AFTER I HAD been at the BBC for twelve years, I discovered that I was entitled to something called ‘grace leave’, which meant I could be given three months off with pay. So in 1958 it occurred to me it was about time I saw some first-class cricket abroad. I applied for leave and bought myself a return air ticket to Australia. I was also prepared to pay all my own expenses out there. But when the BBC heard what I was doing, they decided to use me as a commentator and interviewer and to pay me for each job which I did for them. Luckily I was acceptable to the Australian Broadcasting Commission and they kindly invited me to be a member of their own commentary team for the last four Tests.
People talk a lot about jet lag but I arrived in Melbourne on the afternoon of 30 December and was doing my first ever commentary in Australia on the morning of the 31st. I was soon to notice the difference between the techniques of the Australian commentators and the BBC. As I explained earlier, Lobby’s instructions to commentators at cricket were to give the essentials first: the score, the weather, pitch, toss and so on. And of course to continue to give the score every time a run was scored, or if there was a maiden bowled, at least at the end of that over. After that we have always been encouraged to add ‘colour’ to our broadcasts. By this I mean descriptions of the ground, the crowd, and of course the players or the field. We think it adds to a broadcast to talk about the players’ personalities and characteristics. There are also so many stories about cricket which can be subtly woven into the commentary, to say nothing of the many individual and team records.
In Australia it is exactly the opposite. They regard their main purpose as keeping the listener informed of the score and the state of play – to the exclusion of almost everything else. For example, over here we describe the man running up and add a few remarks about him – his style, his long hair, his recent performances or whatever. We then describe the stroke, where it has gone, and say something about the fielder. And then give the score. In Australia, in between giving the score comment is often restricted to ‘. . . and he bowls and it goes through to the keeper,’ or, ‘he bowls, and that’s a single down to X at third man, and the score is now . . .’ In other words the Australian style is terse and accurate. Our style is more flowing and descriptive of everything, without, we hope, any loss of accuracy.
There is also the different way of giving the score, which at first took a bit of getting used to. When four wickets are down for twenty runs they say 4 for 20, we say 20 for 4. By way of compromise, what I used to do in Australia was to use their method when I was broadcasting with their commentary team to Australia only. But when the BBC joined us I would go back to our method. The Australian commentator Alan McGilvray did the same when he was in this country. The other minor differences are that they call extras ‘sundries’, and close of play ‘stumps’, but no one really worries which is used.
A newcomer to Australia, as I was then, also discovers that Down Under some words have different meanings from ours. I was once sharing a commentary box in Tasmania with a commentator called Peter Mears. During a pause in the play he asked me how I had spent my day off on Sunday.
‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘I had a lovely day. I had my first bathe for two years.’
I noticed that he looked slightly surprised and edged further into his corner of the commentary box. It wasn’t till several days later that I discovered that what I had said, to the Australian ear, was that I had had my first bath for two years!
The majority of sports commentators have played or participated at some level or other in the sport on which they commentate. Some, like Harold Abrahams, Richie Benaud, Jim Laker and Nigel Starmer-Smith, have been of international class. I must emphasise here, by the way, that I am talking about commentators, not summarisers.
One non-international but who qualified better than most was Rex Alston. He won an athletics blue at Cambridge and ran in the sprints as second string to Harold Abrahams. From 1924 to 1941 he was a master at Bedford School, and while there captained Bedford at rugby football and also played for Rosslyn Park and the East Midlands. In cricket he captained Bedfordshire in the Minor Counties Championship. Not surprisingly, his three main sports were cricket, rugby and athletics, to which he added lawn tennis.
Already you will have a clue to his character – a schoolmaster for seventeen years with obvious powers of leadership. He joined the BBC in 1942 and became a freelance when he reached retiring age in 1961. Whilst on the staff he was the office organiser and commentary box leader in all four sports. He was precise, meticulous, fair, unbiased and demanding of a high standard of behaviour on the field, the track, the court and in the commentary box itself. He could at times sound like a schoolmaster, gently reproving any lapse in standards of play or behaviour. But he was a friendly, gregarious person and the commentary box was always a happy place when he was in command.
