Cricket: A love as boundless as his wealth: John Paul Getty, billionaire philanthropist and the new owner of Wisden, is one of cricket's most extraordinary and elusive characters. Frances Edmonds met him

THE CLUE, of course, is the photograph in the middle of the mantelpiece. Heads of state and government are relegated to supporting roles. In the pantheon of John Paul Getty's heroes, it is the late Sir George 'Gubby' Allen who is afforded pride of place. 'Can you imagine what Gubby would say?' 'I don't think Gubby would like that.'

When Getty discusses cricket, the philosophy of the inalienably patrician Gubby continues to inform his views. Honour and fair play, the Corinthian ideals of the man who refused to bowl 'Bodyline' on Jardine's infamous tour - these are the values which Getty believes are the very quintessence of Englishness.

At his London flat overlooking Green Park last week the 60-year-old billionaire philanthropist, son of the late oil tycoon Paul Getty, and new owner of John Wisden Ltd, publishers of the cricketers' almanack, is comfortably ensconced among a selection of hand-embroidered scatter cushions ('When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Go Shopping' reads one). Getty has just received a letter from his old friend, the great Australian all-rounder Keith Miller, who will be over for the forthcoming Ashes series. Age-old traditions and steadfast friends - these, according to Getty, are what cricket is all about.

It was in the mid-Sixties, a period when such values were being questioned and discarded, that the shy, retiring American first became interested in cricket. An unlikely apostle in the form of Mick Jagger was responsible for the conversion. A neighbour of Getty's in Cheyne Walk in London, Jagger would often drop by for a cup of tea and a chat and, whenever a Test match was being played, would ask to watch it on the television. 'And so,' recalls Getty with a smile, 'I'd have to watch it too.'

Getty soon became hooked on 'this five-day game, with pin-ball scores'. Its arcane rules intrigued him and he started to ask questions. Inured to baseball from his childhood in San Francisco, he found it hard to believe that it was not a foul to hit the ball behind the wicket. Patiently, Jagger started to explain this and the subtler idiosyncrasies of the glorious summer game. It did not take Getty long to appreciate that, as he puts it, 'baseball is to cricket what draughts is to chess.' Before long, whole afternoons were being devoted to the relative merits of speed and spin. 'Then I started watching even when Mick wasn't there,' he says. 'That was the turning point - the day I found myself watching the cricket when no one else was there.'

An inveterate bibliophile, Getty began reading voraciously about the game. 'I was very impressed from the very beginning by the quality of writing about cricket,' he says. Gradually he began to understand that cricket was far more than just a game. 'It was', he explains, 'the playing out of all those things that are most important in an English gentleman. Perseverance and discipline. Remember what Wellington said about the playing fields of Eton.'

Given his deep affection for his adoptive country (when Getty talks about the English, he always says 'we'), it was inevitable that the burgeoning aficionado should have been impressed by Gubby Allen. A product of Eton and Cambridge, a former England captain and President of MCC, he epitomised Getty's ideal of an English gentleman. Together they would watch the cricket from the window in the MCC committee room at Lord's.

'There he is,' says Getty, gesturing to the photograph on the mantelpiece, 'that's Gubby, sitting in Gubby's chair, near Gubby's window, looking out over Gubby's cricket ground.' No one witnessing the subsequent silence would wonder why Getty funded the beautiful new Mound Stand at Lord's.

It is hardly surprising that the dour, so-called professional approach of today's sulk-and- stubble brigade cuts no ice with Mr G. 'Can you imagine what Gubby would have said about the tour to India?' he asks, suddenly animated. 'What he would have thought about Gooch's beard? To behave like the England team did in India, on and off the field, to turn up to the presentation ceremony without their blazers, so dishevelled - it was appalling.'

Joyous, elegant, uninhibited cricket, the game for the sake and the love of the game - that, believes Getty, is the only real cricket. In one corner of the fireplace stands a well-worn bat, a gift from Derek Randall, one of the most joyous and uninhibited of all English cricketers. It was with it that Randall scored his glorious 174 in the 1977 Centenary Test. Autographed by the Australian and English teams, it is now one of the billionaire's most prized possessions. 'Out of deep respect for his talent, I sent him a bottle of champagne,' explains Getty. 'He sent me that bat. I was overwhelmed, truly overwhelmed.' For a man who has everything money can buy Getty is genuinely touched that a cricketer should have given him something so personal and precious.'

Randall and Gower - the few remaining cavaliers in a game increasingly dominated by Roundheads - these are the batsmen Getty loves to watch. Increasingly, he finds himself looking abroad for the qualities he finds most attractive. The present Indian team, with their youthful exuberance, now take his vote as 'the great models of the way to play the game'. With obvious delight, he recalls Mohammed Azharrudin's wondrous innings at Lord's in 1990 the deft flicks, the perfect timing, the elegant wrist work. 'After seeing that,' he says wistfully, 'I thought I could have died.'

