Shane Warne dies aged 52: Cricket's greatest bowler lived a life that veered wondrously between disaster and glory

Warnie. Just Warnie. It is customary at a time so sombre, serious and upsetting to put it more formally: Shane Keith Warne, Australian cricket hero, is dead at 52.

But right now, as fans reel from the news, it is impossible to avoid conjuring images of Warne that are not sombre and serious at all. How could a «Warnie» moment ever be sombre and serious?

He's windmilling his bowling arm after taking a wicket. He's dancing on the balcony with a stump over his head. He's sending that perfect leg-break past a flummoxed Mike Gatting — the ball of that century, and probably all others — launching himself from the status of budding star to immortal in one flick of the wrist.

He's lifting David Boon into the air at the MCG, celebrating a hat-trick in front of his home crowd, as Tony Greig loses his mind with delight. He's sitting sheepishly in front of a sponsor's backdrop issuing an apology — so many apologies, so many sins forgiven in the name of a talent nobody else possessed.

He's standing with Michael Jordan or Michael Hutchence, finally in the company of someone who understands what it's like to be so famous and adored but also torn down and disgraced, transcending the thing they do and becoming something else entirely — something beyond their control.

He's cavorting — was Warnie the last great cavorter? — around a hotel room in grainy black and white, embroiling himself in scandal. He's on 99 against New Zealand, skying one into the deep, the captivation of those present extending to the umpire, who misses the no-ball that he should have called.

He's sitting in a commentary box telling the story about the shot above — not the shot, so much, but the no-ball, because he's spent his entire life cultivating a larrikin image but