by Arunabha Sengupta
1992, Hamilton. A day splashed and splattered by rain.
In the second over of the World Cup match, Srikkanth edged Duers to the thirdman. The rather heavy form of Eddo Brandes ran around the corner. The big fast bowler stooped for the pick-up and slipped, falling smack on his bottom as the ball squeezed through for four.
Through the gasps of concern around the ground, Henry Blofeld’s cheerful voice over the microphone proclaimed, “Oh, what a jolly good fall!” Blofeld jerked so hard at that that one of his mic stands fell to the floor.
That was Blofeld all over. Cricket and the associated environment was for him a source of endless, infectious joy.
Seldom has a commentator enjoyed such universal popularity. Blofeld’s mellow voice, with its Etonian diction and style and frequently interspersed ‘My dear old thing’, is well known around the cricketing world. His quaint idiosyncrasies and perpetual delight at describing scenes at the stadium and beyond with little or no connection to the game bestowed on him the legendary status.
He was prone to discuss earrings at Sharjah, even during the crunch moments of edge-of-the-seat Indo-Pak games. He was prone to talk about double-decker buses driving behind The Oval through the A202 into Harleyford Street, even as crucial sessions of Test matches were keenly contested. Sometimes, he also discussed the cricket.
But everything he said carried with it sweetness and light, the cheer of childlike glee.
He enjoyed being there, and by association so did most of the fans who tuned into his voice.
They say that he digressed more and more as he grew older. Especially after his double heart surgery in 1999. After that Blofeld was less frequent on air. There were other signs of advancing age. The slight diminution of the spring in his step as he made his way up to the commentary box, the increasing number of times you seemed to find him in the bathroom of the media centre.
But his voice continued to be heard, with characteristically endearing digressions.
He continued to write books. The same stories in several of them, not even altered meticulously enough to make them seem different or real.
Walking along the illustrious footsteps of Arlott, Blofeld continued as a wine connoisseur with his own label ‘Côtes du Rhône’. He continued to promote it it during his chat shows as ‘Blower’s Rhone’.
His ‘An Evening With Blowers’ remained one of the most popular shows around the country.
Diversion and repetition was his zest for life, like a perpetual musical comedy. Life was not limited to cricket.
Years before joining Test Match Special he was already describing a sunbathing man on a deckchair on his balcony during the Yorkshire versus Surrey game for Rediffusion at The Oval in 1966. It was left to Crawford White to alert him: “Be careful Henry, that’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” By then the figure had got up and was going through intriguing stretching motions, her feminine assets very much on view on the television screens. The next day both the lady in question and Blofeld found themselves clubbed together on the front pages.
Yet, perhaps thankfully, the malady was never cured. Pigeons and buses, the number of pink shirts and a fascination for earrings kept finding their ways into his microphone between the descriptions of overs, wickets and the odd run.
Narrations included a detailed analysis of lunches, tea and especially cakes as soon as play resumed after the breaks.
At Sharjah in the late 80s, the camera zoomed in on the Bollywood superstar Rekha. Blofeld, uninitiated to the world of Indian cinema, blurted out the most innocent and poignant question: “A bird from paradise?”
And he enjoyed the game too. When Narendra Hirwani confused a young Carl Hooper as only a leg-spinner bowling a googly can, and the frantically essayed cut shot was played outside the line of the ball, Blofeld’s summary was, “Ah ha, ha, ha, ha!” Not the most technical of analyses, but one that captured the essence of the delights of the game.
It was in the late 1980s that Blofeld was heard on the microphone, “When you reach my age, the results don’t really matter anymore. It is the quality of the game that makes it enjoyable.”
His voice reflected just that.
It was in his honour that the spectators of the infamous Sydney Hill stuck a banner to the pylon that announced: “THE BESPECTACLED HENRY BLOFLY STAND.” And the following day, they invited him over with the words, “Come on over Henry and have a pint.” When Blofeld made his way to the area, with a I Zingari tie around his neck, a cheer broke out that would have drowned any celebration of a wicket or a six.
During that same 1978-79 tour, there were other signs that appeared around the Australian grounds as well. One in particular underlined the enormous amount of respect that Henry Blofeld commanded Down Under: “OUR HENRY CAN EVEN OUTDRINK KEITH MILLER.” Even today, Blofeld remains surprised that Miller never sued for libel.
And then there were the quirky ones, which seemed to characterise Blofeld even better. “OUR HENRY IS TO CRICKET WHAT TONY GREIG IS TO LIMBO DANCING” said one.
His was a voice that to the Australian ears seemed to go with a bowler hat, even if an honorary cork dangled from the brim.
There was fair amount of expertise in the cricketing domain as well. Indeed, Blofeld was a serious cricketer in his younger days and but for a nearly fatal accident was reasonably on course to setting cricket grounds on fire.
Yet, even after his skull was broken in a bus accident, he played 17 First-Class matches. And a few years later, he came tantalisingly close to appearing for England in a Test match.
Blofeld was covering the 1962-63 England tour of India as a journalist, staying in cheap establishments even as the rest of the press housed in the same hotels as cricketers. The visiting side became plagued with injuries and stomach ailments.
Cowdrey and Parfitt had been sent for as reinforcements, but would not arrive in time for the Bombay Test. The day before the match, David Clark, the England manager, explained to the curious correspondent that only 10 players were fit, and unless one of the others made a remarkable recovery, someone from outside the party needed to be included in the team. “You and I are the last two to have played First-Class cricket, and you’re a great many years younger than me. So if it comes to it, you will be the man. Try to go to bed before midnight.”
Blofeld somehow managed to respond, “I don’t care if Cowdrey and Parfitt are flying out as replacements. If I make 50 or above in either innings, I’m damned if I’ll stand down for Calcutta.” Eventually, Mickey Stewart crawled out of the hospital bed to make up the eleven and crawled back after tea. Blofeld did not make his Test debut.
It was in the summer of 1972 he spoke alongside Arlott and Johnston, with Fingleton providing the expert opinions, and Swanton doing the summing up at the end of the day. Two seasons later, in 1974, Blofeld finally featured in a TMS box.
Thus started the long career with TMS, broken only by a stint for BskyB from 1991 to 1994.
However, a life that centred around the game was much more than that of a mere commentator.
Blofeld played at Fenners to Lord’s to the Caribbean pitches. He even graced the curious wickets of South America during periods when ‘the current national pastime was kidnapping ambassadors’.
He stood amidst riots in Pakistan, and drove a Rolls-Royce from Calais to Bombay.
He was called by the British High Commissioner in India as a key witness in a diplomatic drama. He also spent nights in the car of an Australian police detective accompanying the force to the dens of drug dealers.
Blofeld also idolises Noel Coward and is a compulsive collector of first editions of PG Wodehouse.
It has been a life lived to the fullest.
Henry Blofeld was born on 23 Sep 1939.