Читать книгу Start the Car: The World According to Bumble - David Lloyd - Страница 8

Ten Minutes to Decide – the Ultimate Job Ultimatum

Sky Sports is a truly great company to work for, one that I am genuinely proud to be a part of, and one that I look forward to putting in a shift for each and every day. There is a real energy about the entire production department, and that rubs off on our commentary team, without a doubt. The production crew are incredibly youthful – particularly given the extreme responsibility that goes with the jobs that they do – but they are exceptional in their fields and help to keep me feeling young at heart. They are well marshalled by Paul King and Bryan Henderson, executive and senior producer respectively, and Mark Lynch, as good a senior director as there is in the field, and there is a real buzz from the top all the way down to the office staff and runners.

These people are as keen as hell and they dance around television, knowing every single technical step along the way. It’s a very tight unit and wherever we are in the world there is a real sense of being a team. A team that works hard and plays hard. They do their time and are great fun to be with after hours. Good relationships between commentators and the production team are essential, and I speak on behalf of us all, I am sure, when I say that we are very comfortable with them directing us. We know exactly what they are about, and we all benefit from their expertise, commitment and enthusiasm. It is a thoroughly modern organisation, and Sky’s cricket has involved some of their best people.

Sky’s cricket coverage is still relatively young, well, certainly in comparison with that great institution Test Match Special. I felt equally privileged to have worked on that programme for a number of years and I thoroughly enjoyed my radio work. What a great position to be in, describing the game to thousands of people, who are doing thousands of different things as they listen. Radio has always been a great medium for cricket, and TMS embodies the most essential requirement of sporting commentary. The trick has always been to get the person you are addressing to feel as though they are sitting next to you, whether they are in their living-room, in a pub or driving in their car. That is something the TMS team have successfully achieved throughout the decades and will continue to do in their own individualistic style. They do so now through Jonathan Agnew, Christopher Martin-Jenkins, Henry Blofeld and Victor Marks, and that will be carried on by the next regime and the one after that.

I have never subscribed to the rose-tinted view that there will never be another John Arlott or another Brian Johnston. Sure, they were one-off characters, national treasures, wonderful broadcasters, and yes, they are missed. But we have also come to love those that have taken their place. New guys will emerge, just as Aggers has, for example. His part in Johnners’s irresistible ‘leg-over’ moment, when Ian Botham was dismissed hit wicket in the 1991 Oval Test against West Indies, showed perfectly how one generation could merge into the next. We can all get nostalgic, but the show goes on and the bottom line is that it is still brilliant. The formula that Johnners so revered – he made TMS sound like a group of mates getting together for a chat at the match – has not been lost.

I was part of that group for ten years or so, from the late 1980s, working alongside the irrepressible Fred Trueman and Trevor Bailey. They were priceless times. There was never a dull moment. Nor is there now, and I have a real respect for their commentary team. Yes, there is always a joust between the BBC and Sky because of our different agendas, but I would like to think it is a good-natured one and comes with a mutual respect and understanding from each side that, competitive rivalry notwithstanding, you are talking about two bloody good productions. We spend our lives in the same venues, the same hotels, travelling the same motorways, or sitting in the same aeroplanes, and I would say that between us we give the British public what they seek in terms of cricket coverage.

When I initially moved into broadcasting I was still on the umpiring circuit, and had half an eye on making the international panel of officials which was rumoured to be on its way into the sport. In fact, it was Sky’s decision to begin screening cricket that first took my life in a different direction, away from involvement on the field of play, and when I was subsequently approached by then TMS producer Peter Baxter it gave me licence to do what I have always enjoyed – to talk passionately about the game, and have some laughs along the way. After all, sport is there to be enjoyed first and foremost, and conveying that always came naturally enough to me. As it happened, the next stage of my life, as a full-time coach, was only just around the corner, but the stints on television and radio whetted the appetite.

