SPECTATOR SPORT

Opium, snakes and earthquakes

Frank Keating

CAN it really be ten Christmas Eves ago that Geoffrey Boycott, on the way to his last Test match century, clipped a ball from an Indian spinner to the boundary at Delhi to break the all-time Test batting record of 8,032 runs set by Sir Garfield Sobers? The day I rewrote my first Christmas carol since prep school.

That evening, in the bar at the plush Oberoi, Geoffrey turned his wonky grin on full beam but refused all blandishments to booze, and was soon tucked up in bed with a nice cup of ginseng tea and, doubtless, his beloved bat and his box. The two wicket-keepers, Bob Taylor and Jack Richards, carted me off to the cathedral for midnight mass after which, unwisely, I carried on making serious inroads into the precious Christmas spirit which had been sent in abundance from home.

On such occasions, other spirits and muses jangle the brain and before dawn I was seen corkscrewing along the corridors, ropy legged, to push under the door of Geoffrey's room this scrawled Christmas carol I had just amended in homage:

We three tweaks of Orient are Bedi, Venkat, Chandrasekhar, We rejoice in, can we join in Applause for you, Ayatollah? O-o-oh, Star of Wonder in bad light, Star who wears white Rose so bright, Hairpiece preening, sweatbands gleaming, Surely You will soon be Knight?

Boycott took the drivel totally in his stride as he spent hours next morning working on his costume for the lunchtime fancy-dress party. He emerged as a turban- ned and bejewelled Prince Ranjitsinjhi and no one could refuse him first prize. On those tours, when I went on two or three with the England team, the Christmas fancy-dress do was fun and a novelty (Mike Brearley, I think, introduced the wheeze in Australia in 1979-80). Since when they have become pretty tedious, as the players now just call in a local theatrical costumier and assemble for a nice little earner of a photo-call for the back pages the morning after Boxing Day, as we will see again this year, I -suppose. It serves, too, to divert the wives and children who follow their cricketing men to all ends these days. On the morning of the crucial second Test, which starts on Boxing Day, the England team's breakfast room will resemble a raucous crèche. Christmas Day afternoon will have been spent, I warrant, with all families lying, immobile and unspeaking, by the hotel pool, noses covered in that ridiculous white sun-oil gunge which is the fashion these days in Australia. Imagine Hutton or Compton — or, best of all, the patrician Dexter stepping out to bat daubed in that.

Let alone WG. On the Doctor's first tour Down Under in 1873, the match against XVIII of Victoria started on Box- ing Day, but the day before the Old Man and his cousin, W. R. Gilbert, hired a buggy and went up country, as he wrote in his journal, 'in hopes of bagging a kangar- oo, though no such luck happened to come our way.' Still, he said he found the attempt 'extremely interesting and not a little exciting', especially as he had been warned that the kangaroo 'has one deadly weapon of defence, a terrible claw on its hind foot which the hunter must be careful not to get in front of, or he may be ripped up.' Anyway, next day Grace was sharp enough to take 10 for 58 and hit 51 not out.

England's cricketers were all at their journals in the old days. Not the ghosted junk of today either, for which the player collects the dosh but sometimes scarcely glances at the tosh till he's demanding a fee to turn up to the bookshop signing session when it's in hardback.

Twenty-four years after WG's kangaroo dart, the MCC tourists again ventured into the outback on Christmas Eve. They had just beaten Australia at Sydney. J.T. 'Jack' Hearne, the Middlesex bowler, had wrap- ped it up with five for 42, but his diary noted that the Christmas hunt was 'the best day' of the trip:

. . . went for Wanga-Wanga pigeon, but finished up with 40 brace of snipe, one hare (very large), one blue crane and two black snake and all of us soaking wet up to the knees. We were all walking in a most careless and reckless manner when poor Tom [Richardson, the Surrey demon], got a rare fright with the black brute within a foot of him ready to strike. He only just saw it in time to give it both barrels. He says he cannot describe his feelings at that moment, but knew Black Snake most deadly, kills within two hours of bite.

Christmas Day was spent at poker travelling to Melbourne — 'caterer aboard train gave us real Christmas dinner', wrote Hearne, 'and one might have fancied they were at home except for the beautiful green peas we had' — and on Boxing Day, `most indulged in extra turn in bed, the chaps that have not been from home at Xmas before seem a bit down, Ted Wain- wright [the Yorkshire spin bowler and hitter] especially, who remarked feelingly at the breakfast table, "I wish I was back in the little cottage turning the meat".'

Two tours later, with Stoddart's side in 1903-04, the chirpy bits-and-bobs all- rounder from Sussex, Bert Reif, kept the

diary which has survived.

December 24, Melbourne. Had a good bowl, got 4 wickets, they could not touch me. Bowled very well. Wrote letters and Xmas cards and after went to theatre to see The Great Millionaire, but not before Mr Christie took us round the Chinese quarters in Little Bourke Street — interesting to see the opium smoking and gambling dens, but would not like to go again. December 25. Very hot. Busy packing then did a stroll round just having drink or two to old folks at home. After dinner, drawing-room and all had some singing and dancing.

A couple of world wars later and Eng- land's touring cricketers began singing and dancing again. On Hammond's divisive tour of 1946-47 to Australia, the journal was written by the engaging, worrypot wicket-keeper, Paul Gibb.

December 25. Sydney. Had kept back letters from family so had a few to read when I awoke. Good to think the kids would be safely tucked up for the night, all ready to waken in the morning to perhaps the biggest thrill of their little lives. Cannot honestly claim team's Christmas Dinner was huge success. One or two of the boys raised a gayish sparkle after they had swallowed several drinks, but it was all too obvious they all wished they were at home. Skipper did his best to get plenty of liquor into me. I turned down all offers. Dick Pollard played a few songs on the piano before we all sat down to a quite nicely decorated table, put on paper caps, and ate our dinner. Laundry accumu- lating. Am in need of a seamstress to sew on buttons.

Next day, Hutton and Washbrook both scored centuries — 'though last night at dinner Len had been worried he might catch a chill through sitting under a fan, but he did not appear to have suffered. Extraordinary how most of the profession- als seem obsessed with the idea of catching chills. They seem scared too of eating an ice cream or drinking a cold drink.'

What would have scared Hutton, then, was the Christmas Day match when MCC played Canterbury at Christchurch, New Zealand, in 1922, Archie MacLaren's last tour. The scorebook still exists with the copperplate legend: 'Earthquake, 3.04 p.m. Canterbury 54 for three. Grandstand is rocking. Titchmarsh has difficulty in picking up the ball'.

Next day the Canterbury Sun reported: `Play promptly stopped this Christmas afternoon as the visiting team on the field devoted attention to several swaying chim- neys and tank stands. MacLaren shouted across to his wife, Maud, to leave the Members' Stand. When the ground had stopped appearing to be in waves; Play, once it resumed, was understandably quiet, with no addition to the total for seven minutes except for one leg-bye.'

Still, more exciting to write home about than a ruddy fancy-dress party.