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  (The incident became more notorious for the actions of Shahid Afridi, who took the chance of everyone being distracted to try to rough up the pitch – an action which was spotted by the television cameras.)

  I fear that some adverse press coverage of his introduction to the team may have scarred the normally ebullient and cheerful Arlo and I can’t help feeling that a more sensitive and less aggressive approach to their plans by the BBC management might have been kinder to him as well as the programme.

  One of the scheduling problems that famously hits Test Match Special is the Shipping Forecast. With all other Test playing countries except the West Indies lying to the east of the UK, there are other hurdles to be jumped by a Radio 4 long wave audience on a Test Match morning. Yesterday in Parliament and the Daily Service are both confined to long wave and therefore take over from TMS when it is their time.

  While resenting the interruption, Aggers was not slow to see the opportunity of a leg-pull in South Africa in 1995. We were sharing the English language commentary with the SABC, who would depart from it for some of the time to carry the commentary on in Afrikaans. It was the days before the digital alternative of Sports Extra existed, so Aggers spotted a period when Radio 4 were at Yesterday in Parliament and SABC were taking the Afrikaans description, so his commentary was only being used to record any possible highlights for posterity.

  He was on with Geoffrey Boycott when his chance came. After describing a ball bowled and no run scored, he said, ‘Mind you, you were a pretty boring batsman.’

  Geoffrey was surprised, but silent as the next delivery was described. After a few more allusions to turgid play, he tried to mount a half-hearted defence and if possible to make a joke of it, but Aggers pursued the point, ending with, ‘God, you were boring.’

  At long last, a shell-shocked Boycott was let into the secret that we had not been on the air to anyone for twenty minutes.

  That commentary was mounted in a large glassed-in enclosure at the top of the stand at the Wanderers in Johannesburg. Afrikaans, English, Xhosa, Zulu and other commentaries all came from the same resonant room, which I christened the Tower of Babel. In recent years – and certainly since the World Cup – better facilities have been installed in most of the South African Test grounds.

  South African commentators and writers do tend to have a patriotic slant to their outpourings. I recall one commentator turning up for the first match of the 2003 World Cup actually wearing his team’s replica shirt. A New Zealand rugby commentator once said to me that commentary should be biased, but that, I hope, has never been the TMS way. The word ‘we’ is banned from the box in reference to England. If you are the one representative of the BBC in a foreign commentary team on tour, your hosts do treat you as being your team’s man, but that should not come over in the way you describe the action.

  In South Africa’s case, Gerald de Kock was a model of that art, but sadly, when we were in his country he was usually more tied up, first with television duties and eventually as the media liaison man for the South African team. South Africa’s political changes have inevitably affected what the SABC does and the cricket commentary has borne part of that change.

  As mentioned earlier in the book, political change would be an understatement when it comes to their northern neighbour, Zimbabwe. On my first visit in 1996, I had no idea what to expect.

  In the days leading up to the first one-day international, to be followed by the Test, I went to Bulawayo’s Queen’s Club every afternoon to see what progress was being made, while England were playing a match against Matabeleland on another ground nearby. After two visits, I found that a low platform had been constructed for radio, which would have its view obstructed by Sky’s large satellite dish. So I got that moved. Then a canvas screen was hung down one side, to conceal the scoreboard from us. That I found I could roll back. I was not to know that on the morning of the match a large model of an elephant’s head would be placed in the same line of sight, as an advertisement for a local taxidermist.

  The day before the one-day international a pile of wide, flat boards was left on the platform. I established that there was no further plan to do anything with them, so armed with some wire and a large amount of gaffer tape, I constructed three commentary booths – for Test Match Special, Radio 5 and the Zimbabwe Broadcasting Corporation, who I was told, would ‘probably’ be doing commentary.

  Telecom engineers appeared late in the day and left me with eight bare wires and, by trial and error, using an open telephone line to the local exchange and the helpful operator in Harare, I established a broadcast connection with London for both our positions.

  The following year I played a part in the outside broadcast production for the funeral of Princess Diana and received more than one effusive and undeserved letter of thanks for my efforts. For getting Test Match Special on the air from Bulawayo, which I regarded as a crowning achievement, I heard nothing. That is the way of the world.

  We had a very jolly commentary team for that inaugural Test match. Henry Blofeld and Simon Mann arrived just before the one-day match.

  Saturday 14 December 1996

  Blowers and Simon arrived at the hotel in the evening to a scene of chaos, as a great many of the delegates to the ZANU PF party conference, which has been going on here, had omitted to check out before they went off to the conference hall in the morning. The hotel staff were reluctant to sling politicians out of their rooms, so there was nothing available for the influx of England supporters – including our two.

  While it was being sorted out, I offered to buy Blowers a glass of ‘Bollinger’ in the bar. I was treated to a delighted ‘My dear old thing!’ before he discovered that Bohlinger is the local beer.

  Trevor Bailey and Chris Cowdrey arrived with groups of supporters in tow and we had Jo King to do the scoring.

