Travelling with Tinniswood: The Brigadier Down Under


“Who is this?”
The barman smiled smugly.
“Stone the crows, you must be a stranger,” he said.
“Of course I’m a stranger,” I said. “It’s the only way to cope with living in this godforsaken country. Now who the devil is this creature?”
At this the barman spoke two words, which were to engrave themselves indelibly on my heart and change the whole course of my stay Down Under.
“Kingsley Kunzel,” he said.
Kingsley Kunzel!
In the annals of Wisden his name reigns supreme.
I quote:
“Most centuries scored whilst drunk…  Kingsley Kunzel… 17.”
“Most inebriated batsman to have been given out ‘seen the ball twice’…  Kingsley Kunzel.”
Kingsley Kunzel!
How well I recalled the Australian tour of ’21, when, after the luncheon adjournment in the match against Derbyshire at Chesterfield, he was given out “sick hit wicket…33.”
With what pleasure I conjured up memories of the opening match against Worcestershire, when, despite suffering most grievously from the effects of Ansell’s Tummy, he was able with the aid of three runners and an auxiliary stretcher bearer to score an undefeated double century before opening time.
And, joy of joys, there he was lying at my feet blithely sipping a quadruple gin and lung tonic.
The third Brigadier book was again written both as a series of monologues and for publication, which followed fairly rapidly. What distinguishes The Brigadier Down Under from its predecessors is that it follows a constant theme, wrapped up in contemporary events, namely the England tour of Australia in the winter season of 1982/3 (won 2-1 by Australia).
It’s all because of the blasted lady wife and her confounded Bedlington terriers, and her decision to go to Australia and search out her long lost brother, Naunton. Which coincides with the Ashes Tour, led by Colonel ‘Mad’ Bob Willis.
The Brigadier is not mollified. The lady wife fails entirely to understand that one doesn’t watch cricket in Australia, one listens to it. At a cold, grey dawn, in the depths of an English winter, on the talking wireless. Nevertheless, the lady wife is insistent. Australia is a long way away. It is a foreign country, a ‘land of ravaged desert, shark-infested ocean and thirst-racked outback.’
Most of all, though, it is full of Australians. And especially Richie Benaud. The Brigadier is not a prejudiced man, but…
Well, actually he is, as we are very aware by now. And forthright of opinion to boot, especially when it comes to the subject of Australians, who he treats with his usual disregard.
The England team also come in for some rough treatment, though there’s a distinct degree of affection in the military titles the Brigadier vests in this motley party. As well as Colonel ‘Mad’ Bob, there’s burly Sarn’t Major Botham, Lt. the Hon David Gower of the 4th Leicestershire Lancers, Bombardier Fowler, dear old ragged Sapper Randall and more, names to arouse memories of a cricketing past.
Not to mention the sacerdotal calling on Monsignor Tavare, he of the quiet demeanour and portable confirmation kit, though my favourite line in the book, and possibly the entire Brigadier series is when Vic Marks is described as having the ‘familiar expression of someone who has just been told he is to spend the rest of his life as a junior lecturer in soap technology.’
It’s more of the same, focussed upon a different atmosphere: still full of inexhaustible jokes, puns, misunderstandings and malignments. It becomes increasingly clear why Richie Benaud never found the Brigadier to be funny, whilst Michael Parkinson would definitely have neded a sense of humour and a degree of humility (which no-one has ever described him as possessing) to accept his portrayal.
And it is no doubt due to Clive James’ unAustralian complete lack of interest in cricket that he did not take offence at his inclusion in these pages.
Tinniswood’s range of invention in this admittedly-limited sphere reaches either a peak nor a nadir on page 60 of the paperback edition when he lines up six prominent cricket writers/editors/broadcasters into one horrendous pun on a once-famous Sixties pop band.
As the sleeve photo to the hardback volume demonstrated, The Brigadier Down Under was written in close collaboration with the England touring team, Tinniswood having toured Australia to ‘research’ the book, though his account is distinctly different from any of the others I have read about that tour.
It’s more of the same, only different, and the same advantages and drawbacks to the previous books apply in equal measure. But it was very popular then.