In my opinion, of the four sports, he was best at athletics, closely followed by rugby. At cricket he was – as we all were – slightly overshadowed by John Arlott. He was prone to slight mishaps and had more difficulties than most with the commentator’s five-letter nightmare – ‘balls’. At Canterbury once he described the scene during the tea interval: ‘. . . the band playing, the tents with their club flags, the famous lime tree, people picnicking round the ground, whilst on the field hundreds of small boys are playing with their balls.’
Like all of us he made quite a few general gaffes. One for which he cannot be blamed was in Australia, when he said: ‘Lindwall has now finished his over, goes to the umpire, takes his sweater and strides off.’ What Rex did not know was that in colloquial Australian, ‘strides’ are trousers.
Jim Swanton was a big man in both senses of the word. He had a strong personality, held high principles and liked to get his own way – which he usually did. Some people who didn’t know him thought he was pompous. So, I suppose, did his many friends, which is why we enjoyed pulling his leg. On tours Jim had a habit of staying with governor-generals or dining with prime ministers and high commissioners. I expect that he himself would have admitted that he was a wee bit of a snob. Anyhow, the thought prompted a now famous remark about him: ‘Jim is such a snob that he won’t travel in the same car as his chauffeur!’
Cricket was his life and in addition to broadcasting he wrote or edited more than two dozen books and was the cricket correspondent of the Evening Standard in the 1930s, and of the Daily Telegraph from 1946 to 1975. So far as I am concerned he wrote and said all the right things about cricket, and he made sure that he was given plenty of space to air his views. He also ensured that none of his copy could be sub-edited without reference to him. How his press colleagues envied him this unique journalistic licence. He was forthright in all he wrote and his often unfavourable comparison of modern cricket with that of the past did not always endear him to modern cricketers.
He began his radio broadcasting with some reports in 1934, followed by commentary on the 1938 and 1939 Tests in England. But his big chance came in the winter of 1938–9. He became the first commentator to be specifically booked by the BBC for an overseas tour – South Africa v England in South Africa. He started off with a commentator’s dream when he was able to describe a hat trick by Tom Goddard in the first Test at Johannesburg. During the war he was captured by the Japanese at Singapore and was a prisoner of war in Siam from 1942 to 1945. But in 1946 he took up where he had left off as a member of the radio commentary team with Rex Alston and John Arlott.
Jim had played cricket for Middlesex against the Universities before the war, so with his deep, rich, authoritative voice, was well qualified for the job. He was also a cricket historian with a thorough knowledge of all the developments of the game and its players. Between us we evolved a form of television commentary, trying hard not to speak more than necessary. Our styles were very different. Jim, factual, serious, analytical and critical, myself almost certainly too jokey, and too uncritical. I was also always eager to find extra ingredients to the actual play. To me a cricket match does not consist solely of what is taking place out in the middle. There is so much else which is part and parcel of the game – a member fast asleep – a bored blonde reading a book or some small boys playing a game of their own, oblivious of the cricket they are supposed to be watching. This meant close co-operation with our producers, Peter Dimmock and Barrie Edgar in the early days, and then Antony Craxton, Ray Lakeland, Phil Lewis and Nick Hunter. With a good producer the camera can capture so much of the ‘atmosphere’ of a game, and I still believe that it gives better entertainment to the viewer than just sticking to bat and ball.
In addition to commentary, Jim used to do close-of-play summaries and both on television and radio these were better than anyone else’s, so good was his analysis and reading of a day’s play. On television he would sometimes stop and snap his fingers and ask someone moving behind the camera to keep still. It takes a bit of guts to do this, and also breaks the train of thought. But he always seemed to be able to pick up where he had left off.
As I’ve said he was an ideal subject for leg-pulls. In 1964 for some reason Jim had a chauffeur to drive him around. He was doing the television commentary with us at Trent Bridge, which was packed. At about twelve noon Denis Compton went to the man on the public address system and asked him to read out a note which we had written up in the box. Between overs the crowd heard: ‘If Mr E. W. Swanton is listening will he please go to the back of the pavilion, where his chauffeur has left the engine of his car running.’ Quite untrue of course, but I’ve never heard such a roar of laughter from a cricket crowd.
