Modern Life: What is Basic?

Ferdie Rous

How we have missed him over these dark days of winter.

As the news from Australia has been relentlessly grim, of splattering English wickets and our bowlers being hoicked high into the stands, how we could have done with him lightening the moment with a chuckled aside about the quality of the local cakes, or a puzzled inquiry about the identity of a butterfly fluttering on the commentarybox window. But Henry Blofeld was no longer on Test Match Special duty.

For those who have grown used to the vivid quality of his word pictures, who have spent many a chilled night basking in the warmth of his company, this winter’s radio commentary from down under has provided further evidence that the gap he has left is unfillable.

There was a hint of how much he was loved when he retired last September, after his final stint covering the Test match against the West Indies, when he was accorded a triumphal lap of honour around the boundary at Lord’s. No mere commentator has been so lauded before. But this was no mere commentator. This was Blowers. What an ovation he received. As he waved and beamed, as his characteristic jumble of pastel shades caught the last of the summer sun, for a moment even the pigeons appeared to stop and applaud.

Blofeld was that rarity: a broadcaster who transcended his medium. His warmth, his generosity, his sheer zest for life spilled out across the airwaves. For 45 years, he kept us amused with his whimsy, his comments about passing double-decker buses and the imaginative levels of fancy dress in the crowd, all delivered in that epic RP accent.

Blofeld was the last of the amateurs in an increasingly professionalised world. And, no matter his occasional inability to identify the fielder at mid-on, that’s amateur in the proper sense of the term, not the pejorative.

He was a fine cricketer in his youth, who, but for a serious back injury suffered in his early twenties, might have gone on to higher things within the game. But being merely good is no longer considered enough. These days, commentary boxes are filled with the finest ex-players, international captains, record run-getters and peak fast bowlers.

In such company, Blofeld has always been an outsider. He couldn’t tell you what it was like to face an Aussie quickie hurling the ball at you at 100mph; although he did score a first-class century against the MCC, playing for Cambridge at Lord’s in 1959 – and that was after a serious injury at Eton, when his bike collided with a bus, altering his game for ever. But, in the sense that he had not played the game at the top level, Blowers was our representative in the box – like us he was just a fan.

The moment he came to the microphone, he lit up the airwaves. He provided a bubbling torrent of enthusiasm, an enveloping embrace of geniality. Above all, he had the unteachable knack of making you think he was addressing you and you alone. His was company you wanted to keep.

Dear Old Thing he used to call everyone and anyone, a handy catch-all when he couldn’t remember a name. And over time, he himself became identified with his own phrase. For us, for everyone who loves the game he described so magnificently, there was no better way to describe his charm, his warmth and yes his longevity. He is – and will long remain - our Dear Old Thing.