Open Writing

In the act of lifting a lettuce leaf from the tea-time salad bowl my spouse yelped in pain and dropped it as if he’d been stung.

Well, perhaps I had washed it a trifle hastily after my afternoon date with a lengthy patch of sunshine. However, this was no reason for him to frighten the rest of the family, two of whom refuse to approach my salad teas without benefit of reading glasses anyway.

His furious comments and subsequent retreat into the living-room was, in my opinion, carrying this aphid phobia too far.

Apparently I had no need to air my views on lettuce cowards, as a sneaky batsman currently playing to an empty living-room had provoked his unsociable oaths. It seems our addict had been seated opposite this still-life cricket scene most of the afternoon and while he slipped out for a sandwich some ball had actually made contact with a wicket.

I cannot think of anything more frustrating for a non-cricket lover like myself than the antics of a cricket freak and son, in the throes of the season. Our family philosophers delved into the subject of frustration very deeply one evening, during a Parliamentary broadcast.

We decided that nothing could be more frustrating than trying to eat a jam doughnut without being allowed to lick one’s lips (try it!). I had forgotten about the boring sights and sounds of televised cricket.

But last week the memory came yawning back by courtesy of the Test Match.

There pose our two addicts, maddeningly hypnotised, while all I can hear are rankling crowd noises of subdued conversations and restless coughs. Not that I haven’t tried to rattle up a squirm of interest in this action-less pastime, but there is a limit. How many times am I expected to watch a chap roll a dirty ball up and down his clean trousers before he gallops madly down the turf, turns himself inside out, hurl the ball down and then prepares to set the whole tedious process in motion once again.

To add to the aggravation we also have to endure the dreariness of the commentator explaining what we have just seen not happen for ourselves.

As if this was not disconcerting enough, he then asks another bore to describe it all over again! Sometimes they wander off into unexciting regurgitations from past matches – here they become quite animated. ‘Yes, I remember it quite clearly, old Don was wearing his pullover back to front that day,’ hearty chuckles all round. ‘Was he really,’ says a voice. ‘Most remarkable,’ chants someone else.

At this point something usually happens on the pitch. Then there follows a ‘Guess what’s happened’ pause in transmission. ‘Er, yes, well something’s obviously happened here at Nottingham – John is smiling, what do you think, Fred?’ ‘Yes, I would agree with you there, Peter, that’s definitely a smile.’

Old cricketers never die they simply fade away to the commentary box.

I shall never understand why Fred Trueman failed to make it as a comedian. His stunted announcements during the televised dart and elbow contests have us all in stitches. His expressionless monotone sounds as interesting as this week’s shopping list and is even more costly. How often have I told our cricket zombies ‘I would not be paid to watch this slow-burning rubbish,’ during a match - but this is not strictly true. In fact, it is the only way to watch – talk about ‘money for ham.’

One good thing about this season, it cuts out fancy meals. If I served devilled tripe on horseback our supporters would not notice. It’s the same with conversation. Their glazed eyes look at you, they even nod occasionally, but underneath the hair, their ears are crickety twitchy all the time and just when you feel you have convinced them of your distaste for all things cricket, ‘Quick, hurry up, you’ll miss it,’ whoops a besotted voice from his TV position at silly mid-off and you are expected to wax mad with him.

Some are more chauvinistic than others. I read recently of one cricket fiend who not only hogs the TV set, but he turns the sound down and listens to the radio commentary at the same time. Mind you John Arlott’s rhetoric takes some beating. His dark rich voice is one of my favourites. ‘And as a toffee paper floats across the deserted pitch, we say goodbye,’ I heard him once recite at the close of play. He could make a funeral sound entertaining.

Beware of the supporter en repose. This is cricket worshipping at its most savage. Before risking the big switch over, do make doubly sure the eyelids are securely fastened down first. These hooded monsters may look unconscious, but many’s the time I have tried, without moving the rest of my body, surreptitiously to tickle the other channel button with my big toe, only to be frightened into convulsions a second later by the dreaded spine-chilling ‘Hey – leave it on!’ or words to that effect.

Understandably, perhaps this is one sport that demands diligent con-centration – who knows, something may occur unexpectedly. I did become extremely keen during a match one year, when I looked up from my book to see a delightfully proportioned Adam impersonator skip gaily across the turf. My cricket instinct immediately aroused, I closed my book. As my concentration improved a policeman offered his helmet to help the disguise but it looked out of place. My interest in books wavered slightly for a while after this.

Thankfully, cricket has not reached the wide screen as yet. We have suffered boxers, mountaineers and motor-racing, but who could possibly sit through a three-hour epic on cricket, apart from the you-know-who’s. I could consider it, if a happy ending was featured, perhaps. These seem to have fallen into decline of late. I don’t care what adversities the hero has to overcome or how many wild beasts have to be shot to bits, just as long as there is someone left to walk hand in hand towards the sunset before I go to bed.

Yes, I know that cricket on the village green is an important feature of the English landscape, but there’s always such a good film on the other side. Let’s face it, without the necessary accessories, the smell of hot tea and tobacco, mingled with the sweet aroma of grass clippings, a splintery seat attached to one’s tights and a neighbourly voice at my side telling me the juicy saga of ‘Our Mabel’s Ernest’ – televised cricket is just not my scene.