We had many happy days in the television commentary box, and in spite of our irreverence, I know that Jim too enjoyed his time in the box with us. Let me tell one final story at his expense – as related by Colin Ingleby-Mackenzie at the Eton Rambler dinner in 1982. Not having been present at the occasion he referred to, I am unable to vouch for its veracity!
Apparently, on the first night of their honeymoon, as Jim and his wife were getting into bed, Ann’s foot touched Jim’s.
‘God,’ she said, ‘your feet are cold.’
‘It’s all right, darling,’ he replied. ‘In bed you may call me Jim.’
My other regular colleague of those days, Peter West, was a complete contrast to Jim. Peter retired surprisingly early in 1986 and lives a quiet country life tending his garden in Gloucestershire. I should think that he could justifiably claim to have commentated more hours on television since the war than any other commentator. He was certainly a Jack-of-all-sports, partly because the producers knew he would never let them down. He quickly learned all the intricacies of television commentary and presentation and was the complete television professional. Of the major sports on television he covered cricket, rugby, tennis, hockey, rowing and field events in six Olympics. In addition he was chairman and presenter of at least twenty games or quizzes on television and radio, including fifteen years of presenting Come Dancing. As if this were not enough he wrote and edited books and magazines about cricket and till 1983 was the rugby correspondent of The Times, and did rugby commentary for radio. He also found time to be an active chairman of a public relations firm with strong sporting contacts.
All this is proof of his versatility and capacity for hard work – something we seem to find in most commentators. But, as with Raymond Glendenning, versatility had certain disadvantages. Because he did cricket, tennis and Come Dancing, rugby supporters were apt to think he could not know much about their game. And so it was with other games. Most of them questioned his ability to be an expert in so many sports. Peter’s answer to this would be that the producers had faith in him or they would not have continued to employ him. And, throughout his broadcasting life, working always as a freelance, he was always in full employment as a commentator – which certainly has not been the case with every freelance. He could of course add that he has always been on very good terms with his bank manager!
Peter is a very friendly person with a good sense of humour and much of our happiness in the box was due to him. He came into cricket by pure chance. He once telephoned some copy for C. B. Fry who took a liking to him and admired his efficiency, and recommended him to the BBC. He went to the Royal Military College at Sandhurst and served in the war with the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment. He was a good games player, especially at cricket. But a bad back prevented him from playing seriously, except in our many charity matches. As a commentator at cricket he combined his knowledge of the game with quick assessment, and was not afraid to give his opinion with some force. But because he knew all the players so well, he was always a kind critic and enjoyed and engineered quite a few of our pranks in the box.
Peter did not escape the occasional unlucky choice of words. Once, when commentating at tennis, he remarked, ‘Miss Stove seems to be going off the boil.’ There was one occasion when he made a mess of a proposed joke. Neil Durden-Smith’s wife Judith (Chalmers) had just had a baby girl which they were going to call Emma. The same week Neil was a commentator for Come Dancing at one of the outside broadcasts. I suggested to Peter that he should congratulate Neil during the television broadcast with the words: ‘By the way, Neil, congratulations on the birth of your daughter Emma.’ To this I told Neil to reply (here comes the joke!), ‘Emma-so-many-thanks.’
Not very funny, I admit, but it went for a complete Burton when on the broadcast Peter said, ‘Congratulations on the birth of your daughter,’ leaving out ‘Emma’. In spite of this Neil replied, ‘Emma-so-many thanks,’ as arranged. The poor viewers, not knowing her name, must have been very puzzled over Neil’s pronunciation of ‘ever’. A warning perhaps, when indulging in cross-talk, to listen carefully to your partner’s cue.
