Listening to nail-biting commentary is radio gold

Until a few years ago, cricket was a foreign language to me. Then, one summer, I fell ill. Too groggy even to read, I was feeling sorry for myself until my partner tuned the radio to Test Match Special. It was not just a revelation but a godsend. My recovery was swift, but not too swift. Over the course of the following few weeks, the banter, wisdom and humour of the cricket commentators became a lifeline. 

In the company of the late and much lamented Christopher Martin-Jenkins (CMJ), whose voice was as rich as vintage port, or Bertie Woosterish Henry Blofeld, or splendidly splenetic Geoffrey Boycott, one didn't need to see the crease to follow what was going on. The pictures painted by a team who deserve medals for their laconic wit and descriptive powers were as sharp as high-definition television. As I quickly learned, with cricket the commentary is as enjoyable – perhaps more so – as the match itself.

While Scotland is staring at its navel in search of an identity, the soul of England can be encapsulated in its love of cricket. Not that Scots don't enjoy it too – I'm told we have more cricket than rugby clubs – but here it is a guiltier pleasure, like preferring a rose wine to a fine malt. Happily for the English, there is no such conflict. As Tory politician Lord Mancroft once wrote: "Cricket – a game which the English, not being a spiritual people, have invented in order to give themselves some conception of eternity."

That still holds true. In fact, it is the slow unfurling of the match that is so appealing. A friend describes one-day contests as "fast food" compared to the marathon Test Matches. Personally, I revel in it all. Of course, I am no closer to understanding the finer points – "Silly mid-wicket" still sounds like a village where Miss Marple would have stumbled on a corpse – but as a test match gathers pace, it becomes as gripping and emotionally satisfying as a page-turning thriller.

Over the course of five days, unexpected heroes and villains come to the fore: this week Australia's previously unknown Ashton Agar was catapulted to international fame by thwarting expectations of Australia's imminent collapse, while Stuart Broad was reviled in some quarters for standing his ground when he should have "walked". 

As in the best dramas, resentments smoulder over poor gamesmanship or dodgy umpiring. By the final day, it's as if one has reached the fifth act of a Shakespearean play, as it comes crashingly to a crescendo. 

Except, to listen to the commentators, you'd think nothing much was happening at all. As cricketers scurry, leap and dive, and the tally of accumulating runs ticks over like the departure board in a train station, Tuffers and Aggers and Geoffrey tell listeners about the cakes they have received, or discuss who washes Boycott's smalls, or read texts from listeners fearful they'll miss the finale because their wife is having a baby and there is no signal in the hospital, or report from a woman who says listening to them helped her endure her labour pains.  

But, like a lazy river that has reached the rapids, the game can change at the flick of a bowler's wrist, and suddenly there is spume and froth and danger. It was an exaggeration yesterday, but not a huge one, when England's taking of a wicket after what seemed like an age was likened to the Relief of Mafeking. 

The ingredients that go into a Test Match Special are indefinable, but without exception delicious. As the commentators's accents show, it's a game for all classes, and all walks of life. Cricket is life itself in slower motion: sometimes dull, often repetitive, with moments of high drama.

The greatest compliment one can pay a cricketer is to call him an all-rounder. Surely that's all you can ask of anyone in this world.