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Tag: Henry Blofeld

  • Cricket Nostalgia: Henry Blofeld on PG Wodehouse, Ian Fleming and the Remarkable Cricket of the Past

    The great commentator Henry Blofeld permits himself a moment of cricket nostalgia about his upbringing and the cricket of his youth

    At my age, you’re permitted to look back a bit – to think of the circumstances of one’s family and the ways in which the world is changing. A bit of nostalgia never goes amiss when you’re in your eighties as I am.

    As I do this, I realise it’s the small things which tell you rather a lot. I recall that my father was a great reader aloud which is something which happens less and less today – but if you don’t do that you miss the sound of words, and it’s that which can really connect you to a writer. My father not only had a beautiful voice but was extremely articulate and was really an academic I suppose. Wodehouse was one of those authors he introduced me to between the ages of 10 and 16 – and taking those books close to my heart has shaped my life. It’s dated, of course, but it’s very funny.

    Sometimes Wodehouse seems to come near to my own life. There’s a book by Wodehouse Psmith in the City which describes an extraordinarily similar path to my early career. Wodehouse was in the City, and so was I – at a merchant bank called Robert Benson Lonsdale. I was there for three years; Wodehouse, of course, was quietly writing novels during his ordeal. But you could say that both of us were rather out of place and rather eager to leave.

    I was very lucky to get into sports-writing. One of my heroes was John Arlott, and that led me into an interest in the batsman Jack Hobbs. Arlott adored Jack Hobbs – Hobbs could be said to be the greatest batsman ever produced. He played his first test match in Melbourne in 1907, and played his last test in 1930 – the sort of longevity we’ve seen recently in the fast bowler James Anderson.

    Hobbs and Sutcliffe together were the most extraordinary pair – just as Anderson and Broad were. Hobbs and Sutcliffe even made runs on old-fashioned sticky wickets in Australia. He must have been the most supreme technician and was every bit as good in defence as Geoffrey Boycott – but in attack he lived in another world.

    I sometimes hear it said that bowlers used to appeal in somewhat meeker way in the 1940s and 50s. One hears it said that bowlers, seeing a possibility of a leg before wicket decision, would politely enquire of umpires: “How was that?” But this is sometimes exaggerated. I think of lots of photographs of cricket in the old days and they all go up like mad. It might perhaps be that distance may have learned a certain enchantment. Do people really think there was an age in life when bowlers were uncorrupted? I fear not.

    And distance lends lustre in lots of ways. WG Grace was an amazing cricketer, of course. In fact he was one of the greats – but not a great man. He comes quite badly out of the chapter in my book in 1882 when he ran out Sammy Jones when for all intents and purposes the ball was dead. That was entirely reprehensible and an appalling thing to do, and it was more appalling in 1882 than it would have been in 1982.

    Of course, in that year, Botham ran out Geoffrey Boycott – but that was done deliberately as he was sent in in Christchurch. It took Botham two balls and was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. He pushed it to the offside and a lot of sashaying up the pitch, and “Yes-no-wait!” After he was run out, Boycott said: “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve ruined my average!” I can’t remember what Botham said in return, but it was something very flowery and Boycott withdrew in a sulk.

    I am sometimes asked about my surname, since it is used in the Bond novels, and I suspect Ian Fleming thought of it because of me. I knew Fleming a bit, but I didn’t exactly think much of him – and I don’t go to the Bond films to see my family name written in lights. Fleming and I were elected to Boodle’s on the same day; I had dinner with him and my first wife in Jamaica, when I was 22. I was quite young to be meeting such well-known people. I suppose that did make me more confident later on.

    And confidence would come in handy in my career. In the early days of broadcasting, doing reports of county matches, stopwatch in hand – that was a very hairy business and to do that one had to have a certain confidence.

