WHEN I was growing up, I always had a strong desire to emigrate to Australia. I knew very little about the place, other than tales my father had told me of when he was there sorting out the Japanese Navy in his submarine in 1944.

Among the souvenirs he brought back from his posting to Fremantle in Western Australia was a nine inch tall model of a kangaroo, made of some exotic metal, and I always felt I had an infinity with the serene black boomer with the whimsical expression.

In fact, I inherited it when he died, and although it has been battered a bit over the years, and has lost its feet, it is still a treasured possession.

Despite being depth-charged by a Japanese destroyer while on patrol from Fremantle, my father remained very fond of Australia, and was supportive of my desire to live and work there but insisted: “It’s no use going out there with a big strong back; they’ve got plenty of big strong backs of their own. You need to get your qualifications before you go.”

Wise words indeed, and I sometimes wish I had continued my studies instead of leaving school at 16 to become a cub reporter.

On television, Chips Rafferty was among my favourite actors, and I seldom missed an episode of Whiplash , the Australia-set western where the hero Christopher Cobb used his bullwhip to settle all arguments long before Indiana Jones was a twinkle in Steven Spielberg’s eye.

I was an avid reader too, and knew that as well having round the year sunshine life would never be dull Down Under because of all that things that could condemn you to a lingering and agonising death.

If it wasn’t the saltwater crocodiles, and box jellyfish lurking in the sea, there was a killer octopus, and a fish that buried itself in the sand , leaving only its poison-tipped dorsal fin sticking up for folk to tread on.

But the main attraction was Australia’s effortless prowess at sport, where the peerless Herb Elliott was forever eclipsing Britain’s gallant Derek Ibbotson over a mile or 1500 metres, and Ron Clarke was dominating everyone over longer distances.

On the tennis courts, Rod Laver, Roy Emmerson, Lew Hoad and Kenny Rosewall were streets ahead of everyone else, while Margaret Smith and Evonne Goolagong were starting to light up the women’s game.

But it was on the cricket field of my youth where Australian players stood alone, with men like Richie Benaud, Bobby Simpson, Neil Harvey, Keith Miller, Ray Lindwall, “Slasher” McKay and the rest illuminating every ground on which they played.

They played with a laugh and a cavalier spirit, bringing much joy to a Britain still recovering from six years of war.

My brother and I were very much into street cricket, even though we were a bit short on actual playing equipment. Our antediluvian cricket bat, yellow with age, acquired from goodness knows where, was the only authentic kit we had. The stumps were chalked on to the wall, and we used a tennis ball, as a corky would not only endanger windows but also our tender bodies.

It was always one against one, with the important addition of Wally Grout - not the renowned Australian wicketkeeper, but an ancient leather suitcase, named in his honour, which claimed a fair number of crucial catches when strategically placed under the living room window.

We played endless Ashes series for many summers, unfazed by pitch invasions from the neighbours, who for some reason felt aggrieved when a glorious cover drive from Bill Lawry hit their front room window, and the notorious Blackie Hutchins, the mongrel from down the street which specialised in stealing the ball at crucial moments.

Australian cricketers were venerated beyond all others, which is why I found the toe-curling and lachrymal grovellings of the senior Australian players caught ball tampering in South Africa last week particularly upsetting.

Make no mistake, those saltwater crocodile tears were not evidence of remorse for their wrongdoing – they were weeping because they had been caught cheating, bringing disgrace on themselves and more importantly, their country.