  For Simon Mann it was a Test Match Special debut. He had been in the radio sports room for a time and had gone on two or three England ‘A’ tours, so fitted in immediately. His is a sound commentary method, flavoured with knowledge of the game from a good level of club cricket and a pleasantly light touch of humour. Most of his commentary opportunities have come overseas and I have found him a really good touring companion.

  He was back in Zimbabwe with us four years later for a series of one-day internationals, for which we also took Jonny Saunders, who was reporting for Radio 5. And the year after that, the three of us had the perfect trip to Sri Lanka for the Champions’ Trophy. There was no travelling involved because all the games were played on two grounds in Colombo and the whole exercise lasted little more than a fortnight. Saunders, who went on to be Chris Evans’ sports man on Radio 2, was called on the hotel tannoy as, ‘Mr Surrenders’, not something he was going to be allowed to forget.

  In 2003 the Chittagong Test match in Bangladesh ended on Simon’s fortieth birthday. Amazingly, opposite the otherwise fairly awful Harbour View Hotel, a fancy cake shop and a Hallmark card shop stood side by side. Both were as incongruous as an umbrella store in the middle of the Sahara, but at least I was able to surprise him with a cake ablaze with candles to mark the great day.

  In front of our commentary position at the Queen’s Club in Bulawayo in 1996, a few yards onto the outfield itself, Sky television set up their morning presentation, not handing up to the commentary until the players were on the field. On the first day this meant that both the start and the resumption after lunch were delayed while their equipment was cleared off the ground. After the second occasion, the umpires had a stern word with the production team.

  On the second morning, they had cleared the field by the time play was due to start. That would have been fine, but they had stacked the equipment against the end of the sightscreen, which, with Alan Mullally bowling the first over left arm over the wicket, meant that the screen needed to be moved immediately. So play was again delayed while the kit was removed.
/>   On the final evening of the Test, with England striving for a win and Zimbabwe employing an ever slower over rate, Blowers decided that he was the man for the big finish and chose to ignore rotas, signals and the eventual amusement of his colleagues. He embarked on a stint of commentary which, far from the standard twenty minutes, occupied an hour and a quarter. It was a tour de force, but now when anyone – particularly Blowers – over-runs his time in the commentary box, the cry goes up, ‘Bulawayo!’

  Such is the nature of cricket and of cricket tours, that we spend a great deal of time in each other’s company. Generally we are pretty lucky in that company.

  The Cricket Highlights (vii)

  Bulawayo 1996

  There was an edge to the inaugural England/Zimbabwe Test provided by the knowledge that England had opposed Zimbabwe’s elevation to the top table of world cricket. When they arrived in southern Africa at the end of 1996, they found many who were keen to twist the lion’s tail. It was a series in which England did not cover themselves with glory, but the first Test in Bulawayo made history.

  The match followed a one-day international in which England’s batsmen had been humiliated on the same Queen’s Club ground. At least, after being bowled out for 152, they made Zimbabwe work hard for their two-wicket win.

  England’s bowling on each of the first two mornings of the first Test was wayward, though better in the afternoons of those two days, thanks to the spin of Robert Croft and Phil Tufnell. There were at that time a couple of class acts in the Zimbabwean side, Heath Streak to open the bowling and Andy Flower, who made 112 of Zimbabwe’s first innings 376.

  England saved their faces with the bat, replying with 406 and centuries from Nasser Hussain and John Crawley. By the end of the fourth day, England had asserted some control by reducing Zimbabwe to 107 for five. They were only 77 ahead. Was there enough time for England to win it?

  Sunday 22 December 1996

  It turned into an exciting last day, with Zimbabwe resisting and then eventually all out for 234, leaving England 205 to win in 37 overs.

  I was commentating with Chris Cowdrey when the change of innings came and we speculated whether they would go for them. Chris reckoned that if Stewart, rather than Atherton, came out to open with Knight, they were going for it. If Atherton came out, they weren’t.

  I thought that Atherton would open – and that they would go for the win. And I turned out to be right.

  It was a tremendous chase. Even with the field set deep and negative bowling, runs came quickly. Stewart and Knight set up the chance of victory with 137 for the second wicket. The odds were with them when Stewart was out with 51 needed and eight overs to go. At that point Alistair Campbell seemed to be having to turn to the guidance of David Houghton more and more in the field.

  After Stewart’s departure, a clatter of three wickets gave Zimbabwe the brake they needed on England’s scoring rate. But Nick Knight was still there. Off the final over, bowled by Heath Streak, England needed 11 to win. Knight hit the second ball for six over square leg, prompting Streak to test the tolerance of the Zimbabwean umpire, Ian Robinson, to wide bowling. To the amazement of all of us, he proved very tolerant.

  It came down to Knight being run out off the last ball, trying, hopelessly, to scamper the winning run. The scores were level, but as the match had run out of time, it was a draw. Back then this was a unique result in Test cricket, but in November 2011 India and the West Indies achieved a tie-draw in Bombay.

