What ales english cricket? | thearticle

John Arlott — Hampshireman, former police constable, oenophile — was one of the best ever cricket commentators: terse, slyly humorous and immensely knowledgeable. He was on duty at a Lord’s

one-day final in the late 1970s when, about noon, ragged chanting started up from the Tavern stand. He considered for a little space of time, before remarking in his inimitable Hampshire

burr: “And the beer begins to talk.” My first cricket match was in summer 1973, at a village green on Exmoor. It was connected to a ramshackle poetry festival in the grounds of a nearby

great house, which had fallen on hard times. Not so tough that the latest scion of the ancient line had not been able to plunder the cellar laid down by an ancestor, and we all drank

splendid clarets of the 1906 vintage mostly from the bottle, glasses being in short supply. I can’t recall too much poetry, but I do remember the novelist Edna O’Brien making a determined

pass at my girlfriend. O My Henri and My Rushton Long Ago Someone, perhaps Auberon Waugh who lived nearby, had arranged for a cricket match between a _Private Eye_ XI and “Poets and

Painters”. There weren’t enough of the latter, so they conscripted my friend Frank, who had played for Somerset Under-16s. The _Private Eye_ team had come down from London by train, and most

of them were drunk by the time they arrived. They were also dauntingly picturesque in white flannels, an assortment of caps, and coloured silk scarves. Poets and Painters mostly wore jeans

and t-shirts. They were not as drunk as the _Eye_ men, though some rolled spliffs as the game took its meandering course. The _Eye_ team included Willy Rushton, Barry Fantoni, Christopher

Booker, Waugh himself and Peter Cook, who passed out shortly after arrival and took no further part in proceedings. Rushton, who could hold his drink, more or less kept the show on the road.

“Who’s that Ginsberg-wallah?” he roared, pointing at the great Liverpool poet Adrian Henri, who, like Allen Ginsberg, sported a large beard. Rushton scored a few runs, but was then clean

bowled by Frank, who tore in at a great rate despite being quite stoned. “Couldn’t see the bugger coming,” Rushton complained. The game ended inconclusively, and everyone adjourned to the

village pub. For me it set the template for English cricket. Beer was an important feature. Since then, I have been to dozens of cricket matches: Tests, one day internationals, county

championship games, 50-over and 20:20 county contests, village bashes. The weather and the standard of cricket varied enormously, but there was one constant: beer. Of course, if you are

spending a whole day in the summer sunshine — it does occasionally happen — you will probably welcome a pint at lunchtime and another in the late afternoon. But a large section of the crowd

goes well beyond sensible moderation, and drinks, more or less amiably, all day. 20:20 games, being much shorter and usually played in the evening, encourage much intensified drinking. As

for the teams themselves, or at least those drawn principally from the “Old Commonwealth”, post-play drinking can achieve heroic proportions. At the end of an Ashes test, after a short

period of wound-licking, the losing team usually troops over to the winners’ dressing room, and the evening develops into a boozy celebration of Anglo-Australian mateship. Except in August

2013, at the conclusion of the final Ashes test at the Oval, when the England players celebrated their 3-0 victory on the pitch itself, consuming heroic quantities of beer and champagne far

into the evening. Nature eventually took its course, and England stars James Anderson, Stuart Broad and Kevin Pietersen were observed relieving themselves on the pitch. Boys will be boys,

one might say, but not if they are observant Muslims or Hindus. No doubt they have their own ways of celebrating and letting off steam that don’t involve beer, or ale, as they probably call

it at Yorkshire County Cricket Club. Which brings us to the case of Azeem Rafiq, the former player whose allegations of racism have initiated a massive cultural shift at YCCC and the wider

English cricket world. Although the full report into the matter has not yet been released, it’s clear that what the club management excused as rough manly banter between team-mates actually

often involved offensive racist name-calling, including suggestions that “your Dad owns a corner shop”. Yorkshire has already paid a high cost for its stubborn refusal to face reality. It

has lost its chairman, its commercial sponsors, and the right to stage Test matches at Headingley (pictured above). More heads are expected to roll among management and the coaching staff.

The club’s new chairman, Lord Patel, a British Asian with an authentic Yorkshire accent, has promised a widespread review aimed at eradicating racism from YCCC and promoting inclusivity. In

fact, the generally supine England and Wales Cricket Board earlier this year set up an Independent Commission for Equity on Cricket, which will now redouble its efforts to make the game open

and welcoming for everyone. In some ways, that should not be too difficult. Although it’s a tough game, cricket is fun, and the people who play and watch it are mostly friendly and

good-humoured. But in other ways inclusivity may be elusive. At the grass roots there is a clear divide between ethnically based clubs and those composed mostly of white Britons. On playing

fields either side of the River Lea in east London, for instance, the dozens of amateur cricket teams are largely ethnically based, and many are informally segregated: Afro-Caribbeans, Sikhs

and Muslims flock together. The same is true across northern England. Clearly no one is forcing them to associate; it’s just that at this level people play with the people they know and

feel comfortable with. This is especially true of Asians, who account for 35 per cent of English amateur cricketers, but only 6 per cent of county players. The majority of those will be

Muslim or Hindu. Azeem Rafiq has shown how uncomfortable being one of the 6 per cent can be — especially if your faith’s rejection of alcohol puts a further, unspoken cultural barrier

between you and your white team-mates. All the more reason to make a gesture to bridge the divide now, before it’s too late.