Why Warnie is forgiven no matter what he does

Illustration: Mick Connolly

Footy fans booed Adam Goodes, for spurious reasons that included, but weren't confined to, his stance on racial issues. In 2013, they booed Jobe Watson, in what was a mindless misreading of culpability in the Essendon mess.

Shane Warne was among those who were critical of Goodes, and he essentially defended the booers, rather than Goodes. "The whole Adam Goodes drama is ridiculous," Warnie tweeted. "The public can boo or chant  whoever's name they want. It's nothing to do with being racist. If the public don't like a sportsman because of the way they play the game, they boo, if they like them they cheer."

Warne, clearly, views the sporting public as a fair and accurate arbiter of who's in the right. We should not be surprised that S.K.Warne would give the crowd such authority. For no matter what he's done, he'll never know how it feels to be hooted by the Australian public. 

If Big Brother was televised over sporting lifetimes, he'd never leave the house.

Watson was booed after giving an honest answer to a question about a substance that he was told he'd been given (and which ASADA didn't pursue the players for). Warne actually tested positive to a banned substance – a diuretic – and received a 12-month ban. His explanation – that his mum had given it to him to lose weight – was widely accepted, in part because we know he's vain, in part because we accept he's prone to stuff-ups.

Warnie also took money from an Indian bookmaker in the mid-'90s, a mistake that didn't become public until 1998. His explanation, and that of Mark Waugh, was that they were providing information on the weather and the pitch. Cricket Australia slapped them with a wet lettuce in the form of a fine. In today's environment – post Hansie Cronje and the spot-fixing scandals – the consequences for Warnie would surely be far worse.

Warne has always gotten away with it. Most recently, "it" is a poorly performing charity that, on the latest figures, paid a modest 16 cents for every dollar raised over a three-year period and which is being examined by Consumer Affairs Victoria.

He has been on the front foot in defending the Warne Foundation, helped by the institutional support he receives from Channel Nine and his friendships with media luminaries, including Eddie McGuire, who gave Warne ample airtime on Triple M in which to defend the foundation's affairs and rubbish the Sunday Age journalists who wrote the stories (Eddie is on the foundation board). The day the front page was first adorned with a story about the foundation, Warnie used the Nine broadcast at the Adelaide Test to put his spin on what had happened.

From what one can gather, he is more upset by the whiff surrounding his charity than any other dirt that he's worn. So he's doing what celebrities do, which is to put their version out there, throw a few jabs back and, in this case, acknowledge that the foundation is being repaired.

Based on past form, Warnie shouldn't worry. He won't be dented by this episode, either. Whether he dead bats questions, hits them over the fence, or gets caught out won't matter. The punters won't care. They'll forgive him, as ever.

On a sluggish Boxing Day, Warne was in the Nine commentary booth, recounting how he'd taken his kids to the latest Star Wars movie. He also mentioned the return of Han Solo, a character whom Warne resembles in some respects. 

Han Solo is a bit of a pirate, an adventurous lad who isn't averse to cutting corners or taking liberties. 

But ultimately, he's on the right side of the force. I don't think it's a huge stretch to say that Warne would see himself in this boyish "lovable rogue" light.

The public's willingness to give Warnie a leave pass derives, not simply from his rogue charm, but from our expectations. We actually expect him to find trouble. No one is ever going to be indignant about the behaviour of someone of that ilk; their blunders are greeted with bemused chuckles –  "that's just Warnie." 

As a former Cricket Australia official familiar with Warne brush fires put it, "we expect him to have a little stuff up". When he took up with Liz Hurley, for instance, the question was "how long will this last".

Warne's slips and scandals are part of the entertainment package, and he'll weather any scandal so long as he isn't seen to be hurting others. I suspect that this is why the foundation stuff hurts him – for the first time, he's defending an enterprise that is about helping others, not Shane Warne.

From afar, he also represents a kind of fantasy figure for some Australian males, in the Bazza McKenzie/Crocodile Dundee tradition. He's a regular guy, not overly educated or worldly, who has an immense sporting gift, who gets the girls, smokes a fag in the rooms, plays cards and generally gets away with it. And, despite everything, is a family man. 

In the course of his cricket career, some cricketing media fraternity weren't – and aren't – as forgiving of Warnie as the adoring public nor as willing to believe him. 

Warne's position in the game, though, is so exalted that he can pretty much disregard even well-placed critics and commune directly with his public. He is one of Wisden's five cricketers of the 20th century, and the bowler who – like a Jedi brandishing an old light sabre – brought back an intricate art that was presumed dead.

A statue of Warne stands outside the MCG. It was another peerless leggie, Bill O'Reilly, who explained his reluctance to publicly bag Donald Bradman thus: "You don't piss on statues."

In Warne's case, the metaphoric statue has never been pristine. And the public prefer the colourful cracks.