From ‘mellow’ Arlott to the bubbly Johnners, ours was an all-star cast
In the final exclusive extract from his new book, Henry Blofeld recalls the greats with whom he was privileged – and sometimes otherwise – to have shared the TMS microphone
JOHN ARLOTT
Arlott purred like the finely tuned piece of vocal machinery that he was.
Without effort, he would pluck one linguistic gem after another out of thin air, sitting slightly hunched at the microphone. He was not a sprinter. His movements were methodical; his diction, like his smile, slow and controlled; his walk deliberate. When he looked round at his summariser at the end of the over, it was with the air of an amiable bear who was not in too much of a hurry.
Arlott much preferred liquid to solid refreshment. On the second day of the 1975 Lord’s Test against Australia, he was given lunch by his publisher.
This meant that his normal lunchtime ration of two bottles of claret “of a very good year”, will have become four and just possibly five, as the publisher was paying. When he returned to the box 20 minutes after lunch he was, I think it’s fair to say, mellow.
In the box he found the Managing Director of BBC Radio, Ian Trethowan, later to become the Director-General of the BBC. So when he came to face the microphone 20 minutes later, he was not only mellow, he was also showing off, which can be a dangerous combination.
He then had the greatest piece of luck any commentator has ever had at Lord’s. He had to describe the ground’s first ever streaker. A chubby cook in the Merchant Navy, improbably named Michael Angelow, came running out from the Tavern Stand dressed only in short socks and trainers. Trevor Bailey was the first to spot him. He knew there was a collective word for people who did this sort of thing, but he couldn’t quite remember it. After a short pause Trevor said, with some emphasis: “Ah, a freaker.”
Arlott was happy to run with that. “Yes,” he said, “we’ve got a freaker down the wicket now. Not very shapely... and it’s masculine... and I would think it’s seen the last of its cricket for the day.” He described him jumping the stumps at both ends. And then: “Now he’s had his load. He’s being embraced by a blond policeman ... and this may be his last public appearance. He is now being marched down in the final exhibition, past at least 8,000 people in the Mound Stand, some of whom, perhaps, have never seen anything quite like this before.”
The future Director-General laughed louder and longer than anyone.
ALAN McGILVRAY
McGilvray was not known for his sense of humour. In 1981, during the closing stages of England’s second innings against Australia, John Emburey snicked Terry Alderman for four past first slip, who should have caught him.
I said: “Well, that’s the final nail in the Australian coffin.” At which point I heard McGilvray, who was sitting just behind me, say in a gruff voice: “We’re not dead yet.”
“That doesn’t quite fit in with Alan McGilvray’s way of seeing things,” I went on, “but I must say I can’t see much life left in the Australian corpse.”
I finished describing Alderman’s over and then got out of my chair to let Brian Johnston in. It was a tight squeeze, but not as tight as when I tried to leave the box a moment later. McGilvray was standing in the narrow doorway as I tried to shuffle past him. We were more or less tummy button to tummy button when he spoke to me in the same gruff voice.
“You’ll be all right, young Henry, when you learn to grow up.”
I thought he was being funny. I should have known better. I cheerfully answered him back: “I only wish I had the same high hopes for you.”
He did not speak to me again on the tour, or for a long time afterwards.
EW SWANTON
Jim Swanton would make an entrance to the box that should have been accompanied by a trumpet voluntary. He liked to begin his close-ofplay summary by reading out the full scorecard, and so he insisted that the day’s last commentator should avoid the scorecard during the final 20-minute spell. If anyone failed to comply with his wishes – as Alan Gibson, a trifle mischievously, invariably did – Swanton was never slow to erupt, which provided the rest of us with great amusement.
Jim was also quick to complain if the producer had not provided a large whisky with soda and ice alongside his notes when he sat down at the microphone. On one occasion Michael Tuke-Hastings, Peter Baxter’s predecessor as producer, failed to supply the ice.
He whispered to Swanton that the bar had run out. Quick as a flash, and in all earnestness, Swanton came back with: “Did you tell them who it was for?”
CHRISTOPHER MARTIN-JENKINS
Without fail, CMJ’s commentary was as charming and as accurate as his unpunctuality was supreme and unrivalled. It earned him the sobriquet of ‘the late CMJ’ many years before he died. One of the great unsolved mysteries was why he bothered to wear a watch.
His life was, I think, mildly disorganised, to say the least. He always hoped he was going to be on time, but it never worked out and he never seemed to learn from experience.
He would turn up in the box hot and bothered, as if life had somehow dealt him an unfair hand.
Those who knew him only as a splendidly organised and professional commentator may be surprised by this. Yet the commentary box was the only place in which his life was tidily arranged.
BRIAN JOHNSTON
Johnners was forever like a bottle of champagne which had just been shaken up, ready to froth furiously over the top. Fun bubbled out of him and when you heard his voice, you could be sure a laugh was just round the corner. The flavour of the box, even now, is the flavour of Brian Johnston more than anyone else.
I distinctly remember being in Norfolk in Jan 1994, and hearing the early-morning news bulletin on Radio 4 that ended with the announcement of Brian Johnston’s death. For me, it was a Kennedy assassination moment. It left me feeling completely hollow.
The previous December, he had had a stroke in the back of a taxi taking him from his home in St John’s Wood on the way to Bristol, where he was to make a speech. Johnners had seemed immortal. He personified TMS and all its joys and idiosyncrasies. Arlott’s retirement had taken away the greatest commentator of them all; Johnners’s death robbed TMS of its guiding spirit.
TREVOR BAILEY
Trevor was brief and to the point in a disapproving and clipped ‘It never happened in my day’ sort of way. During Australia’s second innings on the last day of the 1975 Lord’s Test, I was taught a painful lesson by him. In the closing stages, Greg Chappell was batting well within himself. He was facing Peter Lever – he with the long run-up and ‘Plank’ for a nickname – and suddenly unwound a heavenly off drive for four.
“You won’t see many better strokes than that. Those of us who are lucky enough to get to heaven and see the ultimate coaching book will surely find more photographs of Greg Chappell playing that stroke than anyone else. I am sure Trevor will agree.”
Without a moment’s pause, Trevor came back with: “Well, of course, the stroke that Greg Chappell is best known for is the on drive.” There was no subsequent chuckle either. Ouch! Never lead your summariser, especially if he is Trevor Bailey, and try not to be a know-all.
‘Johnners was like a bottle of champagne which had been shaken up, ready to froth over the top’