Henry Blofeld - one of the many voices of the cricketing summer

Henry Blofeld - one of the many voices of the cricketing summer.

Tell me it hasn't happened please. It couldn't possibly be true. It has to be a rumour and yet it's not because Mother Nature has finally caught up with Henry Blofeld. One of the many syrupy and honeyed voices of BBC Test Match special has finally called it a day, retired and declared himself valiantly not out at 77 after 45 years of well varnished and venerable service as one of Britain's funniest, finest and quirkiest of cricket commentators.

'Blowers', as he's affectionately known among friends, colleagues and bubbly pundits, will probably take himself off to some remote French vineyard, pour several glasses of chateau best, wining and dining until the small hours of tomorrow morning before flicking enthusiastically through some yellowing copies of Wisden and then nodding off on some deeply luxurious arm chair.

Henry Blofeld has always belonged to that wonderfully Old Etonian line of upper class barristers, immensely knowledgeable lawyers and well educated toffs and academics for whom the Times crosswords is the easiest chore of the day. This is the last time though that Blofeld will be enriching the airwaves of Radio 3 with those dulcet and dancing tones. It's time to hang up the Test Match Special microphone and just do things at his own leisurely pace. It will not be easy and yet it is hoped he will have no lasting regrets and instead dwell on those memorable Test Matches with a mischievous giggle.

Alongside the equally as well known John Artlott and Brian Johnston, Blofeld struck up the kind of  radio friendship with, particularly, Johnston, that only cricketing soul mates can find. But to the outside observer Blofeld could quite easily be seen in much the same light as Brian Johnston. Both Blofeld and Johnston were entertaining court jesters, forever joking, jesting, giggling, chuckling and generally enjoying the soothing sedateness of cricket's greatest days.

Blofeld quite obviously belongs to that very English school of eccentricity and idiosyncrasy that is very much the the British crest of arms, the British badge of honour, the way the English conduct themselves on all of those grand sporting occasions. They sit by the boundaries of country village greens, caps drooping over their eyes, the Daily Telegraph perched properly on their nose and a comforting cathedral behind them.

But Blofeld was, and will be, albeit briefly before he closes his innings, one of the most distinctive voices in cricket commentary. This may be due to the fact that he brings a genuine colour and grammar to cricket that only Arlott could be said to have equalled. And yet Blofeld brought a lovely, fruity eloquence to the game that very few could aspire to. He had that public school accent that flowed from the his tonsils like a river in full flow.

Whenever the occasion merited it Blofeld had a unique turn of phrase and vivacious verbiage that provided the most pleasing of distractions when you felt sure that everything around him was not quite going according to plan. There was something of the Bertie Wooster and jolly hockey sticks about Blofeld that was a welcome counterpoint to all the blood and murder of the news agenda of the day.

Of course Blofeld would happily share a hundred fruit and chocolate cakes with Arlott, Johnston and Christopher Martin Jenkins because he remained very much the cream of the crop. He would suddenly launch into a riveting piece of scandal about a government minister, lay on the gossipy banter about that pop star he'd once seen falling helplessly out of a sleazy West End nightclub before furnishing us with endless tales of cheeky wit and humorous badinage on every subject he could think of.

We'll all miss Blofeld because he came to represent all the happy and carefree aspects of our lives, the way we lived, the mysterious, the sublime and ridiculous. He would pass wonderful comments on the pigeons at deep mid wicket or deep backward square leg and long on. He would cheer the heroes and villains of the game with a boisterous tally ho, salute the famous and celebrated and reminisce longingly on that patient and businesslike century from Geoff Boycott. As the evening shadows lengthened  he would then take a twenty minute nap while nobody was looking.

But we still have a couple of months before Henry Blofeld bows out and retreats to the Garrick club in London's West End where once again he will be the centre of attention. He'll grab the Times or the Sunday Times Magazine perhaps, maybe the Spectator or the New Statesman just to finish off the morning, afternoon or day with a well deserved literary flourish.

There are few Henry Blofelds left in the world and maybe there should be more like him because when Blofeld signs off in September cricket will take off its pads and helmets, slump in the corner of its well appointed pavilions and then happily look back on the career of a man who was never at a loss for words. Happy retirement 'Blowers'. The world of cricket will miss you deeply.