Cricket’s ugly old man is a knight, and good men do nothing

“I don’t care a toss about her, love.” – Geoffrey Boycott doesn’t get why people are aghast that he has been honoured despite his conviction for beating up a woman.

TELFORD VICE in London

RAIN, cricket and England. That’s just how things are here in summer. So there was nothing unholy about the trinity gathering over Lord’s last month on what was billed as the first day of the second men’s Ashes Test.

It’s at times like these that commentators earn their money. Without field placings to fuss about, strokes to salivate over, bouncers to babble on, and the drama of dropped catches, what’s going on out of the pressbox window — not a lot besides the groundstaff’s hard work — won’t hold an audience for long.

If the rain keeps coming, broadcasters who aren’t resourced well enough admit defeat and resort to alternative programming.

That doesn’t include Test Match Special (TMS), which has brought cricket to the BBC’s listeners since 1957. Regardless of the weather TMS is on the air and in a class of its own, at least in English.

Nowhere else is cricket presented anywhere near as wonderfully. Television has yet to beam footage as captivating as the spoken word pictures painted by the TMS team.

They’re a touch fuddy-duddy — there’s a poshness about too many of them that doesn’t sit well with those of us who aren’t — it took them far too long to involve women, and they are too accepting of the banality of those who were exponentially better at playing cricket than they are at talking about it.

But TMS is unarguably the best in the business and a blessing the cricketminded among us should count at every opportunity.

As rain soaked Lord’s on August 14, TMS went above and beyond even all that.

Cancer ended, cruelly early, the lives of Ruth Strauss and Jane McGrath. Emma Agnew is also battling the disease, and winning. Strauss and McGrath left behind them four children and two husbands: Andrew Strauss and Glenn McGrath. Agnew’s husband, Jonathan Agnew, is the BBC’s cricket correspondent and the fulcrum around which TMS turns.

Instead of filling the empty airtime with wittering about long ago exploits on faraway fields, or nurdling this way and that through a debate about who should bat at No. 5, or wondering what’s for lunch — all staples of cricket conversation on TMS and elsewhere — the three husbands spoke about their wives. And about cancer.

They talked of bravery and commitment, of love given and received, of the best times of their lives. And the worst.    

They told their stories with openness and honesty, and with an uncommon softness that only added to the strength of what they said.

It’s rare to hear men express themselves with such care and goodness, more so on a prominent mainstream platform and even more so by such unvarnished examples of the species.

They were beautiful, and it rubbed off: unusually, it was uplifting to be a man listening to other men talk about women.

But the bubble has burst.

Geoffrey Boycott is an unpleasant old man. He is possessed of an ego monstrously bigger than anything he ever did as a player, which took him — willingly and profitably — to apartheid South Africa. He is a caricature of someone the world should have left behind by now; an unreconstructed bigot. He has somehow made a second career spouting clichés as profundities. He adds nothing to TMS except a rich Yorkshire accent.

None of which is news. Neither is it a secret that, in 1998, he was found guilty of the vicious assault of his then partner, Margaret Moore, in France. Moore testified that Boycott pinned her to a hotel room floor using his legs and unleashed 20 or more punches into her face, body and limbs. The photographic and medical evidence concurred. Boycott said she had injured herself in a fall.

The judge believed that evidence, as well as Moore and her blackened eyes and swollen face, and convicted Boycott — who appealled. And lost. He was given a suspended sentence of three months and fined £5 000.

It was also unsurprising that, in one of the last failures of her calamitous tenure as the United Kingdom’s prime minister, Theresa May decided to give Boycott a knighthood in her resignation honours list, which was announced on Tuesday.

Adina Claire, the co-acting chief executive of Women’s Aid, said: “Celebrating a man who was convicted for assaulting his partner sends a dangerous message that domestic abuse is not taken seriously as a crime.

“With increasing awareness of domestic abuse, and a domestic abuse bill ready to be taken forward by government, it is extremely disappointing that a knighthood has been recommended for Geoffrey Boycott, who is a convicted perpetrator of domestic abuse.”

