A day at Lords and elsewhere.
I must be unique in the Upper Mound Stand watching the first day of England versus Pakistan as (A) I come alone and (B) neither to socialise nor quaff alcohol but to watch cricket. I put on my earpieces to listen to TMS, as much as to block out the chat around me and growing crescendo of alcohol fuelled noise over the day, as to follow the insightful commentary.
The only other person I saw who followed the cricket as intently as me was Sebastian Faulks, two rows ahead.
A poor batting display when English wickets were surrendered by some most injudicious strokes, that the public were short changed by 5 overs and the now familiar batting collapse against a mercurial but not pre-eminent Test side made me think that English cricket is more than in trouble… it’s in crisis.
I’m thinking of the paucity of talent, the selection of players short of the necessary ability to score consistently at Test level; the confusion over the way the Hundred was presented with the Chief Executive and Chairman of the ECB not singing from the same hymn sheet as to whether this is at a consultative stage or fait accompli; the decision of Andrew Strauss to stand down to look after his wife is more than understandable, it’s totally correct but the result is an absence of leadership and direction when most needed.
Strauss is a white ball man but countries where the new format has prospered have reliably warm weather, something this country emphatically does not possess. Like M & S which may lose its FTSE 100 status, cricket seems out of touch with its existing support and seeking to attract a newer one which may never materialise.
All this engaged and troubled me as the wickets tumbled and the champagne corks popped around me.
The first day of a Lords Test match is always a sociable place. Stand on the concourse and it’s not long before you run into someone you know. Ironically I was waiting for someone I had arranged to meet who did not show but nonetheless – whilst doing so – I bumped into two good friends.
One of London’s attractions is Regent’s Park and after the hubbub at Lord within 5 minutes I was in the oasis of calm and peacefulness by the boating lake.
I thought of Bernard Levin in his final years staring out blankly seated on a park bench by the bridge separated from that fine and cultivated intellect by dementia; of Saturday mornings with my late mother and Jamie as a toddler feeding two forlorn ducks in the round pond in the inner circle as he took his first faltering steps in life.
The boating lake, zoo, open air theatre and cafes are such a resource and the whole park so beautifully maintained. It more than compensated for the taxi journey to Lords where roadworks on Gloucester Place made the meter move quicker than the taxi and, in my haste to disembark, caused me to leave my binoculars on the seat.
The solitude is disturbed by every other young person on a mobile.
I secretly hoped that, as they scoured their phone for texts from the person they fancied in the gym, met in Starbucks or the pub, it was only another GDPR message on privacy from a retailer they had quite forgotten about for a purchase long discarded.
