that.