It was in an effort to have cricket played with the same sense of unfettered amateur fun that Getty built his cricket pitch at Wormsley, his 3,000-acre estate in the Chilterns. It is the place where he lives out his dreams. For over seven years, more than one hundred men have been working on the overall project. Ninety thousand trees have been planted, artificial lakes sunk and rustic follies and grottoes erected. In a vast circular library, disguised as a flint-clad medieval castle, Getty keeps his priceless collection of books and manuscripts. The perfect oval cricket ground, complete with mock-Tudor pavilion and thatched score-box, was opened last summer.

No expense was spared in the creation of this idyll. Surrey's groundsman, Harry Brind, was brought in and furnished with the very latest in technology. Getty's great friend, Test Match Special's irrepressible Brian Johnston, advised on matters cricket and culinary. Everything Johnners deemed necessary for perfect English country-house cricket was provided. A marquee, a sumptuous lunch, endless supplies of Pimm's and champagne and, for tea, Johnners's own favourite sugar-coated Bath buns. 'I don't necessarily have to ask him for his views,' says Getty fondly. 'I just get them.'

It is cricket at Wormsley, his Chiltern estate, and all it represents that Getty wishes to be thought of as his legacy to the game. 'Country- house cricket, cricket without a commercial side, cricket just for the fun of it, not caring which side wins, just for the pleasure of the game.' Last season, the John Paul Getty XI played six matches and lost six. Only defeat by E W Swanton's Arabs seems to rankle slightly. 'I'd like to win that one, this year,' he admits. 'It's just too awful being teased by Swanton.'

A cursory glance at this year's fixture list is instructive. The Eton Ramblers, I Zingari, MCC - all are teams steeped in history and tradition. The John Paul Getty team managers are all well-respected, establishment figures. Colin Ingleby-Mackenzie, the fabled former Hampshire captain, John Woodcock, former cricket correspondent of the Times, and MCC's Lt-Col John Stephenson are amongst those who feature on the list. A Golden Age of amateur values, captains' hands smiting willing shoulders, 'Play up, play up and play the game', this, it seems, is what Wormsley is trying to preserve.

It is clear, despite accepted folklore, that John Paul Getty is no recluse. No one who counts the gloriously gregarious Johnners as his friend could ever truly be so. Getty simply avails himself of the greatest luxury enormous wealth confers. He refuses to spend time with people who either bore of irritate him, and he shuns the publicity that his huge charitable donations could bring. Cricket is only a part of his philanthropy - pounds 50m has been given to the National Gallery, pounds 20m to the National Film Institute. From striking miners' families to the SAS, countless people have benefited from Getty's often whimsical munificence.

Cricket has given him the fun and good fellowship that an early life such as his almost inevitably failed to provide. His passion for Test Match Special is telling in this respect. The nicknames, the public-schoolboy humour, the uncomplicated jollity and camaraderie of it all - Getty never misses a minute.

'Richie Benaud is a great television commentator, but I still turn the sound down and listen to Test Match Special. I love it because it isn't just cricket, it's a whole life in England. Even when it rains all day, even when there's not a ball bowled, there are still eight or nine hours of talk going on. It's marvellous.' So marvellous, in fact, that when the programme was in jeopardy, Getty was prepared to buy a radio station to save it.

Benevolent Getty may be but, when it comes to business, he does not like his goodwill to be taken for granted. 'We were negotiating for Wisden,' he says, 'and they went ahead and selected an editor. I was rather angry at the time but, in fact, they made a very wise decision. Now I'm delighted.' The man Getty is referring to, the former cricket correspondent of the Guardian Matthew Engel, rates highly in Getty's estimation. Getty says he has no intention of interfering, though 'what Gubby would say' about Engel's decision to omit Oxbridge blues from the first handbook under his editorship must be obvious to most.

What appears to be a complete set of red-leather bound Wisdens graces a bookcase in Getty's flat - bought at the sale of Robert Maxwell's personal effects. 'I'm one of the last people to be cheated by him,' he smiles as he opens the bookcase door. 'This was his set of Wisdens. It's missing the first volume, which I didn't realise until it was too late.'

Getty does not seem unduly bothered. He is not, he maintains, a passionate collector of cricketania. His love of cricket is related to the intangibles and ineffables of the game, the fellowship and fun, the daring and determination. 'All the great, great people are there in cricket. It brings out the very best.' Despite his years of study he is, he says, still learning. 'One of the things I love about it so much is that it's so complicated. It's taken me years even to begin to understand it. Of course, never having played it, I still really don't know what happens, say, when the ball comes off the ground from a spinner.'

Not even all John Paul Getty's billions can stop the growing commercialisation of cricket. Be-logoed pyjama suits and lager deals, these it seems, are what the future holds in store. Getty views it all with a certain sadness, but refuses to be despondent. At Wormsley, his own highly personalised corner of the world, real cricket will live on. If only for that, his enormous wealth will have been used to sound effect.

On the table in the entrance hall stands another silver-framed photograph of Gubby Allen, prominently displayed. 'He was like a brother to you, wasn't he?' I ask.

'More like a father,' replies Mr G.

Therein, perhaps, lies the ultimate answer to every question.

(Photographs omitted)