What a perfectly shitty morning it was – I’d just been to the vet, and held my beautiful 16 year old dog as she breathed her last. Tears, grief, gratitude and love were bouncing around my head. It was 44⁰ in the shade, and my mind was melting.
And then the extraordinary happened. Playing in the background was the stream of the previous night’s match between South Africa and England on Guerilla Cricket, when, all of a sudden everything changed. Two very familiar, and extremely slurred, voices materialised, announcing that, as it was 4.00 am and they were at a loose end, they had decided to commentate on England vs Namibia Under 19s. Thus began six hours of what may well go down as the most remarkable world wide cricket broadcast in history.
Guerilla Cricket – crazy but wonderful!
Perhaps I should explain a bit about Guerilla Cricket, though they’re a hard mob to categorise. From where I sit, it seems that the basic prerequisites to become a Guerilla are an absolute passion for cricket, an extremely affable nature, a willingness to divulge pretty well every personal secret, a good sense of humour, and a healthy disrespect for the cricket establishment. The ability to consume copious amounts of alcohol, mild insanity, and left-leaning political views are an advantage, but not mandatory. Every time England play, and some other games as well, they gather together in front of a muted TV and give their listeners a ball by ball commentary, and some of them are pretty damn good at it – it’s a skill which is a lot harder than it seems. There is so much more, too – every player and event is greeted with an appropriate jingle, some inspired, some not so much, and there is discussion; discussion of everything from the cricket itself, to art, drama, classics, literature, fashion, music, cheese (!) – indeed anything that takes someone’s fancy. Nothing is off-limits; the language can be colourful, but rarely gross, the humour is good, and the cricket always remains at the centre. Occasional guests, be they authors, cricketers, comics or just fans, are invited to add to the colour, and there is a sense of being part of a group of fellow enthusiasts, simply enjoying cricket and all that comes with it.
And then there’s us, the Guerillerati, listening all over the world (in several hundred countries, apparently!), getting to know everything about our commentators, and about the cricket, of course. I’m sure there are those who are happy just to listen, but many of us become a part of the whole process via Twitter. Getting tweets read out includes us in the conversation in a way which is both involving and highly addictive. Tweets are often very funny, perceptive, informative and involving. Never, ever, are they abusive or unpleasant – it’s the most positive social media environment I have ever encountered. Occasionally I’ll get tetchy if the debate is so intense that the tweets aren’t being read out – it’s because I feel like I’m being left out of the discussion, and the point I wanted to make passed some time ago! That’s how much I feel a part of it. By the end of it all, I know more about their personal lives, vices, prejudices and talents than I know about many of my friends! Indeed, I had the pleasure of spending a day with them in January, and it felt like I had known them for ever – like greeting old friends.
The Ash Wednesday Enlightenment
And so, to the night in question. Cue the main protagonists – Roger, a Northern Irishman, born in Jamaica, a professional classical musician, with a radio voice to die for, and an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things to do with cricket; a great sense of humour, and the ability to remain steady during any crisis. And Katie, who has generously let the Guerillas broadcast from her London flat for the past few months, an effervescent cricket-lover, an artist, raconteur and teacher with a huge range of expertise in Latin, fashion, literature, music, art, partying, name-dropping, and much else besides (I say expert in the sense that she knows more about all of these subjects than I).
On Shrove Tuesday, during the broadcast of the SA vs England ODI, having made pancakes for all assembled, Katie declared that, as she intended to swear off alcohol for Lent, she fancied having a few last drinks before it started. Although details are sketchy, it would seem that the crew subsequently adjourned to the local hostelry, consumed considerable amounts of Little Creatures ale, followed by an unknown number of bottles of champagne. Back at the flat, at around 4.00am, having exhausted Katie’s Benjamin Britten catalogue, someone switched on the TV and noticed that Sky were covering the Under-19 game between England and Namibia. At this point, automatic reflexes cut in – “cricket is on the TV, we need to commentate on it”. So they did.
