This was written midway through the 2017-18 Ashes series in Australia.

With the current Ashes series now well over halfway through any English hopes of a series win seem as forlorn as hopes of a white Christmas. Like the rest of us who have sat up night after night to endure the torturous defeats I find that I am turning my thoughts to other things to make the latest drubbing tolerable. While television audiences are even more limited by BT Sport’s hoarding of the beautiful game, I chose to dig deep into my pockets and coughed up, dreaming of the heady days of 2010/11, the last time that an English team could realistically have been called competitive during an away Ashes series. Memories of Cook, Trott, Pietersen and Bell flaying an Aussie attack to all parts should be savoured like a fine wine, such has been the rarity of dominant performances down under, especially for those like myself, who are unable to turn off the TV and go to bed, instead forcing ourselves to sit through one thrashing after another and assuring all and sundry that we’ll ‘come good at some point’.

During the darkest hours, when all fairy lights and candles have been extinguished and the sound of snoring from upstairs breaks the intermittent periods of silence, I’ve had cause to reflect on what has made this series so difficult to watch this time around. I’m no stranger to seeing England humiliated overseas, even if the majority of that time has been spent as an ‘armchair viewer’ rather than those hardy souls spending their hard-earned cash travelling the globe and offsetting the crushing disappointments with sun, sea and sand. For the best part of thirty years now I have endured winter insomnia and the perils of night-time or early morning cricket viewing. But somehow, it has always seemed bearable. Last night, it finally struck me why. I really miss Richie Benaud and I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in this. I know this isn’t the first Ashes series without the ‘Sage of Beige’, but at least with Sky, the commentary team appear insightful and considered. Atherton and Hussain suffered in some of those aforementioned tests alongside us insomniacs both as players and commentators and when they talk, I want to listen because I am interested in what they have to say. What BT have given us this winter falls so far from the likes of Lloyd, Holding and Gower that I long for rain breaks in the hope that they may break out some clips of grainy, slightly off colour coverage overseen by Greig and Lawry and of course, dear Richie.

Richie’s defining approach to commentary, eloquently summed up by the man himself was that one should put one’s brain into gear and ‘if you can add to what’s on the screen then do it, otherwise shut up’. Wise words indeed. What BT has served up this winter collectively isn’t even from the same library as Richie, let alone quoting from the same book. We’ve been ‘treated to’ Geoffrey Boycott, a man who can barely manage a sentence without talking about how ‘great’ he was and that’s before we even get started on his criticism of certain players within the England side. Similarly, Kevin Pietersen couldn’t resist the opportunity to liberally sprinkle ‘insightful’ or should that be inciteful comments about former team-mates. While I loved watching Graeme Swann as a player, he seems to struggle in the commentary box, perhaps trying to get away from his ‘cheeky’ playing persona while still finding his feet in a relatively new role, however, at least one gets the impression that he is thinking about what he is saying rather than using the airwaves to inflate an already over-sized ego like one or two of his colleagues. I also find that BT are overdoing the replays and some of the ‘extra content’ has been excruciating, such as Alison Mitchell on the roof of the Adelaide Oval while play was going on far below her. For the record, Mitchell has been one of the guiding lights of this winter’s commentary teams in my opinion and plenty of her colleagues could learn a thing or two from her.

Making note of another Mitchell, it was interesting to hear the ‘Mitchell Johnson’ song given an airing by the barmy army at their new favourite, Jackson Bird. Once again with BT, the attention switched away from what was happening on the pitch to the gleeful and immature sniggering of the commentary team. It feels as though everyone is trying too hard to be popular and that should at the very least be secondary to what is happening on the pitch.

Who can forget some of Richie’s finest moments? The one that lives most in my memory was from Headingley 1981 when Botham was smashing the Aussies to the boundary ropes and beyond. I was eight years old and falling in love with this beautiful sport, with the intricacy of test cricket and the tactical complexity of a sport that didn’t just seem to require the participants to charge around for ninety minutes. Falling in love with white flannels and awful hair, bad moustaches and polite handshakes. The legend himself was there to walk me through it, to guide me towards enjoying the highs and not wallowing in the lows. That summer there was cricketing magic in the air and Richie’s smooth tones and carefully considered expression made it all the more magical. Following one of Botham’s lusty blows, Richie oozed charisma with his now famous quote:
 
“Don’t bother looking for that, let alone chasing it. That’s gone straight into the confectionary stall and out again.”
 
The thing with commentary and it took me a long time to realise this, is that watching sport is a shared experience, even if you are alone. By choosing to listen to the commentary, you are effectively inviting that person or team into your home to share those never to be repeated moments. And those moments can instil such passion and enthusiasm yet equally crushing despair into us as spectators that it matters who we share them with. For me, I want wisdom and thoughtful opinion or conjecture over friendly ‘banter’. I want to watch events on the pitch unfold rather than hear how great things were back in the 60’s and 70’s, there is a time and a place for reminiscing, something that I would say that Sky does very well with some of their features. Yes, there still isn’t enough cricket on terrestrial television but that is an argument for another time and place.

Richie Benaud had a knack of saying the right thing, but I can’t believe for a moment that he ever opined without engaging his brain first. He had a wonderfully dry sense of humour, never more than his observation on Glenn McGrath’s batting abilities as the Australian tailender was dismissed for two, ‘just 98 runs short of his century’. There was a genuine warmth in his words and when he greeted his audience with a ‘Morning, everyone’ it felt as much a greeting to the world as a single cricket fan sat thousands of miles away holding a sleeping baby and a turkey sandwich. Whether dressed in the cream, the off-white or the ivory, Richie was always there like the most loyal and trusted of friends.

I once met the great man. In the early 2000’s I worked in a mobile phone shop on Regents Street, a job that was dull and unrewarding. Yet one summer afternoon, I looked up from behind the counter at the tall, tanned gentleman stood before me and for the only time in my life I was starstruck, to the point where even now I can’t recall what he bought. He was exactly as one would expect him to be, polite and charming. Kind, even. As he turned to leave the shop I walked after him.

“Mr Benaud,” I began, stumbling over my words and trying to find the right way of saying what I wanted to say’ “Can I just say, thank you? I love your commentary and have always admired you.”

Such a fanboy moment, geeky awkwardness in all of its glory. And do you know what he said as he shook my hand, a twinkle in his eye?

“Marvellous.”

And then he was gone.