Thanks, Johnners: An Affectionate Tribute to a Broadcasting Legend. Jonathan Agnew

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      That story brought down the Uppingham School hall, and would later feature in Brian’s theatre show. Little did he know that sitting in the audience that day was a schoolboy with whom, almost a quarter of a century later, he would combine to create an even more notorious broadcasting cock-up. Johnners would then always use what has become known as ‘The Leg Over’ as the climax to his speeches, as indeed I do today. But that afternoon in the mid-1970s, as I walked back to my boarding house with my mates chuckling at the stories we had just heard, I had no idea that this wonderful entertainer and I would one day be colleagues.

      Chapter Two

      A Radio Man

      Brian Johnston was a major influence on my career. Sitting and watching him communicate with his listeners with such ease and warmth was an object lesson in broadcasting. Most of what I learned from Johnners came purely from example – he was the most natural broadcaster I have ever met. He only ever directly gave me one firm piece of advice.

      We were sitting together in the commentary box high in the left-hand turret of the Lord’s Pavilion before the start of a day’s play in a Test match. Bill Frindall settled down beside us as we relaxed with a cup of tea at the commentators’ desk, while Peter Baxter, the producer, was constantly on the move preparing for Test Match Special to go on air. Backwards and forwards he rushed between the commentary box and the engineers’ room, which was little more than a small glory hole to our left, full of tangled wires and electronic equipment. There was no direct communication between the two. Beyond the engineers was an even smaller booth, at the end of the run of three semi-permanent boxes which was where the BBC reporting position used to be located before the arrival of the spectacular Media Centre which now dominates the Nursery End. Its shape has been compared variously to a spaceship, a gherkin and even Cherie Blair’s smile. The old reporters’ box was barely wide enough for two people to sit and watch the game. I remember interviewing the actor, comedian and my fellow Old Uppinghamian Stephen Fry and the former Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie, in there, but not at the same time. Shame: it would have made a great combination.

      That old commentary box at Lord’s, which has since been torn down, was Brian’s favourite. Shortly before he died, when he was very poorly indeed following a serious heart attack, his wife Pauline took him to Lord’s in the hope that it might spark some memories. Slowly they walked around the ground, arm in arm. Brian clearly did not recognise his surroundings until he gazed up at the commentary box at the top of the Pavilion and said, ‘Test Match Special.’

      It was not merely the spectacular view directly down the pitch that made that commentary position so special. To get to it one had to go through the Pavilion, which is strictly the domain of the MCC members, who before the start of play would be rushing about trying to grab the best vantage point. We retraced the steps of all the greatest cricketers the game has known as we walked through the Long Room, with its musty smell of stale cigar smoke, its wonderful collection of paintings of revered figures from the past, and cricketing memorabilia from a bygone age. How could one not feel thoroughly excited about the day ahead? It still gives me goosebumps just thinking about it now. We passed the umpires’ dressing room on the way up the creaking old wooden staircase, and I would often pop my head through the door and say good luck to David Shepherd, Dickie Bird or whoever was on duty. Another staircase, which was decorated by framed scorecards of memorable Test matches, and we were at the very top of the Pavilion, where after turning left and squeezing past the members who had already taken their seats, a couple of steps took us to an unpromising wooden door that was probably once white. It was rather battered and badly in need of a coat of paint, but this was home to Test Match Special.

      The box was far from luxurious. Running its entire length was a purpose-built shelf at which the broadcasters and scorer perched on tall stools. There were a few chairs at the back of the box for visit -ors and off-duty commentators, and, bizarrely, an ugly metal pillar almost directly in the middle, which always got in the way but presumably stopped the roof from falling in on us. The large wooden-framed windows could only be opened by using some force to slide them down, but the effort was worth it, because the box would then come alive with the unique sound of Lord’s – a satisfied murmur of contentment made by 29,000 people enjoying themselves. One could not help but be lifted when one sat at the open window and started commentating.

      These days our old turret is home to an MCC members-only champagne bar, and very nice it is too. One day, when I am firmly retired, that is where I have every intention of watching my cricket from, while I fondly remember our old box and all those friends who worked in it.

      On that particular morning, in the television studio, BBC TV was also preparing for another day. This involved setting up the in-vision studio, and particularly getting the presenter, Tony Lewis, and his guests into position. Rather than having televisions tuned in to BBC 1, which was prone to breaking off from the cricket for the news or a horse race, our radio commentary boxes are kitted out with monitors which constantly relay everything that is being filmed within the ground by the TV rights holders. This includes the setup shots at the start of the day, which invariably includes the front man meticulously sorting out his hair. (That may sound mundane, but believe me, it makes for great television. Mark Nicholas, formerly of Channel 4 and now of Channel 5 fame, is indisputably the current world champion. Countless little flicks and minute adjustments while staring with increasing approval at his monitor in the studio create hours of entertainment for the rest of us, who are invariably a little ‘dressed down’ in radio land. Richie Benaud was more of a gentle hair-teaser, carefully manoeuvring a grey curl over his right ear to conceal his earpiece. David Gower, on Sky, does not have to bother much these days, but Tony Lewis, who was always meticulously groomed, liked to ensure that he had a neat and crisp parting in his jet-black hair.)

      On this day, as he and I were watching Tony preparing himself for the nation’s viewers, Johnners announced: ‘Aggers, whatever you do, don’t go to telly.’ I assumed the reason for this observation was the amount of time and effort required just to get one’s hair ready, and I nodded in a non-committal sort of a way. ‘No, Aggers, I mean it,’ Johnners said. ‘For a start, you are a radio man. But also because television doesn’t treat you nearly so kindly.’ This was the prelude to him telling me about the time he was dropped as a television commentator in 1970, after twenty-four years, without so much as a letter or telephone call of explanation. It was unusual to see Brian anything other than jovial and light-hearted, but although this had happened over twenty years previously, it was clear that the bitterness still ran surprisingly deep. Not only does the episode seem to have been rudely and thoughtlessly handled by the corporation, but for Brian, who remained the BBC cricket correspondent, it was a public humiliation. For a man who until then had led a largely charmed life, rejection was a new and unpleasant experience.

      I heeded Brian’s advice when, in 1998, Channel 4 surprised everybody by securing the rights to televise cricket ahead of the BBC, starting the following season. I was approached by Channel 4 and Sunset + Vine, the production company that would revolutionise the coverage of cricket in this country, and asked if I would resign as the BBC’s correspondent and join them for the 1999 season. This was a huge decision, and one to which I gave serious and considerable thought. Financially, it was no contest: television pays much better than radio, and even before they had broadcast a ball, this promised to be an exciting and groundbreaking venture. That had huge appeal, besides which, the move might set my family up for life. My wife Emma, who works in television news, felt that I should take the plunge. But I was not convinced. Radio felt like home to me; not in an easy, unchallenging, job-for-life sort of way, but because I felt much more comfortable on the radio than I had when I had covered one-day matches on television in previous years for the BBC. Television commentary was fine, but it was more restrictive than radio, and offered less opportunity for my style of banter. I also found the work ‘to camera’ quite awkward. For me, the whole television thing lacked the fun and spontaneity of radio.

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