JOHNNERS, EIGHTY NOT OUT

Frank Keating meets

a much loved Englishman in the prime of life

CAKES ALL round on 24 June. It is Brian Johnston's 80th birthday. By splendid fluke it coincides with the Eton v. Harrow crick- et match. Those lucky enough to make the cut will toast the old boy in one of the boxes at Lord's, hired for the day by Methuen, the publishers of his chortling celebration autobiography. Greeters, John- ners, from the worlders and his wifers.

He remains the halest of hail-fellows. `Flea-fitters, touch-wooders,' he beams. He has not once missed a radio or television programme through illness in 46 years. The eyes are rheumier, but still blue-bright — and as shiny morning-faced as 'the dear old brown-and-whiters', the famous pair of `co-respondent's shoes' he wears for every Test match; his celebrated nose, curved as a Massie 'outer', has even seen off Mr Punch's prototype. At the Eton-Harrow, from the balcony, it will sniff, pointer keen, as the boy cricketers cavort below. The high-raked, old Nursery End `G Block' is part of the Compton Stand now. But he will point out precisely the place he used to occupy — high over long-on, or deep third-man — well over 60 years ago: `We barracked unmercifully, shouted rud- eries and cracked jokes. For us Etonians, the stock jokes were usually about the age of the Harrow players or the number of foreigners or foreign-sounding names in their team. These days of race relations, I am sure we would be imprisoned for some of the things we used to shout. The only man who ever took the slightest offence was an unsuspecting Harrow father sitting with his son. We fastened the end of his immaculate tail-coat to the seat with draw- ing-pins, so when he rose to leave he found himself attached. Childish, I admit, but you had to laugh — and so did he in the end.'

He never played in the match himself. He was a wicket-keeper, but was unable to dislodge the older 1st XI incumbent, a boy named Baerlein. 'But I had one slight com- pensation. Eton that year had two very fast bowlers. Poor Baerlein had a terrible time and actually let through 35 byes. I expect I would have let through many more. But I wouldn't have been human if I didn't allow myself a quiet laugh.' The merriment has since been shared. When he accepted delivery of the first cake from a listener at the commentary- box at Edgbaston last week on the opening day of the new Test series, he was embark- ing on a broadcast of his 266th Test. In 46 years at the microphone, there have also been countless outside broadcasts, state occasions, crazy quizzes, umpteen Boat Races and 733 weekly editions of Down Your Way. By no means all a piece of cake — but usually made to seem so. Which is the secret.

He nurdled a poor third in history at New College, Oxford, and in 1934 settled down for life in the prosperous family firm of coffee importers. He loathed it — and himself for funking having a go at acting or his beloved music-hall. The war came as a relief.

He was a technical adjutant in the Guards Armoured Division. Just before the invasion, two 'trainee' war correspon- dents were attached to Johnston's posting in Norfolk to gain some first-hand experi- ence of tanks: a Canadian, Stewart Macpherson, and a Welshman, Wynford Vaughan-Thomas. The three of them struck up a friendship in the mess for the couple of weeks.

`Sheer luck. Oh, I've been so lucky all through. Disgraceful really. I ran into them again immediately after the war, and they both said, "Come and join us at the BBC."

I'd never given it a thought. And lo and behold, there was my old friend, His Lord- ship [Ian Orr-Ewing, then Head of TV Sport], and at once he was on the phone saying we'd played cricket together before the war and why didn't I commentate for them on the two 1946 Test matches at Lord's and the Oval? Just one little phone call, "Hello, old boy," and I land a job for 24 years; disgraceful, isn't it?'

In 1970 he moved to Radio 3 and Test Match Special. 'Telly tired of my jokes, I suppose — you know, "There's John Warr in the crowd with his fiancée: a clear case of Warr-and-Piece, what?" They wanted to get in more ex-players. Wasn't in the least sad to swap. We'd had all the fun setting up the telly — just two cameras and all of us knowing bugger-all about anything tech- nical. Oh, what laughs.

`One day, perched precariously up there on the roof at the Oval, old Wooders [John Woodcock] knocks Swanton's thermos off the table. He always liked it in front of him for his tea. Anyway, down it sails, miles down, and clunks a member on the back of the neck. I go down to apologise, and I'm afraid the poor fellow reeked very strongly of whisky. So much for old Swanton's "cuppa".'

On television, the commentator must consistently be editing himself, on radio he can just be himself. Johnners is that, with knobs on. `I'm first to admit that I too often go over the top with the jokes and the schoolboy stuff. Some listeners think it's disgraceful and get really annoyed, I know. But you've got to have fun, haven't you? It's only a game. You have to commu- nicate enjoyment. And think of the shoals of letters complaining when they were going to take us off [to take their chances on Radio 5]. There were even questions in the House calling us "a national institu- tion".'

He described innings by Bradman. He saw Hammond bat. 'Of the all-timers there was Len, obviously, and dear old smiling Compo [Hutton and Compton], but techni- cally the most faultlessly perfect was Barry Richards. And old Binders [Colin Bland, the Rhodesian] was the most electrifying fieldsman I ever saw. No doubt about it, as wicket-keeper the great Godders [Evans] takes my palm; he epitomised what cricket is all about: fun, brilliance and the odd off- day to show he was human. And, of course, Keith Miller — not been too well the old boy; never missed ringing me on Christmas Day for years; till last time; rang on Boxing Day; I just picked up the phone and said, "Miller, you're late!" He said, "Give us a chance, I only came out of hospital yester- day!" '

He has a kind word for all his boys in the box, ticking them off — old and new — in his mind with adjectival hoorays like a mellow old housemaster. 'But sometimes I'm really sad we don't go into every Test with The Boil [Trevor Bailey] and Sir Fred [Trueman]. They've helped make us what we are for 20 years. We're all extroverts, so it's astonishing as I start my 47th summer in the box that I've never had — nor heard of — one single quarrel in the box. No jealousies, nothing. Call us all overgrown schoolboys if you like, but not bad that, is it? Gosh, I've been so lucky; even you doing a birthday piece for the old Speccers.'

He proclaims his luck all through the day, and every day. 'Lovely married life, five children, six grandchildren, so lucky, keep one going, don't they?'

Even the co-respondent's old brown- and-whiters. 'Sheer jolly good luck; 1961, went out to Aden to meet Richie's [Benaud] Aussies; rainstorm; sheltered in shoe-shop doorway; saw them in the win- dow; said I'd buy just the one, a souvenir to remind me of old pre-war heroes, Jack Buchanan and Stanley Lupino; they wore them; chap said I had to buy the pair; did; wore them at every Test since, to bring England luck; gave them to a charity auc-