Cricket, unlovely cricket

In 2005 I published a book called The Strange Death of Tory England, and a long article called ‘Cricket’s final over’, lamenting the decline of the game. The book appeared shortly before an election in which, although Labour easily kept its majority, the Tories gained seats, presaging a great revival, or so Charles Moore later claimed while genially deriding my book. The piece on cricket appeared, with even more faultless timing, in the September issue of Prospect, at the very moment when England had just regained the Ashes, with the victorious team, including a gloriously hungover Andrew Flintoff, touring London in an open-topped bus and inevitably bidden to meet Tony Blair, while a wave of enthusiasm swept the country. This time it was Jim Naughtie-but-nice who gently teased me on Today, as I tried to take it in what’s called good part.

Looking back, I’m not sure I was so very wrong, in either case. Having dominated most of the 20th century electorally, the Tories have won a parliamentary majority only once in the past six general elections. They then managed to throw away that one majority, and at present they look a pretty good rabble. Has there ever been a more, leaky, fractious and fissile cabinet, or one which has less idea what it was doing?

As to cricket, if I thought it was in trouble more than 12 years ago, I couldn’t have imagined what was to come. My gloomy forebodings then have been outstripped by events. It was only when I received my bright red Marylebone Cricket Club member’s pass the other week that the full enormity sank in. Sixty years ago there were 18 cricket matches — real cricket, first-class matches, played over several days, with two innings a side — at Lord’s during June and July. Thirty years ago that had shrunk to five.