22 May 2025

In the presence of the Great English Bore

How a pleasant day at the cricket turned into dismal anthropology.

To the cricket at Hove for some soothing, slow action. Sussex were playing Worcestershire in the County Championship and over the course of two and a half days were making Worcestershire rue the day they set off in the team coach. Don’t worry, this won’t really be about the cricket. But to set the scene: this is not the modern iteration of the game, where teams play a shortened and somewhat manic version in coloured clothes and give themselves names like the Sussex Sharks. This is the leisurely four-day version, where teams still wear white and play with a red ball, and there are breaks for lunch and tea.

It is a glorious day and I buy myself a pint of Harvey’s from the pavilion. I can afford to do this because I have strolled into the ground at about four o’clock, and they don’t bother to charge anyone who comes in when there are only a couple more hours of play. It is a gentle 15-minute walk from the Hove-l to the ground and I have work I should be doing, even on a Sunday, so how better to evade it than this?

There are about 200 spectators scattered around the ground. Gentle souls, I would guess, with a wider age range than you might expect: there are even a few kids, one of whom is wearing a Sussex CCC shirt which has been signed by the team itself. I settle into my seat with my pint and watch the game unfold. The sounds are those of my childhood, when every Sunday I would watch my father play for one of his two teams: the sounds of leather on willow, gentle applause, and the plunk of my father’s stumps as he’s out again for another gritty eight runs.

Only this time there’s another sound: and it is the sound of a man sitting a few rows behind me, talking continuously. It is hard not to listen, for he has a voice that carries and there is little competition, for the circumstances are not conducive to crowd hysteria. I can hear every word, as clear as a bell. And it becomes clear very quickly that I am in the immediate neighbourhood of a first-class specimen of the Great English Bore. His conversational topics come round and round again, like the horses on a merry-go-round. They are, in order: a) arcana about the game being played, b) details, minute to the point of pedantry, about various road trips he has taken, and c) a certain dissatisfaction with his wife.

I could, of course, move. The ground has a capacity of 6,000, which gives me a choice of 5,800 alternative seats, the vast majority of which would place me out of earshot. But, dammit, I like my seat. It has a very good view of the scoreboard and, crucially, is very close indeed to the pavilion bar, and that first pint didn’t touch the sides when it went down. Also, I thought, he has to stop talking at some point. But then I swear I hear him say these words: “Well, I am boring.”

He may have insight into his own condition but I underestimate the persistence and staying power of the Bore. Why is it you never get ones who speak softly and not so much? Why must they go on, like the Duracell Bunny, only not as entertaining? I take a look at him: he seems to be in his early thirties or so, younger than I expected. It also means he has the stamina of youth. I wonder if he has been going on all day. His companion, who does not say a word, for there is no space into which a word can be inserted, has a glaze to his eye.

In the end, I move. The comment that gets me out of my seat is this: “I don’t see why I should spend my Saturday cleaning the kitchen just because she can’t be arsed.” This raised a couple of questions. How do you spend a whole day cleaning a kitchen? Mine can get into a bit of a state but at its worst it only takes an hour to make it fit for purpose again. Maybe he does all the cooking, hence his grievance. I look around again. He does not give the impression of someone who does all the cooking. But he does give the impression of someone who eats it.

I suppose there is a non-trivial risk that one will run into a person like this after tea on the third day of a County Championship cricket match. To the untrained or unsympathetic eye the format of the game has its longueurs; into these gaps the Bore’s voice can take flight. I also find myself speculating ungenerously on how he voted in the last election. Still, in my new seat I can no longer hear him.

When I get back home, I see some messages from my friend Ben. The thing that’s been bothering him lately is that, as far as he can see, every rapper and gang boss currently incarcerated in the American prison system has his own podcast. Even convictions for murder aren’t stopping them from getting hold of the equipment. This is driving him a bit mental. “Why haven’t I got a podcast?” he cries. And he’d be good, for he is most amusing. But life is not fair. I think about my companion at the cricket, unstoppably talking bollocks for hour after hour. It’s quite a talent, in a way. Does he have his own podcast? I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.

[See also: Portrait of an 18th-century It girl]