In the 1970s and early 80s, BBC Television’s other main commentator on cricket, alongside Richie Benaud, was Jim Laker – two experts not just on reading a game, but on summing up the strengths and weaknesses of batsmen and bowlers. After 1956 Jim walked through life with a halo round his head shining ‘19 for 90’. How can you argue with a man who has performed such a feat? It must have given him the confidence and self-assurance which he undoubtedly possessed. He was a fine judge of cricket, knew it and stuck to his opinion.
He had a completely different commentating style from anyone else I have ever heard. His voice was flat and unexciting. His ‘battin’ and bowlin”, spoken in his Yorkshire accent, would not have been tolerable from anyone else. Who ever heard of a commentator dropping his g’s? But he did, and got away with it. He was laconic, with a shy wit and unlike most commentators avoided any frenetic excitement, no matter how sensational the happening. He was as leisurely as he was when, as a bowler, he trod slowly back to his mark, walking on his heels, looking up at the sky, before wheeling round and starting his short run up to the wicket. His commentary style was in fact ideally suited to television cricket, and with his knowledge and authority the viewers could not technically have been in better hands.
His whole temperament matched the pace of his walk – placid. I remember how, after he had achieved that unbelievable 19 wickets for 90 runs in the fourth Test against Australia at Old Trafford, I went over to the pavilion to collect Jim for a television interview. There was a hubbub of excitement in the dressing-rooms, everyone laughing and talking at the tops of their voices. But Jim? He was the calmest person there, graciously accepting the many congratulations with modesty and a broad smile. I remember telling someone that instead of having created a Test record which must surely stand for all time, he looked as if he had just taken a couple of wickets in a parents’ match.
Jim was only sixty-four when he died in 1986. He was undoubtedly the greatest of all off-spinners. Trevor Bailey once said that facing Jim was like being a rabbit caught in the headlights: petrified, stationary and instinctively knowing one was about to be slaughtered. My own personal experience of his skill was in one of those Sunday charity matches in which I was keeping wicket. Immediately Jim came on, I noticed the difference between him and the other bowlers. He was extremely difficult to take because he managed to make the ball bounce. He had such a perfect action – his high right arm brushing his right ear, the swivel as he delivered the ball, the flight, the prodigious off-spin, the accuracy, direction and the away floater beautifully disguised. To me it was impossible to spot which one was not going to turn from the off.
I was keeping pretty badly, when the batsman went a long way down the pitch. ‘Ah,’ I said to myself, ‘a chance to redeem myself with a leg-side stumping.’ So I positioned myself outside the leg-stump and waited for the off-break to curve round the batsman’s body into my waiting hands. Alas, it was the away floater and there I was stranded down the leg-side. Imagine my horror – and Jim’s delight – when the ball beat the batsman and went for four byes outside the off-stump, leaving me looking a complete clot in missing a stumping by being in the wrong place.
One of the earliest commentators on Test match Special was Alan Gibson who did his first radio commentary for the BBC in 1948. Although for many years he was associated with the West Country, he was in fact born in Sheffield. He captained Queen’s College, Oxford, at cricket and was also president of the Union. He was possibly the most intellectual, articulate and wittiest of all commentators. He had an extensive vocabulary and a strong, confident voice with a ‘twinkle’ in it. He held strong opinions and was perhaps too honest to please all the producers. If he thought a match boring or pointless he would say so. A commentator should not be required to oversell an event or game. But nor should he undersell it.
He left the commentary box in the early 1970s and subsequently entertained readers of The Times with his hilarious accounts of cricket or rugby matches. He travelled everywhere by train, and his adventures in getting to or from a match often filled most of his column. But he had an eye for a cricketer and an appropriate phrase for every happening on the cricket field. He was a very high-class broadcaster and his early departure was a severe loss to radio.
Tony Lewis retired as the anchorman of BBC Television’s cricket coverage after the 1998 NatWest final at Lord’s. He served as President of MCC in 1998–9.