    Sometimes one had to commentate in rather bizarre situations. I can also remember sitting on a sack of sawdust in the groundman’s office at Sydney at the back of the Noble stand without any windows at all, doing a report for Sport on Four. I can also recall doing reporting on a total eclipse of the sun from Bombay – not to mention reporting on the riots in Lahore during the 1977 Test Match. It was nothing if not varied.

    I do wonder about the future of the sport. I can see the point of One Day Cricket in the same way I can see the point of instant coffee – which I find quite undrinkable. One Day Cricket was introduced as a financial palliative, and it’s not ideal in my view. Perhaps one day we’ll have the ultimate cricket match where each side will have one ball, bowled in front of 100,000 people. I wonder what WG Grace and John Arlott would make of that – and PG Wodehouse for that matter.

     

  • Henry Blofeld on his father, his education and the great cricketers of the past

    Henry Blofeld

    When I think back at my education, it’s important that my father was a great reader aloud which is something which happens less today. He not only had a beautiful voice, but was extremely articulate and was really an academic I suppose. Wodehouse was one of those authors he introduced me to between the ages of 10 and 16. Of course, those books have dated a bit but they’re very funny indeed.

    What was the particular impact of Wodehouse on me? There’s a book by Wodehouse Psmith in the City – you need to read the first word without the ‘P’ because as Wodehouse says, ‘the P is silent’ – which describes an extraordinarily similar path to my early career. Wodehouse was in the City, and so was I; both of us were rather out of place and rather eager to leave. Perhaps that’s part of my kinship with him.

    Nowadays a lot of my memories of cricket might be described as somewhat ancient. I see myself as a historian, reminding fans of today about the past. as the Ashes roll round again, I think of the great jousts of the past.

    One mentor for me was the great writer John Arlott, who adored Hobbs – and Jack Hobbs could be said to be the greatest batsman ever produced. He played his first test match in Melbourne in 1907. And played his last test in 1930 – he and Sutcliffe together were the most extraordinary pair, and particularly noted for the runs they made in old-fashioned sticky wickets in Australia. He must have been the most supreme technician and was every bit as good in defence as Geoffrey Boycott but in attack lived in another world.

    I hope that this Ashes series will be played in the right spirit. WG Grace was another amazing cricketer – he was one of the greats, but not a great man. In fact, he comes quite badly out of the chapter in my book. For example, in the match in 1882, when Grace ran out Jones – that was entirely reprehensible and an appalling thing to do. It’s worth remembering that it was more appalling in 1882, than it was in 1982.

    In that year, as many cricket fans know, Botham ran Boycott out at Christchurch – but that was done deliberately as he was sent in to run him out. It took him two balls, and was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. Boycott pushed the deliver to the offside, and  there there ensued a lot of sashaying up the pitch – and then the whole rigmarole of: “Yes,  no – wait!” Once he was out, Boycott said: “Do you know what I’ve done? And Botham said: “I’ve run you out, you –—“.  I can’t remember precisely what word he used, but it was something very flowery. On that occasion, Boycott withdrew in a sulk.

    Of course, they say the game has changed and become punchier. That might be true but it can also be done. Sometimes I hear people reminiscing about sedate appeals in the interwar years. But if you look at photographs of cricket in the old days, they all go up like mad. Perhaps distance has leant a certain enchantment. Do you think there was an age in life when bowlers were uncorrupted? All that we know about human nature makes that seem unlikely.

    I am often asked about my famous surname. I knew Ian Fleming a bit, but I didn’t exactly think much of him – and I don’t go to the Bond films to see my family name written in lights. Fleming and I were elected to Boodle’s on the same day. I got to know Ian quite well, which is why I had dinner with him and my first wife in Jamaica, when I was 22. I was quite young to be meeting such well-known people. I suppose that did make me more confident later on.

    Journalism has changed too. In the early days of broadcasting, I would do reports of county matches, stopwatch in hand. It was a very, very hairy business and to do that one had to have a certain confidence. For instance, I can remember sitting on a sack of sawdust in the groundsman’s office at Sydney at the back of the Noble stand without any windows at all, doing a report for Sport on Four. I remember other extraordinary situations. I can remember doing reporting on a total eclipse of the sun from Bombay, and describing the riots in Lahore during the 1977 Test Match.