Neither did it raise eyebrows that Boycott’s tone turned menacing when he was asked, elsewhere on the BBC, by Today’s Martha Kearney, whether the honour had taken so long to come his way because of his crime.

“I don’t care a toss about her [Claire], love. It was 25 years ago. You can take your political nature and do whatever you want with it. You want to talk to me about my knighthood. It’s very nice of you to have me, but I couldn’t give a toss.

“This is just recognition of my cricket. Very nice, very honoured, thankful to Theresa May, and I thank all the people that supported me and cared for me throughout my cricketing career.”

He claimed, wrongly, that in France “you’re guilty until you’re proved innocent” and listed that as “one of the reasons I [didn’t] vote to remain in Europe”.

So far, so Boycott. The only unanswered question in all that is why the BBC continue to employ him.

And this: what would the good men of TMS — who had at Lord’s used their platform to raise matters vastly more important than cricket — do about Boycott’s unrepentant, outrageous, disgusting answer to fair questions about his criminal past?

The question loomed when Boycott took his spot behind the microphone on the first day of the fifth Test at the Oval on Thursday. Would it be asked, nevermind answered?

That duty fell to Agnew, who greeted Boycott with: “Clanking in in his suit of armour, sword dangling by his side, visor down — I’ve called you ‘Sir Geoffrey’ for so many years, it’s ridiculous — but, Sir Geoffrey Boycott. Congratulations from all of us. Good man.”

Rain, cricket, England. And extreme disappointment.

First published by Times SELECT.

WCT points system favours smaller sides. Or does it?

TMG Digital

TELFORD VICE in London

THE big boys of world cricket might have been done a disservice by the structure of the World Test Championship (WCT).

Or could it be that democracy has finally come to a sport obsessed with hierarchy?

The rules seem fair: teams will contest 120 points in each series, so victory in a game that’s part of a two-match rubber will be worth more than winning in a five-match series.

Players concussed during a match can be replaced by a like-for-like substitute, which will prompt thoughts of what a difference it might have made to South Africa’s entire 2019 men’s World Cup campaign had they been able to send in David Miller when Hashim Amla was smacked on the helmet in the fourth over of their first innings in the tournament.

Names and numbers now appear on players’ shirts, which earned the approval even of arch-traditionalists like Geoffrey Boycott in conversation with Jonathan Agnew on the BBC’s Test Match Special on the first day of the men’s Ashes at Edgbaston on Thursday.

“Excellent; should have been done years ago,” Boycott said.

“It’s not for you and I — we don’t need numbers to know who people are. We can see that from the way they walk or run. That’s our job.

“But the ordinary public …”

Teams will be docked two points for every over they fall foul of the required rate, which will alarm chronically tardy South Africa.    

The top two teams in the standings will meet in the final at Lord’s in June 2021.

All good. But the devil is in the details.

Some sides will play significantly more two-match rubbers — where wins are worth 60 points each — than five-match affairs, where success translates into only 24 points.

Pakistan, New Zealand and Sri Lanka each have five two-match series on their schedule, Bangladesh and West Indies four, India and South Africa three, Australia two and England just the one.

But only two five-match rubbers will be played. England are involved in both, against Australia and India.

So Pakistan, New Zealand and Sri Lanka would earn more than twice as many points — 600 — if they win all 10 of their two-match series games than the 240 England would bank for winning the same number of matches in their five-game rubbers.

Conversely, losing in a two-match series would mean exponentially more in the standings than going down in a five-game affair.  

So perhaps cricket’s heavyweights haven’t done themselves a nasty after all.

But wouldn’t it be fun if it turns out that way.

No-one’s home for cricket in England *

For the English, cricket has become fox hunting minus the killing; that thing posh people go and watch when they’re not in their country houses drinking toasts to Queen and Empire.

Firstpost

TELFORD VICE in London

THE road to Lord’s is paved with leafiness, grand houses and a solidly founded sense of entitlement. What you couldn’t see there on Saturday, less than 24 hours before the men’s World Cup final, was much evidence of cricket.

