That’s it: I’m hooked by this whole listening-to-cricket-on-the-radio-all-night thing now. Even though we are being put to the sword by the Australians there was a spirited fight back of sorts by England tonight (or during the day as it was in Brisbane – Australia are ten hours ahead of GMT, despite being about twenty years behind in other respects) and I was glued to the wireless. I never knew Cricket could be this gripping. Imagine how exiting it will be if England play well in a game and challenge the Aussies?
It doesn’t matter what’s happening on the pitch however, because the BBC commentary is shared between a few commentators and one of them is Henry Blofeld, or ‘Blowers’ as he is affectionately known. It’s hard to explain someone like Blowers to anyone outside of the UK, or why he has a job, because he is a relic of a Britain long gone and the product of a climate that will never again exist. He’s old-school, if you like. The bow tie, the education at Eton, the disconnection with the real world, the rather miffed reaction to words like ‘internet’, the eccentricity of a muddled old colonel, and most importantly in Henry’s case as a professional sports commentator, almost no idea what’s going on in the match being played out before his old eyes.
People either love him or loathe him. Cricket fans love him because he’s a sort of dusty old institution, but cricket fans also loathe him because he doesn’t really know anything about cricket. Well he knows lots of history I would imagine, although he very rarely seems to know stuff like the score, or who’s batting. Or which two teams are playing.
He’s famous for the expression ‘my dear old thing’ which he uses to refer to lots of people, including his polar opposite the commentary box tonight, professional Yorkshire man Geoffrey Boycott. They are completely chalk and cheese. A typical exchange will go;
BOYCOTT: (angrily shaking a finger at the action) Rubbish is that! Rubbish! Wants to think about playing cricket does he, not flapping about at it like a fairy!
HENRY: There’s a pigeon over there, look. Or is it? Might be a goose of some sort. Got some blue on it’s chest if you look carefully… There’s three of them on the roof over there…
BOYCOTT: Oh I don’t believe it! He’s out! What a waste of time! Wants shooting does he for that! Bloody hell fire, I tell you…. When I was playin’ I’d have had my wages docked and shoved up my backside for playing a shot like that would I. He’s a bloody disgrace to his country and himself is he.
HENRY: There’s two cranes over there, past the West stand. They were working furiously yesterday, spinning around in circles, probably building something of some sort, but today being a Sunday they stand motionless… Just two Australian flags hung from them, blowing gently in the breeze. Interestingly there are two flags on that one, but only the one flag on that one… No, sorry, there are two. I can see the second one now.
BOYCOTT: That’s a big hit by Collingwood is that… He’s twatted that for six… Actually it’s coming this way… Bloody Hell, look out!
HENRY: And I think I can see a ship over there in the harbour, blinking in the afternoon sun and probably…OOOOOF!!
He did become a little obsessed with two cranes near the ground, mentioning them and how much they were moving with alarming frequency. And he’s the main commentator! Not the support one meant to provide a bit of colour or fill in with some scenic details! The main commentator! Never mentions the game itself. Magic stuff.
The best thing about Henry Blofeld is, of course, that’s he named after a Bond villain. Actually that isn’t true, but the truth is far more intriguing. Henry Blofeld’s Dad went to Eton with Ian Fleming, and it was from Henry’s Dad that Fleming took the name Blofeld to put into the Bond books. So if you like, in a roundabout sort of way, Henry Blofeld is the son on one of the greatest Bond villains of all time. Cue poorly thought out and predictable comic idea:
BLOFELD: Well Mr Bond, it seems that I now hold all the cards… There really is no escape. As you can see, you are being suspended above a tank full of sharks, sharks who’ve not eaten in weeks. The blood from that cut on your ankle is already getting them rather excited, don’t you think? As soon as the rope burns through, you will be the special guest at your very last meal. The rope is burning, Mr Bond… It’s a sort of stringy twine really. The sort you might get wrapped around a parcel from the postman as he knocks on the door one February morning…. Present from overseas perhaps… Or from a relative in the village just down the valley? Maybe some mittens, or a toy car for the children? The lair is looking splendid today, I might say, the light just reflecting off the equipment giving it all a very distinct metallic look. Some of my henchmen there, arranged in a familiar if aggressive position… Two at slip. And this really will be a marvellous victory for evil if Bond does, as we predicted, suffer a collapse. Plunging into a pool that is a sort of murky green, the occasional splash of white as a tail breaks the surface and
Oh you get the idea.
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