John Arlott ended his career as a radio cricket commentator in 1980 with the words: ‘And after Trevor Bailey, it will be Christopher Martin-Jenkins.’ He then left the Lord’s commentary box, mopping his brow with the well-known red handkerchief, complaining, as he so often did, about the heat. He had been given a standing ovation by the Test crowd and even the cricketers of Australia and England stopped playing so they could turn and applaud, and pay tribute to the man whose golden voice had floated so deliciously, informatively and lovingly from that very pavilion top to all parts of the world.
I was one of his BBC colleagues that day and, after he had padded down the steps from the back of the box, I said: ‘I thought you would have said more at the end, remembered more. I thought you would be more romantic.’ He gave me the familiar loving scowl: ‘What’s more romantic than the clean break?’ A message came later, which was an invitation to have lunch with the M.C.C. Never an Establishment man, he turned it down. ‘Why now? They never asked me before. In any case, never much liked Lord’s.’
Arlott began his memorable career as a clerk in a mental hospital followed by eleven years with Southampton Borough Police, where he became a detective sergeant. He joined the BBC in 1945 and, for a time, was a poetry producer, working with Dylan Thomas. By 1946 he had begun cricket commentaries, and by the summer of 1947 was covering the game continuously. The following year, his commentaries on Bradman’s all-conquering Australians brought accolades, and huge audiences, on the BBC Light Programme. For the next thirty-two years, his voice became synonymous with the English summer Tests.
Arlott was always his own man. He enjoyed language, found cricket fascinating as a true mirror of life but, above all, he loved cricketers. It was by placing himself inside the cricketer’s head that he could hear the heart beat, understand the hopes, the fears, the financial frailty of the job, the worries and the hard-learnt skills. He always said of his Hampshire men that he could understand a Leo Harrison as well as a Barry Richards, and somehow better because successes came with greater difficulty to Leo.
The cricketers he described came to life because he set them in the broader weave of life, and he elevated the game because of that. For him, this was not a game played remotely inside boundaries. His own world was wide. A collector of fine glass, aquatints, furniture and first editions, he was also a wine connoisseur and wrote on the subject for the Guardian. In addition, he tried to enter Parliament, unsuccessfully contesting Epping for the Liberals in 1955 and 1959. When I was a player with Glamorgan I used to gather Sunderland lustre and Stevengraphs for his collection, while he picked up small pieces of Georgian silver for mine. Over a glass of wine in some pub on the circuit we would make our exchanges.
His commentaries stood out above those of the mere talkers because he had the clear mind of the poet, reducing emotions to a word and passages of play to a sentence. ‘Kapil Dev beats Butcher’s outside edge,’ he intoned in 1979. ‘Butcher hangs his head, holds his bat behind his back in both hands . . . now looks up the pitch at Kapil Dev like a small boy caught stealing jam.’
Because he was a man of sympathies, he had his hates as well. He detested South Africa and refused to broadcast their tours. He had no time for falseness and was bitter that he lost a son in a needless road accident. He constantly wore a black tie.
I last visited Arlott in Alderney, where he had retreated, on his seventieth birthday. He met me in the one small airport room, heaved the familiar leather briefcase on to the counter alongside the receptionist and took out a couple of glasses, a corkscrew and a bottle of Beaune. ‘It’s been too long,’ he said. He had chosen Alderney because the island had given him so much pleasure at a particular time of his life. He never gave the impression of following cricket closely from that distance, but still wrote prolifically and professionally.
These are just a few of the million recollections which will pour out from a multitude of people as he leaves us. What wonderful pleasure his talents gave us. How cricket is in his debt.
Leslie Thomas John Arlott: b Basingstoke, 25 February, 1914; d 14 December, 1991