New York. Photograph: Getty Images
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I’ve got the New York bug – and it turns out the condition is hereditary

Nicholas Lezard's "Down and Out" column.

So it looks as though I am going to be going to New York again. My mother, who left Manhattan to be with my father over half a century ago, still feels the pull of the place and has decided that she had better go there one more time while she still can. And the reason I can afford to go there is because she’s paying for my ticket. Well, you don’t turn down a free trip to New York, do you? Not even with your mother. Who, in my case, will be keeping a beady eye on the number of brandy-and-sodas I drink as part of my copyrighted anti-jet-lag system on the way there and back.

She has friends there, although sadly Cousin Lee, who mesmerised me when I was a child not because he was obviously gay but because he shaved with lather and a blade, died in 2009. Going to see him was the true, classy New York experience: a place in the mid-50s, east side, a luxurious apartment with a kitchen the size of a tea-chest (in which, however, he could cook sumptuous meals); trips to Chinatown and the best Jewish delis in town.

My mother, who used to appear on Broadway, still has New York in her blood and she would always watch the latest New Yorkbased TV shows – Rhoda, Kojak – so she could see how her city was getting on. “The best Kojak episodes are the ones with drugs in them,” she once confided in me and she was right – nothing else provided such a frisson, and a scene where the bald, lollipop sucking Telly Savalas shows his nephew a tenement stuffed with shivering junkies has probably done more than anything else to keep me off the skag for life.

The condition – New Yorkitis – is hereditary. I showed the kids The Odd Couple with Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon the other weekend and despite there being no spies, spaceships or elves in it, just a lot of talk, they loved it. And what talk. The film may be a thinly disguised version of a play with a low proportion of exterior shots, but it is as muggy with the atmosphere of the place as an un-air-conditioned summer’s day there. The natural heat of the place is, in its way, a character; think also of Rear Window. I first went to the city as a child, around the same time The Odd Couple was made, and to me that is how New York is meant to look: the cabs are that shape, policemen’s caps are pointy around the circumference, like Officer Dibble’s in Top Cat, and the men wear natty pork-pie hats. It’s as archaic an image as that of a London wracked with pea-soupers but any deviation from it I am capable of blanking utterly. There are enough satisfactory relics.

That said, I tend to enjoy the full contemporary experience when I go to the City That Never Sleeps, which means I am more John Self in Money than the loquacious nebbish of a Woody Allen story. And after the last time, which ended up in a miserable, hopeless search round the Diamond District for a stolen gold watch, I was more than half glad that financial considerations would prevent me from making the trip there ever again. I need to be kept on a leash while I’m there. It starts with oysters at Grand Central and ends up trying to give the correct description to a policeman in Times Square at four o’clock in the morning.

I wonder whether the problem is that London isn’t really anything, but New York really is New York. When T S Eliot called London the Unreal City, he was on to something. London is simply too sprawling for us to see it – we’re out of scale with it, or in the wrong dimension.

I’ve lived here for about 98 per cent of my life and feel my grasp of the place actually slipping as I get older. Whereas New York’s quiddity and immensity peers down at you the whole time. The place is an intramuscular injection of hard-core, uncut cityness which, after London’s methadone, comes as quite a jolt and can cause some people to overdose. And you don’t have to be a big, brash city to have this effect on the Londoner: pretty much anywhere else can do it.

Meanwhile, I flick through the pages of my stiff new US passport. Compared with its predecessor, this is a document so stuffed with patriotic bling that it makes you want to cringe. Each page has either an eagle or a cowboy or a steam train or a sailing ship or a Statue of Liberty and an inspiring quote to go with it. It’s funny. Every time I think to myself that this is the time I will cast off my wimpy Englishness and move to the US, something happens to make me go “oh, deary me. Tut tut.”

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 10 June 2013 issue of the New Statesman, G0

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State