On Sunday there will doubtless be more, not least 30 000 spectators making their way to the ground, many of them helped in that quest by the cricketeers, the cheerfully uniformed volunteer army that has been fighting the good fight for the game in the most warm and heartening way.

The voice of the BBC’s cricket correspondent, Jonathan Agnew, will come down from on high at the nearest tube station.

“Hello everyone! ‘Aggers’ here! Welcome to St John’s Wood, the gateway to Lord’s. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. Now, this is very important — to avoid being run out, please hold the handrail on the escalator. To avoid clogging everything up, please move away from the station. Lord’s is 500 yards to your left.”

But, on Saturday, aside from Lord’s itself looming into view, the odd banner attached to the odd lamppost was all there was to show that, in this very space, the champions of world cricket’s premier white-ball event would be crowned on Sunday.

For the rest, it was a typically dappled, muggy summer Saturday afternoon in London: tourists, taxis and tikka masala to go.

“Find some England fans,” the Editor had instructed for this piece. “Ask them what it feels like for their team to be in the final.” Many apologies, Sir. If I had been able to find those fans I would have asked them.   

They were unidentifiable despite the fact that England are within a game of winning the World Cup for the first time. And that they are in the final for the first time in 27 years. And also that it’s the first time they have come this far at home since not quite five weeks into Margaret Thatcher’s tenure as the UK’s prime minister.

Almost 11 years after the dark day of her elevation — for people of the Left, at least — one of her dangerous, despicable ilk, Norman Tebbit, questioned the patriotism of those who lived in England but continued to support cricket teams visiting from south Asia and the Caribbean.

Thatcher is dead but Tebbit is still stinking up the place at 88. Last year he stopped attending services at St Edmundsbury Cathedral in protest at the appointment as dean of Joe Hawes, who is in a civil partnership with another male member of the clergy. To Tebbit he was a “sodomite”.

You wonder what Tebbit makes of all that tikka masala. Just like you wonder what he thinks of cricket in England, his England having become quietly — smugly, even — satisfied that it has been excised from the popular imagination.

It’s difficult to shake the impression that, for the English, the game has become fox hunting minus the killing; that thing posh people go and watch when they’re not in their country houses drinking toasts to Queen and Empire.

For those whose forebears were subjugated by the colonial project, and who have come to this country as part of their effort to escape the consequences of the crimes it committed against humanity, cricket is a flavour of home. Just like tikka masala.

The game’s support here is sealed into those two silos. It is not played in almost all state schools. It is not broadcast on free-to-air television. It is taken seriously on radio and in the newspapers — where it is easily bumped off the back page by any story about anyone who may have kicked a football once in their lifetime.

Cricket, once the epitome of mainstream Englishness, has slipped out of sight, out of mind in modern, mainstreeam England. Instead, it needs to be sought out. So much so that the suits on all sides agreeing to broadcast Sunday’s final on a channel that does not demand payment for that privilege is being held up as a victory in itself.

But how much of the potential audience worldwide will be lost to the Wimbledon men’s final? And what does it say that the cricket will be shoved onto another channel to make way for the British Grand Prix?     

It would have been cruel to ask questions like those while Eoin Morgan was trying to put into words what winning the World Cup would mean for English cricket. He arrived for his press conference on Saturday wearing an almost disturbingly beatific smile that soon gaped into the kind of grin you might see on a ventriloquist’s dummy.

Morgan is no dummy, and he seems a decent bloke besides. But watching him click through the clichés of attempting to lend the moment some gravitas made some of us cringe at least as much as many Irish people would have done when they learnt that one of their own had become England’s captain. 

Kane Williamson seemed far more at ease with himself and his role, perhaps because he isn’t Irish or English or anything else but a New Zealander, a place where rugby, good coffee and weird facial hair mean more than cricket.

