I share my birthday with lots of celebrities, among them Placido Domingo, Emma Bunton, Benny Hill and Telly Savalas.

But there are two other famous names who entered the world on January 21.

Two names which, through a bizarre celestial power, seem to have guided me on my cricketing odyssey.

First, in 1824, the American Civil War general Stonewall Jackson. Born 150 years to the day before me, I sometimes think there is a link between his grim defence of Confederate lines against Yankee onslaught and my ungainly blocking in the name of Headliners, Argus and St Bruce.

While I never win a game at the crease, I have helped to save one or two.

For a player of limited talent, perhaps the defensive influence of old Stonewall Jackson has been a blessing.

Not so the other name forever linked with January 21. On a cold winter's morning in 1970, a leg-spinning legend landed wide of the delivery table, hit the rough of the midwife's hands and bounced eight feet short of the crib.

Ian David Kenneth Salisbury had begun the long and tortuous journey towards a Test bowling average of 76.95.

Our careers have followed curious parallels. While he gets carted around Lahore, Port-of-Spain and Lord's, I have to make do with Balcombe, Horsdean and Mayfield.

Take this weekend. Figures of one wicket for 80 runs off ten overs suggest a darker force than my own ineptitude is at work.

On Saturday, an Aussie, picked as a bowler (I am told), treated my floating array of tweakers like Tiger Woods does a stationary golf ball.

I don't think I actually bowled that badly in going for 30 runs off 14 balls.

After that league mauling, next day promised the comparative ease of a friendly at Cuckfield against the gentlemen of St James's 2nd XI.

But it was then, as the dark clouds descended to blight another Bank Holiday, that the curse of IDK struck. Full toss followed long-hop, as deep square leg got a much-needed runaround.

Scarborough-born wicketkeeper Richard (a sort of cross between Frank Butcher and Fred Elliott) exclaimed: "You'd better kill yer own rabbit if yer want any ****ing luck bowling like that."

The others were no more helpful as, beyond my mortal control, balls sailed beyond the boundary. I was powerless to stop the drivel rotating from my hands.

As the opposition raked through the hedges lining the road into the village, I realised how naked Ian Salisbury must have felt bowling at a run-hungry Inzamam in the winter.

Sometimes you wonder why you bother.

But come Friday, I'll probably be dreaming of a Michelle (five-for) again.

Maybe, if I was destined to be a plaything of the cricketing gods, being born on September 13 (Shane Warne's birthday) would have helped.

But, as every club cricketer not worth his place knows, if you don't have plenty of bad days, how will you know when you have had a good one? It is, after all, meant to be the taking part that counts, isn't it?

Talking of bad days, pity those more gifted players who miss out every time an England team is mentioned. My Yorkshire mate Jimmy Watson and I have come up with the best XI of the last 20 years never (or at least not yet) to have played in Tests.

After almost coming to blows over the Paul Grayson issue, this is what we chose: Paul Prichard (Essex), Vince Wells (Leics), David Byas (Yorks, captain), Paul Johnson (Notts), David Ward (Surrey), Ashley Metcalfe (Yorks and Notts), Paul Nixon (Leics and Kent), Graham Rose (Middx and Som), David Millns (Notts and Leics), Glenn Chapple (Lancs), David Graveney (Gloucs, Som, Durham).

What team would you pick? Alan Wells doesn't count, by the way.