“To take us to tea – and beyond”: the incomparable Henry Blofeld

For over fifty years, there have been few pleasures to compare with spending a cricketing hour with Henry Blofeld. He was the joyous guest of Peter Oborne and Richard Heller in their latest cricket-themed podcast.

Henry explains his philosophy as a radio commentator on TMS and elsewhere of making listeners feel part of a real cricketing event. If they hear only the events in the middle “it all becomes rather two-dimensional and not very warm or human.” Hence the buses, pigeons and colourful spectators which made his commentaries world-renowned. After his early nervous start on TMS, Peter Baxter, its long-serving producer, gave him a gentle encouragement to “go over the boundary” a bit more. “I think at times I’ve gone too far over the boundary ever since.” He has no regrets over the end of incidental detail for scene-painting in modern commentary, which he attributes in part to the demands of short-form cricket for constant updates of the score and match situation.

He tells of his happy escape (very similar to that of Mike and Psmith in his beloved P G Wodehouse) from a joyless career in banking into cricket reporting,  through the good offices of John Woodcock, the great cricket correspondent of The Times. This was in 1962, when newspapers had far more cricket coverage and he fears that today’s trapped banker Blofelds would find it impossible to make a similar career change. His later entry into commentary was almost equally fortuitous.

Henry’s brilliant career at a cricketer at Eton was halted by a horrific accident (with a bus). He gained a Blue at Cambridge and had a Minor County and first-class career but never reached the promised heights. He speaks candidly but philosophically about the physical and emotional impact of the accident, and his determination throughout his career never to look back on what might have been and always to seek out new sources of excitement and fulfilment.

He shrewdly analyses his “Bertie Wooster” mannerisms and style of dress – and denies strongly that his unique tones owed anything to elocution lessons. (He comes from a vocally distinguished family.) He uncorks a startlingly good imitation of John Arlott, while paying tribute to his  personal kindness and mentorship. Brian Johnstone was cordial but detached. E W Swanton (“the demi-god of the press box”)  gave him little help, apart from one job with fagging duties. That was on England’s 1967-68 tour of the West Indies. Henry offers insight into Basil D’Oliveira’s personal problems on that tour, and believes that like Fred Trueman on an earlier tour he was poorly supported by his captain and manager, Colin Cowdrey and Les  Ames.

He gives a warm and vivid tribute to the supreme stylist of the press box, and his great personal friend John Woodcock. He had unique powers of observation and analysis. He recalls their adventurous journey overland  from London to Bombay in 1976, their transport (a vintage Rolls Royce Silver Ghost) and their clothing in sharp contrast to the lorry drivers and hippies they met on the route. The last stages were marked by an unexpected cricket match in Tehran and the accidental purchase (and ingestion) of some strong hashish in Kandahar. When they heard over the radio commentary on a Test match between India and New Zealand they realized (like the two cricket-obsessed English characters in The Lady Vanishes) that they had regained access to civilization.

After years of interviewing players, Henry explains why he thinks their answers to questions have become more guarded and boring: partly the influence of corporate sponsorship and firm media coaching and control, partly the loss of intimacy and trust between players and journalists.

And more...