Asked about being underdogs on Sunday, he slipped effortlessly into soft power mode: “Whatever dog we are, it’s important that we focus on the cricket that we want to play. We have seen over the years that anybody can beat anybody — regardless of breed of dog.”

Later on Saturday, a man outside the ground peeled off a wad of notes as fat as a small city’s telephone directory to buy a ticket from a tout. However much he shelled out, it was exponentially more than his prize’s face value.

If he gets in — the ICC are serious about nullifying scalping — he will be part of a crowd representing 41 countries. Eighteen percent of the total tournament tickets purchased were sold outside of England, and 324 000 went to supporters of south Asian sides. The 4-million applications for tickets came from 157 different countries. Fully half of the tickets sold in public were bought by people who do not want England to win.

And yet England could and, probably, will win. That wouldn’t do much to change how the road to Lord’s looks, but at least Norman Tebbit would be happy.

* Published before Sunday’s final.

Leading Edge: Suddenly, cricket has more junk in the trunk than boxing

Fixing, fascist parenting and an ego deflating loudly hit harder than Shahid Afridi.

Sunday Times

TELFORD VICE in London

FOUR Sri Lanka players are charged with fixing in five weeks. Shahid Afridi reveals himself as a fascist who has banned his daughters from playing sport outside. Jonathan Agnew repeatedly uses the original c-word to attack a reporter.

Maybe it has to do with Donald Trump lowering the general standard of human decency, but you have to wonder why cricket is rivalling boxing for junk in the trunk.

News that the ICC were adding charges to those already being faced by Dilhara Lokuhettige broke on April 4. By May 11 he had been joined in the dock by Nuwan Zoysa, Avishka Gunawardene and Sanath Jayasundara — not to be confused with Sanath Jayasuriya, who was himself charged last October. Even Lankan groundstaff have been implicated.

Soon it’s going to be easier to list the Lankans who aren’t suspected of dodgy dealings than those who are. The lesson for the suits in all countries — CSA, are you listening? — is to recognise that cricket starts and end with the players’ belief in the integrity of the game. If they lose faith in cricket, and act accordingly, cricket loses everything.

Afridi’s autobiography, Game Changer, includes the disturbing passage: “They have permission to play all the indoor games they want, but my daughters are not going to be competing in public sporting activities. The feminists can say what they want; as a conservative Pakistani father, I’ve made my decision.”

He batted like a neanderthal. Now we know he thinks like a neanderthal. Worse, he blames being a “conservative Pakistani father” for his bizarre and damaging illogic. What chance Gift of the Givers can swoop in and rescue his daughters from this monster?

Agnew, the BBC’s Mr Cricket himself, didn’t like how he was portrayed in a piece by the Independent’s Jonathan Liew, and responded in a string of text messages by calling Liew “fucking disgraceful” and “a racist”, demanding that he “apologise now”, wielding the word “cunt” three times — once in capitals — and asking, “Who the fuck are you?”

The Beeb reprimanded Agnew and he resigned from the Cricket Writers’ Club, but not before complaining to it in writing about Liew, who has since received an apology from Agnew.

All boxing seemed able to do to to grab a headline while all that was going on was Tyson Fury having a go at Anthony Joshua: “The big fights ain’t happening for him. He needs to grow a set of nuts and step up to the plate instead of talking about fighting the heavyweights. People are sick of hearing all the same stuff with him. Grow up and fight somebody.”

That makes for decent copy, but it’s not the corruption, potentially criminal parenting, or an ego deflating loudly that cricket has gifted sportswriters in recent weeks.

Where do we go from here? Nowhere, of course. Cricket forgives fixers — many South Africans still refuse to believe the plain truth that Hansie Cronjé was a crook — and its baked-in conservatism means it wouldn’t dare take issue with how a player raises his children.

As for Agnew, that’s what happens in the weirdness of a media world in which some people are led to believe they’re more important than others. Will anyone dare to mention this pathetic little war when the World Cup starts at the end of the month?

Despite the fact that Agnew and Liew will be in the same pressboxes and the same dining halls, probably not. Sad.