Travelling with Tinniswood: More Tales from a Long Room


There facing each other across the square are those twin bastions of village life, the pub and the church.
Look.
Sitting on a bench outside the Baxter Arms supping scrumpy and linseed oil shandies and drowsing in the sunshine are the venerable village elders Messrs. Arlott, Mosey, Frindall and Alston, endlessly yarning about old campaigns in India, Australia, South Africa and the deathless, arid prose plains of British South West Dexterland.
They raise their forelocks to us as we leave them to their dreams and cross the square to the church.
What an exquisite Saxon edifice.
Clean and pure of line like a cover drive by Peter May.
Sturdy and honest like an over bowled by David Brown.
Chaste and virginal like an anecdote told by Barry Wood.
And inside the church displayed in a place of honour by the statuette of St Kevin de Keegan, the patron saint of endorsements, is one of our village’s most cherished possessions.
It is, of course, a relic of the Blessed St Tony Greig of the Sorrows – a fragment of his money belt torn from his person during the Exodus from Surrey and lovingly restored by the master craftsman, Sebastian Coe, for a fee of £97,000, that being the cost of his second-class train fare from Sheffield.
This is exactly what it appears to be: eleven more monologues by the Brigadier on the theme of ‘the summer game’, from his own unique perspective, each adapted lightly from a second series of monologues delivered on Radio 4 by the late Robin Bailey.
More Tales from a Long Room does move onwards a little. Where the first series was mainly centred upon fantastic and improbable cricketing tales that, at root, were surreal extensions of the real cricket tales told in pavilions the length and breadth of the land, this second set is considerably more directed to the Brigadier himself, his life, prejudices and eccentricities, and to his somewhat bizarre take on issues – not always cricketing, well, not at first – current to the very early Eighties.
Tinniswood, who finds himself beimg mentioned in scathing terms (‘that emaciated vileness’) in a couple of the stories, starts out by introducing us to the seemingly idyllic Somerset Village where the Brigadier lives, Witney Scrotum. We meet various local characters, like the Village Blacksmith, Gooch, Old Squire Brearley and Prodger the Poacher, and learn of such landmarks as the lush water meadows leading to the Coppice at Cowdrey’s Bottom, and how the village is overshadowed by the massive earthworks of Botham’s Gut.
I trust you do not need telling that each of those names, be it personage or georgraphical feature, is of a cricketer of some reknown and appertainance to their namesake.
Otherwise the book is a mass of puns on the names of cricketers, capering slights of the interviews of Mr. Michael Parkinson, a tendency to suggest that Old Trafford Tests are played in a state of perpetual gloom, rain and darkness, misrepresentation of all sorts of people’s names and relationships, and some gleefully libellous comments, such as the mouth of Mr Ritchie Benaud bearing a remarkable resemblance to a hamster’s arsehole.
We learn the cricketing significance of the wedding of Lady Diana Spencer to that bald-headed booby, and the identity of the Mole in the M.C.C. We are treated to a cricketing re-write of one of 1981’s biggest television hits as ‘Blofeld Revisited’.  And we learn the Brigadier’s thoughts upon apartheid. He is in favour. He heaps up the arguments, for all the world like a National Front poster, except with the words spelled correctly. He points out how the two should not meet.
Good God, they are women. And we are men.
Tinniswood writes with relish and ingenuity. He seems to have an endless number of jokes on a cricketing theme and his imagination takes him into areas hitherto untouched by a connection with ‘the summer game’
And it’s still completely incomprehensible to anyone who doesn’t know a thing about cricket, and anyone not around to remember the major events of 1981 is going to struggle with large parts of this book.
And Ritchie Benaud wasn’t too keen on it either.
The two Long Room books were lated republished in a hardback Collected volume, from which I’ve been re-reading. In cricketing circles, they were a phenomenon. The Brigadier was hot, so Tinniswood’s next book didn’t really come as any surprise.