I was delighted! It was as if, to distract me from my grief, a couple of old friends had dropped around to talk about the cricket and chew the fat, despite them being ten thousand miles away from Perth. The fact that there were probably only three of us listening made it all the more intimate – sane English people were still sound asleep, so it was those of us across the other side of the globe who were there to share it all. Roger was less than happy with Katie’s choice of Vivaldi for background music, but tolerated it when we supported her. Katie was decidedly unimpressed when I suggested she might not be able to abstain for the whole of Lent as she was too bibulous (excessively fond of alcohol), and immediately demanded to know the supine of “bibere” (it’s bibitum if you’re interested – I hope you find a use for that). We were appalled to discover that at least four of the English Under-19s were well past their 19th birthdays. We all disappointed Katie because none of us had read Middlemarch and couldn’t discuss it with her; and there was a minor crisis when the champagne appeared to have run out, but another was fortunately unearthed, albeit warm but drinkable. Those of us listening, whatever our own time of day, were forced to start drinking just to keep them company. There was a “Katiedote” concerning trying to teach her students about “Post hoc ergo propter hoc”, and appropriate examples…. and so it went for several hours.
“The Lights are Going on All Over Paris…”
As time passed, the word started to spread, and while some wilted, others joined up, almost invariably starting off with a “wtf?” comment. Or, as Robert in Paris put it when he joined us at 5.15 “Is this real? How drunk are you people? Jesus. Should one of us intervene?“. And we had a ball! A crisis at 5.45, when the feed dropped out. As Robert said, “It’s heartbreaking. This was radio history. I was watching all the lights on my street blink on as folk tuned in.” But after a couple of minutes the feed was back, and we all partied on. People were re-arranging their days so they would not miss a minute, and growing numbers of incredulous and bleary-eyed English listeners were having their most exciting breakfast in years. Could they last? Would the alcohol last? Would Hendo go incandescent when he tuned in? And, of course, was it being recorded for posterity? By 7, the pace was starting to tell, as Katie came to a standstill, and had to go and “rest her eyes” for 30 minutes. Never one to resist a challenge, though, Roger upped his game and went into monologue mode (à la James Joyce, as a couple of tweeters noted). It truly became a tour de force, as he reported on the cricket, responded to our tweets, and regaled us with his mother’s wit and wisdom. Going solo had its drawbacks, of course – no jingles, and the occasional lengthy silence as physical demands were attended to, but every time, just as we were beginning to think we had lost him, he came back, fighting fit and determined to get through to stumps! He even managed to revive a very woozy Katie, but her stamina couldn’t match his, and she soon had to absent herself to “make her bed” (and therefore to lie on it, as Roger surmised).
And Still He Goes…
And get through he did, as Namibia folded to a disappointing 93 all out after 25 overs, and we thought that was that. But we were wrong! With the bit between his teeth, Roger was determined to carry on, so, from God knows where, he dug up highlights videos from various games over the last 15 years, and proceeded to cover them as well – even managing to be surprised at the turns of events which he had committed to memory in the distant past. For all I know he’d be going on still had it not been for a knock on the door around 10 o’clock, after which nothing was to be heard but the occasional snore.
And so ended a truly remarkable broadcast, one which, for many a year, will stick in the minds of those of us who were lucky enough to be a part of it, particularly for the first three hours or so, when the alcohol and serotonin were at the height of their powers. However much Roger and Katie may have suffered the next day, I can promise that it was worth every brain-cell lost – a memory that will become folklore in the annals of Guerilla Cricket’s rich history! As I signed off (with apologies for somewhat distorting Shakespeare), “Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! The rest is silence. Thanks for a formidable performance.”
And it reminded me of what cricket can be and do – so much more than the game itself, it has provided, for me at least, a hugely rich tapestry of connection with like-minded people who share the passion and appreciate one another. Thank you, Guerillas and Guerillerati all, you have undoubtedly changed my life for the better! Indeed, you make the world a better place to be.