Henry Blofeld
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T
his retiring is a hectic business. When
I said in June that it was going to
be my last year with Test Match Special,
it never occurred to me that I would
have to do much more than float quietly
into the sunset. Yet I suddenly became
a much greater object of interest than
I had managed to be in my previous 46
years behind the microphone. In no time
at all, I found myself sitting on Andrew
Marr’s sofa, before shifting to Piers
Morgan’s boudoir for Good Morning
Britain. And on it went. I flitted from
studio to studio and on the journeys in
between I was bombarded with calls
from local radio stations as far apart as
Radio Cornwall and Radio Norfolk.
O
n one such journey, a remarkable
coincidence occurred. The evening
before, my wife Valeria and I had talked
for a long time about TMS and all the
adventures I have had. I remarked that
one sadness was never establishing
any contact with Howard Marshall,
who pioneered cricket commentary
before the war. In a wonderful voice, his
commentary on Len Hutton making 364
at the Oval against Australia in 1938 was
highly recognisable as the start of what
we do in the commentary box today.
Marshall himself was dead and I never
made contact even with someone who
knew him. My agent Ralph Brünjes
and I were snarled up in traffic on the
Embankment by Chelsea Old Church
when he received a message from his
office. Apparently a lady who was a
relation of Marshall’s wanted to speak to
me. We arranged to meet. She said that
when Marshall died she had inherited a
number of his things, including a picture
he had painted of the tavern side of
Lord’s from the top deck of the pavilion.
She wanted to give it to me.
S
he and her husband brought it
round to our house. It is charming,
with that tall black chimney still in
place far back on the other side of
St John’s Wood Road. Seeing that
chimney always reminds me of when the
Australians were playing a Test match
at Lord’s in the 1950s, and the mildly
irascible former Australian opening
batsman Jack Fingleton was working
for BBC television. Alongside him was
the formidable Jim Swanton of the Daily
Telegraph, a figure who would have made
Bismarck look to his laurels. When this
huge chimney suddenly started to belch
smoke, Fingleton said immediately, ‘I see
Jim Swanton’s been elected pope.’D
uring the Lord’s Test against South
Africa I was asked to ring the five-
minute bell before the start on the
Saturday. This privilege is normally
reserved for former Test players so I
was greatly honoured. Michael Vaughan
appointed himself my main advisor. He
assured me that, when holding the bell,
the two-handed interlocking grip was the
way forward. He also suggested, somewhat
mischievously, that as it was the five-
minute bell, I should clang away for the full
five minutes. The MCC secretary DerekBrewer, who actually supervised my
performance, told me that Dickie Bird
had also intended to do this and had to
be restrained. The members gathered in
force below the balcony of the Bowlers’
Bar where the bell hangs. When the
moment arrived, I gave it six deafening
clangs. What fun it was.I
was also selected to commentate on
the second Test against South Africa
at Trent Bridge, a special joy for me
as it is my favourite Test ground. I
played there in a first-class match in
1959 when that great Australian all-
rounder Keith Miller turned out for
Nottinghamshire against Cambridge
University in one of his last games, and
made a hundred. My main thrill this
time came on the first day. I was taken
during the lunch interval to a bus stop in
the neighbouring Loughborough Road
where I launched a new gleaming green
Number 6 bus with ‘Henry Blofeld
OBE’ painted on the front of the
bonnet. Nottingham City Council was
thanking me for all my years of spotting
its buses at Trent Bridge. I wonder what
Robin Hood would have made of it.A
nd so to my final Test at Lord’s,
where for three days the full-house
crowds were so encouraging it felt more
than faintly surreal. On the third and
final day my last spell of commentary
passed off smoothly enough. When
I finally handed over to Ed Smith,
there was only a mild skirmish when
my headphones became inextricably
entangled with my binoculars. At the
end, I walked all the way round the
ground between the boundary rope
and the stands and the full house crowd
stood and cheered me to the echo. It
was wonderful, but I have to say I found
it slightly embarrassing. It was all so
staggeringly unbelievable. Then Joe
Root, the England captain, asked me up
to the dressing room for a glass or two
of champagne and presented me with
a shirt signed by the England players. I
also spotted Alastair Cook holding his
one-year-old daughter with scarcely a
fumble and much more certainty than
he had held any recent catch at first slip.
She is a brave young lady. What a day.OVER AND OUT:
AN EVENING WITH
HENRY BLOFELD
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020 7961 004419TH OCTOBER 2017
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