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

paid virtually nothing, which turned out to be true, and started me off producing short reports and colour pieces for the breakfast programme. One reason for local radio being such a brilliant starting point for wannabe broadcasters is that in no time you find yourself having to try your hand at everything. When youngsters ask me how to get into sports broadcasting, I always advise them to go and knock on the door of their local radio station. If no one hears you the first time, go and do it again.

      Sure enough, it was not long before someone moved on to another post within the network, and I found myself preparing and presenting the early-morning sports desks with barely any experience what soever. But I loved the buzz of live broadcasting, and in the journalists at Radio Leicester I found like-minded people who worked hard and played hard in equal measure. The combination of working at Radio Leicester during the winter and playing for the county during the summer was absolutely ideal for me. It lasted for three happy years until I retired from professional cricket.

      Part of the reason for the kick one gets out of live broadcasting is the knowledge that a cock-up is only just around the corner. With luck and skill, these minefields can be negotiated, but sometimes there is nothing one can do. One particularly disastrous opening to the Saturday-afternoon sports show, which I had only very recently been promoted to present, was described by the usually calm, polite and experienced Programme Organiser as ‘The worst piece of radio I have ever heard.’ That was a bit harsh, I thought: all I had done was failed to get on air for thirty seconds, and followed this with a sudden burst of music played at the wrong speed. Perhaps the fact that the song was Gerry Rafferty’s ‘Get it Right Next Time’ did not help.

      My worst howler would have a happy ending, at least. One of the duties of the early-morning sports presenter was to record the news circuit from London. This was a series of tapes and interview clips which was sent automatically every hour to all the local BBC radio stations, and which the newsreaders would use for their bulletins. My job was to record each one onto its own individual blue plastic cartridge, which was basically a continuous loop of tape, label it and hand the whole lot to the newsreader, who on this occasion was a tall and pretty blonde girl in her late teens called Emma Norris.

      There were two potential pitfalls: the first was that you had to remember to erase each cartridge meticulously before recording the desired clip. This was vital, because otherwise the new recording would not work, and you would be left with the original, whatever it might have been. The second was that there were literally hundreds of identical blue cartridges lying about in the cluttered and untidy studio.

      As it happened, England’s cricketers were in Australia on Mike Gatting’s Ashes-winning tour of 1986–87, and I had to record Peter West’s live report on one of the Test matches from the Radio 4 Today programme, which I would then replay during my own bulletin. Unfortunately there was a breakdown in communications between the studio in London and Peter in Australia, so when I pressed the button with perfect timing, all I succeeded in recording was a harassed Radio 4 presenter calling out in increasing desperation, ‘Hello, Peter. Peter, can you hear me? Peter?’

      Disappointed, I went to broadcast my sports report, and returned to record the next news circuit from London for Emma, after which I duly handed her the cartridges.

      Settling down to read the newspaper, I was surprised to hear a familiar voice drifting across the newsroom from one of the loudspeakers which relayed the station’s output.

      ‘Hello, Peter. Peter, can you hear me? Peter?’ This was followed by Emma’s standard BBC apology: ‘I’m sorry. We don’t seem to be able to bring you that report.’

      Miss Norris was not her usual cheery self when she returned from the studio. Flinging the cartridge at me, she told me to make sure they had all been properly erased in future.

      Shortly before the nine o’clock news, the Tannoy sparked into life with an urgent announcement from London. Another tape was on its way: ‘Stand by to record in ten, nine, eight . . .’

      Rushing into the studio, I grabbed a blue cartridge, shoved it into the slot and apparently recorded the item perfectly. It was an important soundbite, too: the Reverend Ian Paisley reacting angrily to a surprise visit to Northern Ireland by the Prime Minister.

      With Emma already on her way to read the news, I triumphantly handed her what would now be her lead story. Moments later, the news jingle sounded. ‘Radio Leicester news at nine o’clock, I’m Emma Norris. We have just heard that the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, has made a surprise visit to Northern Ireland. This is the reaction of the Reverend Ian Paisley: “Hello, Peter. Peter, can you hear me? Peter?”’

      That was the last time I was let loose on the early-morning circuit, but at least, in time, Emma managed to forgive me. We were married in 1995.

      * * *

      The realisation for the first time that there was life outside cricket was a great eye-opener. It had a profound impact on my game, too. Professional cricket is an uncertain career which can be ended at any time by injury or loss of form, and unless a county player is fortunate enough to enjoy a successful Benefit (a year of tax-free money-raising on his behalf), he will not earn nearly enough to set him up for the big wide world when his playing days are over. To know that all will be well at the end is enormously reassuring.

      I took a hundred wickets for Leicestershire in the 1987 season, and the following year I came frustratingly close to the recall to the England team that I had set my heart on. David Gower was again the captain, but it was a disastrous Ashes campaign which, with just the final Test at The Oval to play, stood at 4–0 to Australia. Leicestershire was playing Surrey at Grace Road over the weekend before the Test, and England’s squad had been announced, but time and again the telephone rang in our dressing room with bad news from a succession of fast bowlers reporting to David that they were injured, and could not play against Australia.

      By the end of the day David looked a broken man, slumped in his seat and with no idea who to choose for England.

      ‘What about Agnew?’ suggested Peter Willey from his chair in the corner. ‘He’s bowling pretty well at the moment.’

      David’s face lit up. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘Jonathan, you’re in. Go home, get your England stuff ready, and I’ll call first thing tomorrow to confirm everything.’

      Even though I was approximately the seventeenth choice, this was still fantastic news. I called Dad when I arrived home, told him to keep the Saturday of the Test match clear, and dug out my England cap and sweaters which had remained folded in a drawer ever since they were last used, briefly, in 1985. After three dis appointing Test appearances, this was my second chance, and the opportunity to set the record straight that I had worked so hard for.

      To be up early next morning to await the England captain’s call was clearly a schoolboy error. David Gower’s idea of ‘first thing’ is what most people would consider third thing, possibly even fourth. It seemed hours before the telephone finally rang.

      ‘Got some bad news, I’m afraid,’ David began. ‘I couldn’t persuade Ted Dexter or Mickey Stewart, so you’re not in any more. They’ve gone for Alan Igglesden. Know anything about him?’

      With that, David must have known his influence as England captain was over – and indeed Graham Gooch succeeded him after that Test. I felt utterly devastated, and knew I would never play for England again, which had been my main motivating force. So when the Today newspaper offered me the post of cricket correspondent the following summer, it was an easy decision to make. I might have been only thirty, which was no age to retire from professional cricket, and I could easily have played for another five years. But it was definitely time to move on.

      Chapter Three

      Up to Speed

      Brian Johnston was always endearingly candid about the good fortune he had enjoyed at key moments in his life. His Old Etonian connections, like ‘Lobby’ de Lotbiniere at the BBC, served him well, and while talent, charm and charisma helped to establish him as a national institution, there have been any number of similarly talented, charming and charismatic broadcasters for whom doors simply have not