Bearders in memoriam

We at Bogun Towers have, we have to admit, been somewhat off the top of our game of late (although we blame our subject for leading a currently blamelessish life for the majority of that) but the muse has all but deserted us in consequence of the greatest tragedy to hit the world in recent years - the death of Bill Frindall (we acknowledge that trying to kick-start our muse with ridiculous hyperbole is a bit silly). We reproduce below, without acknowledgement, the obituary from The Times.

Through the popularity of ball-by-ball radio commentaries on Test Match Special, Bill Frindall became the best-known scorer in the history of cricket.

Dubbed “the bearded wonder” by the commentator Brian Johnston on account of his facial hair and command of statistics, he was heard — but never seen — by thousands of cricket followers. This invisibility did nothing to diminish his standing when he was off the air.

Frindall did not fit to the popular image of a cricket scorer. He was neither hunched nor a retired old pro, and he was too immersed in up-to-date technology to use a quill pen. He was that rarity in the game, a career statistician, one who revived an old linear system of scoring with a column for each batsman and each bowler. He was highly competent and efficient and sufficiently confident of his primacy to proclaim on his website that he would be publishing his memoirs to coincide with the 40th anniversary of his career with TMS in 2006. Bearders: My Life in Cricket duly appeared.

When listeners did hear him pronounce, the comments were invariably well timed (never as the bowler was beginning his run-up), dry, sometimes witty and on occasion censorious of one or two of the commentators in the box. He was not above telling a colleague that he had identified a fielder incorrectly. He did not flap and could come up with a statistic in a markedly short time. He was able to earn a supplementary living as a decent after-dinner speaker as well as publishing and retailing his own score-sheets to international, county, club and individual scorers throughout the world.

For 23 years he edited the Playfair Cricket Annual — in which mistakes were rarely spotted — and provided statistics for The Times and the England and Wales Cricket Board. He was also the archivist to Sir Paul Getty’s estate and wrote or edited more than 20 other books. He had a spell as cricket correspondent of the Mail on Sunday from 1987-89, but this was not the happiest time of his career.

William Howard Frindall had the distinction of being born on the first day of the “timeless” Test at Durban in 1939. By the time it ended, he was already 11 days old. He attended Reigate Grammar School in Surrey and joined his first cricket club after he was taught to score by a master one rainy afternoon. After studying architecture at Kingston School of Art and spending his National Service in the RAF, when he scored at representative matches, he made his debut on TMS in 1966, succeeding Arthur Wrigley, when he was only 27. This was in an era when a number of scorers of first-class cricket were of pensionable age.

His method of scoring derived from that devised by Bill Ferguson, an Australian, in 1905. Based on a textbook for umpires and scorers compiled by R. S. Rait Kerr, a former secretary of MCC, this involved the use of three types of scoresheet: ball-by-ball record of play, innings scorecard and cumulative record of bowling analyses and extras. It accommodated more facts and, after 1966, was taken up by all BBC radio and television scorers.

Frindall soon demonstrated that he had the necessary concentration to cope with long days and stuffy, noisy commentary boxes.

“Like the best performers at any art, he seems to have so much time to spare,” Peter Baxter, the producer of TMS, said. “I know that when I have tried scoring, cups of coffee go cold because I simply cannot find time to consume them; whereas Bill can pour himself a cup at the back of the box without ever taking an eagle eye off the game.”

Before computerised scoring, Frindall taught himself to write left-handed in case an accident prevented him from being able to use his right hand. Such dedication led to a certain self-obsession and a competitiveness with fellow BBC scorers, notably Wendy Wimbush (who was initially known as “the beardless wonder”) and Irving Rosenwater.

On one occasion in 1981, during a memorable series between England and Australia, Frindall declined to provide statistical information to BBC television that he had managed to obtain for himself, with the consequence that Rosenwater read out incorrect information to the viewers. This resulted in a strongly worded memo being sent to Frindall by the BBC management. Although Frindall worked for many years at close quarters with some of the longest-serving and most familiar names in cricket-commentating, such as John Arlott, Christopher Martin-Jenkins and Henry Blofeld, and toured overseas to countries where he still felt comfortable after the removal of his spleen, his relations with most of them remained on a largely professional footing, without developing into close friendships.

The exception was Arlott, of whom he felt scared when they first met in 1966 but who soon put him at his ease. Frindall would impersonate the great commentator in after-dinner speeches and act as his chauffeur when travelling to matches.

Whenever the international schedule permitted, Frindall would play club cricket. A fast-medium bowler with a high action, he ran the Maltamaniacs, a touring side that usually completed its matches in Guernsey — his team-mates dubbed him “Hitler” because of his dictatorial tendencies — and he also played for Banstead in Surrey, Hampshire second XI, the Lord’s Taverners, MCC, Singapore, France and the Clergy of Oxford and Salisbury.

He was the inaugural president of British Blind Sport between 1984 and 2004 and the Patron of the German Cricket Board in 2005. He was given an honorary degree for his contribution to statistics by Staffordshire University in 1998 and appointed MBE in 2004. He also enjoyed sketching, painting, photography and philately.