A popular newcomer to the TMS team in 1979 was Tony Lewis, known to us all as ARL, to the annoyance of his wife. I’m afraid that I am to blame once again. I was coming to the end of my commentary stint and glanced at the rota for the commentators, pinned up in front of me. Our producer Peter Baxter always puts just our initials, and there, sure enough, I saw that the next man in to follow me was A. R. L., and – I’m sorry, Mrs Lewis – I simply said, ‘And now after a few words from Trevor Bailey, ARL will take over the commentary.’ And so it stuck.
He brought an air of great distinction to the box. Here we had an ex-Captain of England, and of Cambridge. A double blue for cricket and rugby and to his credit the fine feat of making 95 as a freshman in the Varsity match at Lord’s, and then two years later in 1962 making 103 not out when captain. Added to all this were a hundred for England and the winning of the County Championship by Glamorgan when he was captain in 1969.
So we were very proud of our new recruit, who was no stranger to television or radio. In Wales he had hosted both an arts and weekly sports programme on television, while on Radio 4 his Sport on 4 on Saturday morning had become a high-class sports magazine presented in a friendly and highly personalised style. Later he was to be one of the presenters of the television show Saturday Night at the Mill. In fact it was during one of these programmes which always went out ‘live’ that the string of his violin went flat due to the heat of the studio lights, when he was slap in the middle of the Handel Violin Sonata. Yes, believe it or not, he is also a skilled musician and was a member of the Glamorgan Youth Orchestra. Indeed on one occasion he had to choose between playing for the Welsh National Youth Orchestra, or for Glamorgan v Leicestershire, and he chose the latter.
There was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that he would be a success at commentating. Not just because of his cricketing knowledge and experience. But to a man who could cope in a live television interview – as he did one Saturday Night at the Mill – with Oliver Reed, who proceeded to take off his trousers in the middle of the interview – being a mere commentator would be a ‘piece of cake’. (And he would get plenty of that in the box.)
He started off doing the summaries and reports and gradually eased into the commentary seat. In fact he did not find it too easy at first, partly because he had been doing some television commentary. He found it difficult to keep a flow of talk going, and there were one or two long pauses, which of course would be completely acceptable on television. He had one other difficulty. He got so absorbed in the cricket – as you would expect from an ex-England captain – that he often forgot to give the score and was inclined to ignore Bill Frindall’s feed of records then being or about to be broken. He has a soft, lilting Welsh voice with a friendly chuckle, and as if he hadn’t got enough already, he is by far and away the best-looking commentator on either radio or television – not that there is too much competition!
His other considerable skill is his writing, and as the Sunday Telegraph cricket correspondent he put forward his point of view and opinions in an entertaining and forthright manner. This job also enabled him to tour abroad in the winter and he has broadcast for the BBC from Pakistan, the West Indies, India and Australia. ARL left TMS in 1986 and succeeded Peter West as BBC Television’s main cricket presenter.
‘Cudders’ did not rely on broadcasting for his living. He looked on it as a hobby which took him to big events and faraway places. It was a relaxation from his insurance business, though you would not have realised it from his professional approach. He had a clear, young-sounding voice, and had the ability to speak fast but to be completely intelligible. He had done quite a bit of cricket round the counties but his strong sports were athletics and lawn tennis. In a fast race he could keep up with the best and there was a sense of zest and enjoyment in everything he did.
I suppose he will always be remembered best in broadcasting circles for his appearance on the Today programme. He was there to read out the sports bulletins which were normally at about 7.27 am and 8.27 am. All the contributors to Today used to sit around a large round table with microphones positioned like the numbers on a clock. When there was an item being broadcast which had previously been recorded, there was momentary relaxation in the studio while the tape was being played. Sometimes the presenters practised their next introduction out aloud to make sure it sounded all right.
On this occasion, at about 8.24 am Cudders was sitting with his script in front of him, waiting for his turn. He was concentrating and checking up on his script when he thought he heard John Timpson rehearsing his cue out aloud. He heard John say, ‘Norman Cuddeford has been keeping an eye on the sporting scene for us. So Norman can you please bring us up to date with the score in the Test match between Australia and England at Sydney.’