    I shall enjoy the Ashes but am never so excited by the one-dayers. I can see the point of One Day Cricket in the same way I can see the point of instant coffee – which I find quite undrinkable. One Day Cricket was introduced as a financial palliative, and it’s not ideal in my view. Perhaps one day we’ll have the ultimate cricket match where each side will have one ball, bowled in front of 100,000 people.

     

    Henry Blofeld’s new book is Ten to Win…and the Last Man In is out now

  • Diary: Henry Blofeld on his new book, not retiring and how to pursue a career in cricket

    The legendary commentator on not retiring, his Eton education, and why the BBC wouldn’t look at him today

    My new book Ten to Win…And the Last Man In isn’t so much a reflective pandemic book, as a book which has to do with the importance of Test Match cricket. If Test Match cricket were to stop, the game would pall alarmingly. The fact that it’s still there, to some extent keeps T20 and the Hundred honest in a funny way. The game which bores me is the 50 over format, particularly when play sags a bit in the middle. T20 and The Hundred are both fine – provided you don’t make the mistake of calling them cricket. It’s showbiz.

    I write my books on my iPad on my knee – the last eight books have been done like that and I must say I find it very easy. When I write a long paragraph on the iPad I might correct the prose there and then – but when I really have corrections to do, I print it out and make my alterations from the hard copy. I find if I sit with a computer or iPad, it has a nasty habit of cutting it and disappearing, meaning I must spend 25 minutes typing it again.

    Right into my eighties now, I’ve worked very hard. I suppose I’m driven by the fear of boredom and the fear of waking up and not doing anything. Fortunately, I have a fantastic Italian wife, and we prefer to be on the road. Besides, you hear of lots of people who retire at 60, and by 65 they’ve become not only the worst bores you’ve ever met, but alcoholic bores. I have a brother who was a High Court judge for 35 years, and though he might try to deny it, he hasn’t really done anything since he was about 75 and he’s now 89: he still champs at the bit rather as if he’s in the High Court. They force them to retire, and in one or two cases it’s a good thing, but it probably wastes quite a bit of good brain power, because experience is important.

    I grew up in a farming family – the Hoveton Estate has been ours since about 1520. My father wasn’t interested in cricket, it was something I picked up at Sunningdale, where I was in the first XI for four years. I was completely nuts about cricket from the age of seven. When I arrived at Eton, I was quite a good cricketer. I loved my five years there, and all my ten years at boarding school. It gave you the confidence to look the world in the face.

    During my last year at Eton, I had a terrible accident and I felt I had the whole of my life taken away: for a long while, life and cricket wasn’t what they’d been before. It took me a while to reinstate the confidence which I might have had had I left Eton unscathed. I have no idea if I would have played Test match cricket had I not had that accident.

    If I arrived today at the BBC and asked for trial commentary, they wouldn’t look at me. For a start, my voice would be a grave handicap. And the way I did it – with the assumption that the whole scene needed to be described, and the picture should be painted – they wouldn’t want that now. I don’t think John Arlott or Brian Johnston would get a look in either, any more than Neville Cardus would get a look in at a newspaper today.

    The ex-players aren’t commentators in radio; they’re summarisers. But of course, commentators on television are the equivalents of summarisers on the radio, because the commentator on television is the camera. Whereas the commentator on the radio is the equivalent of the camera on the television. On the radio you say, “He comes in and he bowls”. You don’t say that on television because you see it.

    If a young person came to me and said they wanted to commentate, I’d recall the advice of Johnny Woodcock, who was the reason I became a journalist in 1971. I said, “I want to write about cricket,” and he said, “I wouldn’t advise that”. But if they persisted, what l’d do is ring up Henry Moeran who’s the assistant producer at TMS and I’d say, “Over to you.” And from there it’s anyone’s guess what he’d say.