Apart from his autobiography, he published a number of books which became standard reference works, notably The Wisden Book of Test Cricket, which went into five editions, and The Wisden Book of Cricket Records, which was also regularly updated.

Frindall married, firstly, Maureen Wesson, with whom he had two sons and a daughter. The marriage was dissolved in 1970. In the same year he married Jacqueline Seager. This was dissolved in 1980. In 1992 he married Debbie Brown, with whom he had a daughter.

Skiing - Part 4

With the great weather Gay George (Not Actually Gay) has really been putting himself about.

Skiing - Part 3

A change of weather, bright blue sunshine, and a change of scenery was demanded and Kirkwood was their destination some 40 odd miles away through some high passes. By all accounts Kirkwood is the local’s favourite for its challenging terrain but if we were honest they are either getting very good (which we doubt) or it is not that challenging.





Or at least that is how it appeared in the morning, the afternoon session after two pints of the local gut-rot was less graceful.

Skiing - Part 2

A further day of snow greeted them as they headed back up onto Heavenly’s slopes to get some more serious miles under their skis/board. With it coming down in buckets the visibility was a spot poor which might explain why Gay George (Not Actually Gay) managed to ski into a tree.

More McP’s action (who says they aren’t creatures of habit) although to break things up they had supper there as well before tarnishing their souls just a little more walking through the rows of one-armed bandits back to their room.

Skiing - Part 1

Having gone to bed ridiculously early (2030) claiming to be suffering from jetlag but as we all really know just because they are old men they were at least up on the slopes reasonably early and despite the appalling weather (snow coming down in bucket-loads) managed a pretty decent day of skiing.

Their first venture out of the casino after the skiing took them to McP’s, an Irish pub (how do they get everywhere), and an evening watching the usual array of US TV on the box whilst chucking the beers back. The World Extreme Cage-fighting Featherweight world title bout being a particular highlight.

Skiing - getting there

Considering the disaster that was the last skiing trip one might have expected him to take particular caution with the arrangements for getting there this time and if one can call drinking into the early hours at a wedding in readiness for jumping in the car at 0500 for the drive to Heathrow cautious then he has indeed adopted caution as his watchword.

Thanks to the wonders of on-line check-in by the time that Gay George (Not Actually Gay) and he were at the airport trying to check-in all the seats next to each other were gone and so they got to spend the 11 hour flight boring their new found single-serving friends rather than each other.

The usual ridiculously large Jeep has been hired and taken them up into the mountains where they have quickly settled into the casino in which they are staying. As of yet the temptation to put it all on red has been successfully resisted; we doubt for long.

Llama stench

A stag do is always a time for silliness and possibly even a little childishness but more usually when our subject is involved mainly it involves alcohol and, being brutally honest, him passing out.

Having a stag do the night before the wedding is a bold option but when one considers the John is marrying Helen no-one was going to do anything seriously damaging to John for fear of having to answer to the lovely Helen.

Our subject sensibly had a half-gallon of beer before the stag do (a curry night) even started but other than sending some silly texts to the lovely Helen on John’s phone and drinking up all the flaming sambucas that no-one else would drink (before passing out and spilling one all over himself) it was a vaguely civilised affair for all concerned.

The wedding itself was fantastic despite the occasional wobble in John’s voice and our subject’s fit of giggles half-way through his reading:-

O Tell Me The Truth About Love
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.



Although we suppose one should be glad he did not forget the reading this time as he did last time he was entrusted with this honour.

The after-party was a more than usually splendid affair and we just pity the poor bridesmaid he was sitting next to.

Spelling Bee

The next skiing trip is booked up, Gay George (Not Actually Gay) and him are off to Tahoe in California for a couple of weeks' skiing in a couple of weeks' time.

Gay George (Not Actually Gay) was entrusted to booking it up and they find themselves staying in a casino just across the border in Nevada.

This morning imagine his delight with Gay George (Not Actually Gay) when Gay George (Not Actually Gay) rang him and revealed the following, "er, buddy, according to the casino's website on a Wednesday night they have half price hookers." Brilliant they are booked into a casino cum brothel should be another cheap trip.

You cannot make this up

The car broke down this morning; again; on the way to the garage.

Christmas fun

With a buggered car the fun and games that is trying to get across the country at christmas by train, with a backpack full of presents, was always going to be fun and astonishingly it was not actually too bad. Although in light of the horror that has been his last few journeys (passim) any journey that actually gets him there within 3 hours of his intended arrival is pretty good.

Christmas surrounded by nippers





is what it is all about of course (except in the years he goes skiing for christmas) and lots of excitable kids and presents made this one a decent year. His own presents had the touch of the functional about them (what he doesn't know own in the line of kitchen implements is not worth knowing about).

To add to the entire saucepan lid orientated christmas the lovely Kathryn and he took the oldest two to see Cinderella at panto (with Gareth Gates as Prince Charming), the usual nonsense, very far from being as good as his own performances in panto.

New Year mind you was spent surrounded by all his friends, yep, on his own.