Cudders thought he would join in this ‘rehearsal’ and to be funny said with a laugh, ‘No. As a matter of fact I can’t!’ The result was the complete collapse of everyone in the studio, with John desperately signalling to Cudders that it was a genuine cue. Cudders, very red in the face, then had to apologise and read out his script to the listeners. That’s a moment he will never forget!
One of the most popular commentators on the Test and county circuit in the 1950s and 60s was Peter Cranmer – inevitably known as ‘Cranners’. He was a magnificent athlete, a rugger blue at Oxford with sixteen caps for England as a strong-running centre three-quarter. He just missed a cricket blue at Oxford but played first-class cricket for Warwickshire and was their captain in 1938–9 and 1946–7. He was a fine fielder, a hard hitter and a tearaway bowler. As a commentator he was completely natural – almost conversational. He combined his considerable knowledge of cricket with a cheerful exuberance which made him easy on the ear, and a delightful companion to work with.
He sometimes found difficulty in the more basic skills of broadcasting, like time-keeping and cueing over. When we were doing three commentary matches every Saturday afternoon, plus racing, tennis and athletics it could become complicated. Remember that in those days we used to work to a pre-arranged timetable on a cue-sheet. We would then cue over to each other at the appropriate time, no matter what was happening in the various matches.
Nowadays the presenter in the studio is completely in charge. He cues over to the commentators, who wear headphones. He then tells them when to stop, saying something like: ‘Brian, go to the end of the over, and then give the score.’ On hearing the score at the end of the over, the presenter picks up in the studio and cues over to someone else. This is of course a far better method as it is completely flexible, and means that the programme can spend longer on an exciting match with only brief coverage of dull ones.
I remember that one Saturday afternoon Cranners was at Edgbaston and I was at Leyton. As I said, he was not too good on his time-keeping, and cued over to me at least five minutes later than he should have done. I couldn’t resist saying, ‘Thank you, Cranners. Better Leyton than never!’
One of the most versatile of commentators, who came to the BBC after retiring from the Royal Navy and after a spell as aide-de-camp to that very popular Governor-General of New Zealand, Lord Cobham, ‘Durders’ joined the BBC originally to help organise the broadcasting of the World Cup, a complicated job with such tremendous worldwide coverage. But it wasn’t long before his love and knowledge of cricket gained him a seat in the commentary box.
He had played for the Combined Services and at one time was very near to taking over the captaincy of Worcester. He is still a first-class batsman and plays most of his cricket for the Lord’s Taverners, of whom he was chairman for two years. He is quietly spoken and almost gentle in his delivery. He did broadcast Tests, but never gained a regular place in the team. I am afraid that first with John Arlott, and then me, broadcasting well over the retirement age, opportunities for the new commentators were scarce. He knew his cricket inside out, and as a result possibly interjected his own opinion rather than consulting our two experts.
His main occupation was his public relations business. He worked for television, both BBC and ITV, and covered hockey, at which he was a class player, show jumping and polo – not the easiest game on which to commentate. For radio he took over from Robert Hudson and brought a touch of the Navy to that most Military of occasions – Trooping the Colour. If you can get away with a commentary on that without incurring the wrath of a dozen or so retired colonels, then you can scale any height.
He will always be known in OBs as the broadcaster with the best excuse when he missed his cue during a broadcast. He was at Leicester during one of the Saturday afternoon roundups and the presenter cued over to him according to his cue-sheet just after the tea interval should have finished. But there was dead silence except for the distant applause from the crowd. So the presenter went over to the other commentary points for the next ten minutes or so. He then decided to try Durders again: ‘. . . Are you there now, Neil? We tried ten minutes ago and couldn’t raise you.’ There was a slight pause, then a very out-of-breath Durders managed to blurt out, ‘I am sorry. I can hardly speak. I’ve just run up the stairs to the box. I’m late because I’ve been having tea with the Bishop of Leicester.’ This was of course greeted with roars of mirth by his colleagues in their commentary boxes all round the country. It was the best – and most unlikely – excuse ever heard on the air. When Durders cued over to Alan Gibson at Worcester Alan said in a sombre voice, ‘I regret that there are no episcopal celebrations here.’