Pre- the final curtain there was the inevitable falling over backwards; too many forced ‘dear old things, too much cranking up of the emotional. Vaughan and Tufnell maybe slightly nervously fawning.
The Old Pro, though, ploughed on, admirably briskly – because that’s what his generation do, right? – because he had a game to commentate on; because ‘tremendous fun’ loometh.
TMS, of course. Blowers. Dressed to kill; impossibly vital and irretrievably amiable, as always. No doubt aware of the doe-eyes around him but impressively focused on that uniquely distracted world-view, drawn in to Lords and to his cricket.
Throughout he remained seemingly unaffected by the smiley furore around him. Doing his thing – scene-setting, describing. All of it via that, yaknow… voice.
There have been contenders, overs the decades, for the Voice of Cricket moniker. Few if any (Arlott, Benaud, perhaps?) have breached that bubble of national/international consciousness in quite the way that Blofeld has. He is instantly, widely, almost universally known – and known beyond his game.
Whilst the fact of his popularity is all the more extraordinary given his lack of physical visibility – duh, radio commentator and therefore relatively obscure, despite those sartorial outrages – Blowers figures. He is identifiable, he is a one-off, one-man, universal brand. Supremely Posh English. Because of that voice.
We can’t pretend to appreciate Our Henry without acknowledging this: he is – or he sounds – elite-level posh.
In another scenario – politics, perhaps? – he might surely be the recipient of cruel satire and abuse for being so. How then has he cut through to the extent that or’nary blokes like Tuffers and Vaughan are now falling over themselves to offer touching tributes? When they, like me, must surely be instinctively posh-averse? In this sense alone, Henry Blofeld is a phenomenon.
Let’s look at the context. The TMS tribe itself is arguably a relatively conservative clique; if defined by well-meaning, cake-wielding softies, then incontrovertibly, fascinatingly so. It’s the land of private schools, polished accents, awfully genuine people. It’s the land of the flourishing cricket club; we can’t pretend that breeding has no significance here.
Hold that heavy roller though: this a truth but it’s not the truth.
Despite that (dangerous concepts alert) deeply traditional, English core, to which it’s a no-brainer that Blowers might appeal – as a soulbrother, as a ‘natural voice’ – there are radical hipster eco-Corbynistas amongst the TMS Posse. Of course there are. And there are binmen and teachers and surgeons and vicars and thieves. But let’s get back to how he sounds.
Only a few could hear that voice without issues arising. I still hear it and battle the prejudices of a punky youth in the North of England. Growing up Grimbarian (now 35 years honorary Welsh, with Welsh-speaking family) I have shoulders to be de-chipped, confessions to make around this.
Grappling for a way through and out of Thatcherism and by direct consequence hating (then – less so now) the Privileged South, I am uneasy around what google is helpfully calling Upper Received Pronunciation. The purveyors of said gift have to earn my trust and respect in a way some bloke from Swansea may not. Because posh means privileged and this is wrong, yes? Because the country was and is divided and a certain political party need only be interested in securing the goodwill of the South… and the job is done, yes? (Like I said, Thatcherism).
Hah but I am worldly and self-aware enough to know this strikes some of you as either offensive, irrelevant or both and that it reflects on me as badly as anyone else. I hope you’ll be pleased to hear I now know at least two people from the URP category whom I really like… but (hah hah?) I’m sticking to my guns on the wincing at privilege thing.
Some part of me will always think Henry Blofeld could not sound or be more of an icon for the Privileged South if he crooned Gaudeamus Igitur whilst boiling the lobster.
We can (and I have) got over this but it matters. It matters because a) this voice projects us across the universe and b) this voice doesn’t represent us. And c) Free Nelson Mandela!
Just kidding – I’ve enjoyed Blowers too. I’m a huge fan of TMS.
Here’s how it is. For me Our Henry’s a hugely affable outlier. From another age, another place, for sure but when the flow is with him, humorous and painterly and yes, ‘tremendous fun’. Someone I can join with, despite the chasm between. The man is skilled and knowledgeable, eccentric and somehow hyper-exotically English in a way I can live with – now – a way that’s simply entertaining; diverting, as they used to say.
Critically, look at what his peers are saying. Even allowing for a degree of sycophancy here or there, the vibe is strikingly, convincingly positive.
We plebs don’t have the inside track on this but his co-commentators – the guys and gals who’ve been covering his back over the last eighteen months – plainly love the man. (Check out tonight’s twitter to confirm; notable). Henry may have been increasingly less able to see clearly who is who and where the ball went but this has not diminished his colleagues love for him – and he’s too sharp to allow too much saccharoidal patronage.
It would seem most colleagues, like most fans, appreciate his flair, his infectious wordsmithery, his sweet disposition. Agnew and Marks and co reeled off stories – often featuring ‘classic’ Blower errors or post-binge aberrations, all palpably enjoyed, all relayed entirely without malice.
As Blower’s day ended in triumph, with what he might call a glorious perambulation round his beloved Lords, crowd roaring, the tributes multiplied. Few from the media will receive a lap of honour at Lords and an England dressing-room visit to mark their final spell of verbals. Few will get so many unsolicited snogs. Up close then, once you’ve put your shades on, the fella must be an absolute diamond as well as a journalist of distinction.
He is a phenomenon. The Great British Public, beyond the cake-bakers and the geeks, want either to share a glass with him, or a paternal hug, or worse. He transcends judgement by simply screening out opinion, being honestly good and being honestly, clearly in love with his game.
I’m struck by the thought that Blower’s signature talents are 1) he can talk 2) he sticks to the cricket and the pigeons and the cranes. Job done.