  Streak told the British press that he was surprised to have got away with bowling so wide and so he was fined for criticising the umpire – a fine which the newspapers happily paid. Meanwhile the England coach, David Lloyd, was telling all and sundry, ‘We flippin’ murdered ’em. And they know it!’

  That night in the hotel bar the Barmy Army were in full voice. Late in proceedings they were joined by members of the Zimbabwe team, who were in a mood to celebrate their escape. To welcome them, the Barmies changed their song, to, ‘You bowl wides, you know you do,’ and the players, led by Campbell, their captain, joined in, signalling the wides along with the rest.

  Then it was back to Harare for a rather low-key Christmas and the second Test, starting on Boxing Day.

  Thursday 26 December 1996

  After heavy overnight rain, play started on time. England were put in to bat and started confidently on a slow pitch, but then lost regular wickets rather carelessly, to be 147 for nine at the end of the day.

  Friday 27 December 1996

  England’s last wicket hung on for 40 minutes before Tufnell fell, leaving Crawley top scorer with 47 not out. All out for 156 – something of a debacle.

  From that point, it was probably just as well for England that the match was disrupted by rain. After Zimbabwe had taken a first innings lead of 59, Alec Stewart responded with an undefeated century. England were only 140 ahead at the end of the fourth day, with three wickets down. They were probably safe, but in the event the weather took out the whole of the last day.

  Not that all embarrassment was ended by that. Zimbabweans celebrated the New Year holiday with two one-day international wins over England, the second by a colossal 113 runs, for a three-nil whitewash.

  Friday 3 January 1997

  England ran into Eddo Brandes in top form, swinging the ball and starting an irreversible slide to 118 all out with a hat trick and finishing with five wickets, bowling his ten overs straight through.

  The Zimbabweans and the crowd were ecstatic and the Barmy Army largely silent. Atherton, though, handled the press conference afterwards brilliantly, facing up to the inevitable assertion that his side had been humiliated by cricketing minnows, with great candour.

  8. The Teams

  John Arlott always used to say of cricketers that to have known only two bad ones in his years close to the game spoke very well of them as a breed. (Of course he would never let us know who the two were.)

  Relationships with the players on my early tours, particularly in India and Pakistan, were much more casual and friendly than they have become later. I would reckon to count all those who toured with England on my first two trips to India as friends.

  In between those two tours, I found that it was slightly different in Australia, because it was so much easier for them to go out and socialise or find other leisure occupations in a country where they quite often had friends. On the subcontinent, especially 30 years ago, press and players were more thrown together in a totally foreign environment. We almost always shared hotels, which happens less nowadays. The first few down to breakfast in the morning would join each other at a table, regardless of which side of the divide they came from. That would not happen now.

  On my first tour, there were two or three occasions when I was given a lift on the team bus, because the press transport was going to be too late for my needs. And it was a given that any sightseeing expedition – such as they were – would be a joint venture, as on the eve of the first one-day international in Ahmedabad.

  Tuesday 24 November 1981

  The afternoon featured an excursion to a local mosque, which boasted ‘shaking towers’. The drive through the crowded, dusty streets of the city gave me my first real view of Indian life, with all manner of people, beasts and vehicles on the move and activity in every open-fronted business premises along the way.

  The ‘shaking towers’ had been the twin minarets of a small mosque. They had been reduced to one tower, though, with the other little more than a roof-high stump. The first players to rush up the remaining minaret revealed with disappointment that it didn’t shake. This was a challenge to Ian Botham. ‘I’ll make the bastard shake,’ he declared, advancing on it.

  Looking at the truncated stump of its twin, I wondered if our Beefy had been this way before.

  Of course, both parties were much smaller in those days. A manager, a coach, a physiotherapist and maybe a scorer
formed the back-up for the team, while, for instance, there were only two photographers among the press on my first tour. And the few separate Sunday newspapermen (and we were all men) who appeared, did so only fleetingly for the most accessible locations.

  It was quite normal for me to be invited into the dressing room at the close of play to record an interview. That applied to both sides. Apart from anything else, in India it was often the only place that was quiet enough and no player wanted to be mobbed outside the door.

  The press were probably trusted more in small numbers and in more isolated locations, when they seemed keen only to report the cricket rather than rake up a scandal. But, on later tours, dressing rooms became generally a no-go area. Thereafter I did interview Graeme Hick on the massage table in St Vincent in 1994, after the tour manager, Mike Smith, had prepared the way with: ‘Hicky, you don’t want to talk to the BBC, do you?’ Fortunately Graeme Hick is a thoroughly nice man.

  In India in the eighties, the press were usually included in the invitations to official functions, sometimes even going to them on the team bus. One such was in Hyderabad.

  Saturday 5 December 1981

  The Chief Minister of Andhra Pradesh held a reception in the evening for the two teams and the visiting press, though our host did not appear until the two lots of players had been sitting in semi-circles, facing each other for half an hour. They were presented to the great man, each received a large brass plaque and then we repaired to a buffet dinner in the beautiful courtyard of the hall – one of the Nizam of Hyderabad’s former palaces.