BEYOND THE BOUNDARY; Whichever way you tilt it, twiddle it and fiddle it, the crisp vowels of Christopher Martin-Jenkins are replaced by a relentless buzzing

"Robin Smith," said a voice, "will probably score 200." I looked up from my paper. The voice belonged to a gawky teen-age boy, a few places ahead in the check-in queue.

Gatwick Airport, South Terminal, Zone L, Saturday morning, 11.00. Zone L is living up to its name by offering a number of infernal torments. The queue is long, the air is hot, the plane is already delayed. And the radio won't work.

You can do many things at Gatwick - eat a Big Mac, attend morning worship or buy a whole new wardrobe - but getting any sense out of a transistor is not one of them. Whichever way you tilt it, twiddle it and fiddle it, the crisp vowels of Christopher Martin-Jenkins are replaced by a relentless buzzing noise. The radio has turned into a shaver.

Still, they must have a television here, and that delay could come in useful. Of course, I'm not expecting what that teenager is expecting. I'm aware that Smith has never made 200 in a Test, and is unlikely to do so on a two-tone terror track with no fit front-line batsmen left to share the burden. There is no way I would count on him to make more than 150. But Cork was looking pretty comfortable last night and if he chips in with 40-odd, well, you wouldn't want to bat fourth on that, would you?

Liberated at last from Zone L, I charge up the escalator to the Gatwick Village. Past the post office, the chapel, the smoking area. In the distance, the flicker of a screen. Yes! No. It is only Cine Motion, The Simulation Experience Theatre.

Eventually I spot the reassuring colours of a sports shop (electric mauve, electric tur-quoise). Sports shops always have a telly. Except this one. "We missed the World Cup 'n all," says the assistant, with gloomy relish. Does anywhere else here have a telly? "Village Inn. Third on the right."

I arrive just as Richard Illingworth departs. For a split second this seems like a blow. But the definition of an optimist is an England cricket supporter, and after 23 years' practice the reflexes are well honed. Smith will still be there, and with Cork going in five, Illingworth was probably at eight, so we could still have Fraser, Stewart and Gallian to come. Didn't Willey and Willis once put on 117 for the last wicket against West Indies? And didn't Malcolm Marshall once show that it was quite possible to bat with one hand?

Damn. There's Fraser, and he is walking in the same direction as Illingworth. Bad light? Bomb scare? A score appears in the corner - 89 for 9. In the time it has taken to check in, England have lost six wickets, the match, and probably the series.

There's no getting away from it. This hurts. The trouble is that England are my team. I don't just want them to win the way you might want England to win at football - I want them to win like that, plus the way I want Manchester United to win. It's pathetic, I know, but I really do support them.

There is no good reason for this, except perhaps that I don't support a county. As a boy I vaguely supported Sussex, because John Snow played for them, and Lancashire, because they were based at Old Trafford. But if you can produce a reason, you are not a real fan. True fandom is random.

It is not explained by birth, either, whatever Robert Henderson might think. Nationality may set you off, but it doesn't keep you there, hooked, immovable, riveted to the set. It doesn't tell you why you sit through a whole day's play, then wait up for the highlights, then get up in the morning and read a full account in four different newspapers.

You will have spotted by now that I am on holiday. Officially, that is. The reality is that a summer holiday is a contradiction in terms. Being a cricket nut is a full-time job, as Marcus Berkmann entertainingly shows in what is probably the first book devoted to the condition, Rain Men: The Madness of Cricket.

As I shuffle through passport control, still half stunned, it dawns that inside this disaster there lurks a small but important victory. We have done the impossible - booked a two-week holiday that doesn't overlap with a single minute of a Test match. No danger of getting on the plane to find the captain saying: "And if there are any cricket fans on board, I'm afraid I have bad news".

No need to sit on the beach with the radio tuned to short wave, hurriedly wiping the sun cream off your fingers so you can chase the World Service on its bewildering course along the dial. No need to get directions to the town's one international newsstand, only to find that all it has in English is a yellowing copy of the European.

On second thoughts, it is important to stay in touch. There are several injuries to keep abreast of, and you need to know which pundits are blaming the team, and which are blaming the pitch, and which are blaming each other. Where did you say that news-stand was?