County cricket has been woken out of its slumber by T20

Another night on the county circuit, another sell-out. Last Thursday around 28,000 went to Lord's to watch Middlesex play Twenty20 against Surrey, and the next evening 23,500 more were at the Oval to watch Surrey play Kent. Weird scenes these, for those of us accustomed to watching county cricket in the company of the hardy few. Middlesex's combined Championship attendance in 2012 was only 28,104. As many people paid to watch that one three-hour match as did all the 32 days of Championship cricket the county played at home last season, a statistic which epitomises cricket's current predicament.
It has been 10 years since T20 was launched. In its first season Stuart Robertson, then the ECB's head of marketing, said that the format was not "an end in itself, but a means to an end. The hope is that a 20-over game will be the first rung on a cricket-watching ladder that has a Championship game at its top." It feels as though that hope has been frustrated. But while there is cause for consternation, there is room too for celebration. T20 has drawn the kind of crowds not seen at county matches since before the Second World War.
At Lord's the queue to get in stretched from the Bicentenary Gate down to the Wellington Road. There were even scalpers shilling tickets to people who couldn't be bothered wait the time it took to get from one end to the other. Inside, I was turfed out of my spot by a steward to make more room for the late arrivals. Instead, I squeezed in to the one empty seat in sight, alongside a jovial church organist who mollified me by offering to share his bottle of Chablis and packet of sausage rolls. He was garrulous, and good company.
The match was awful – only two Middlesex players made it into double figures, as they were bowled out for 92 while chasing 178. So in between his bites and slurps the bibulous organist and I spoke of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings, of why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. He barely grumbled when the bankers behind him fired a champagne cork up over his head and down onto the ground, though the fizz that followed spurted up on to his collar and ran down the back of his jacket. He turned and said "you should twist the bottle, old boy, not the cork." He was distraught when the game ended early, but only because he was barely half way through his second bottle.
Lord's is lucky. It sells itself, and has no need for geegaws, gimcracks, and other gimmicks. The London derby has become a fixture of the high society sports season, and the stands are packed with city folk in suits, jackets off, ties tugged loose of the collar. It is the home of cricket, and also of the scandalous £20 steak sandwich, served, we're told, "in fresh focaccia with "Portobello mushrooms and slow-roasted tomatoes, crispy onion rings, peppery rocket, horseradish coleslaw and pickles".
At the Oval they have to work a little harder. There are fireworks and flame-throwers, which belch columns of fire each time someone hits a boundary. Kia, the club's sponsors, stump up £1,000 prizes for anyone and everyone who takes a clean catch off a six hit into the stands. At half-time their latest model takes a slow lap of the ground while a volunteers hurl freebie merchandise into the stands. Scream if you want a t-shirt. As much as the curmudgeon in me resents the razzmatazz, Surrey have learned how to do it well.
When the stands are this full, the rival sets supporters have distinct identities. Surrey's is more eclectic, and a little rougher around the edges, than the one they get north of the Thames. That night they had more to cheer, because it was a much better match, which Surrey won with five balls to spare. But still the loudest roar was the one received by a streaker, or rather the stewards who clobbered him who broke onto the pitch as the game was reaching its climax.
When Mitch Claydon strolled down to his station at fine leg after his third over he assumed the crowd were applauding his parsimony and gave them a wave of thanks. In fact they were cheering the snake of beer glasses which was being passed around to keep it out of reach of a flailing, frustrated steward. "Feed the snake! Pass the snake! Feed the snake! Pass the snake!" It broke just in front of me, provoking a raucous chorus of boos, and showering everyone in the vicinity in beer dregs, so that by the end of the night the air around is was heavy with the sour scent of stale booze.
Some fans will read all this and think that they want no part of it. The peace, space, and time on offer at a county ground is a large part of the attraction of going to a Championship match, which often act as a kind of day-care for disaffected middle-aged men. And at first I found myself inwardly irritated with the occasional disregard for what was happening in the middle, the disrespect for the old traditions, like not moving from your seat until the end of the over. Afterwards, an old acquaintance rebuked me for being so uppity, reminding me that though those of us who love cricket have long since forgotten how complicated its Laws and rituals can seem to the uninitiated.
A complex game needs simple structures, and the ECB's idea of staging most T20 games on Friday nights through the summer is a good one. County cricket, which has slumbered for so long, is awake again. The Oval is one of my favourite sanctuaries from the teeming city that surrounds it. Last Friday it seemed alive and vital, as busy as any other corner of London. Strange days indeed. But welcome ones.