Upon leaving the commentary box to don the tracksuit, I left the door ajar for a return. That much became clear when my time as England coach concluded in the summer of 1999. The truth is, I knew it was time for me to step aside, but I had no idea what I was going to do after handing in my resignation to my bosses at Lord’s. Deep down I thought I would get back into coaching with a county club, but there was no obvious opening for me. There was nothing at Lancashire, which was understandably my first choice, because they already had Dav Whatmore in position. I had enjoyed a really good spell at Old Trafford as coach previously, but someone else was in that job on their own merits, which meant spending some time studying the county circuit to weigh up where an opportunity might present itself. Not many days had passed, however, when I received the phone call that was to change my life once more. I had always loved being involved in broadcasting, I had done loads over the years, but the voice at the other end was offering me something a bit different: the chance of a permanent appointment.

The Australian accent greeting me at 8.50 a.m. on the morning of my England resignation press conference belonged to John Gayleard, then head of Sky’s cricket team. ‘Come and work for us,’ he said. ‘Our offer is on its way through to you. Oh, and by the way, we want your answer within ten minutes.’ It was the age of the fax – seems so long ago now, doesn’t it? – and this contract offer that landed on my desk needed signing and returning before the paper it was written on had cooled down. Sky wanted an immediate response because, spotting the opportunity for some publicity, they had decided to jump on the back of my departure from the national job. Their cameras were all set up down the road at Old Trafford to cover the announcement, which was just one and a half hours away, and they wanted to follow it with one of their own: ‘By the way, he now works for us.’ Of course, I accepted. So one minute I was sitting there in my England blazer, doing my thank you and goodbye with Ian MacLaurin, and the next I was taking up the microphone and jumping fence. Almost literally.

During our hurried conversation that morning I asked John for a break, for a period of time specifically for some kind of reflection. Just to weigh up what had happened and where I was. ‘You’re in from next week’ was the terse reply. ‘You start straight away.’ So that was that. Like most Australians, Gayleard was forthright. He told me how it was going to be, and I was in no real position to argue. I later reflected that his instructions were not for his benefit at all but for mine, and I appreciated that. I think he could tell I was hurting in the aftermath of my England exit but guessed that any licking of wounds would be better done while my mind was fully engaged in a new environment, working for a new team.

I immediately knew he was right when I first strolled into the commentary box. There was not a lot of time for me to prepare, and they were hardly ready for my arrival either – the first jacket I wore was one that Ian Botham had rejected, so you can imagine the size of this darn thing. I was tasked with hauling around the equivalent of a Karrimor tent on my shoulders until I eventually got my own.

I work for Sky between 150 and 170 days a year, depending on what is on, and do lots of other stuff, within the media primarily, as a spin-off from that. In fact, some of the time when you may think I’m on Sky duty, I am technically working for other companies. When I am away commentating on an International Cricket Council event, for example, I am actually on duty for ESPN. And although the assignments stem from my profile with Sky, I can be working for all manner of different stations, people and directors: Ten Sports, Zee, Nimbus and TWI among them. It means being adaptable, and for any number of reasons. You have to slot in as seamlessly as possible and, believe me, you get to see exactly how good Sky are when you are working for rival television networks. Some of them fly by the seat of their pants in comparison and, without being too parochial about it, are left trailing in our wake. Few would be able to argue against that assessment, although I have to say that Australia’s Channel 9 are right up there as well in the slickness of their production.

All in all, I have not looked back since I squiggled my signature and thrust that offer of employment back through my old fax machine. I simply love what I do. In broadcasting, your enthusiasm has to be unleashed, and that is not a problem as far as I am concerned because my enthusiasm for the game has rarely waned. I never see a day’s work as a chore. People are depending on you to entertain them. Sure, parts of matches can be a bit dull and sometimes you have to let a couple of turgid hours of cricket speak for themselves. Less can be more occasionally, and you have to get the balance of allowing games to drift along at some stages and forcing the pace at others. There are always going to be those periods that lend themselves to Johnny making a brew or Hilda feeding the budgie, but there are obviously other times when the action has to be revved up – more often than not when a wicket falls to alter the balance of the contest or in against-the-clock situations when teams are chasing victory. Thankfully getting excitable comes as second nature to me and I have always heeded the advice of the great broadcasters I have worked with. Their common opinion has been that you have to get the viewer feeling that they are with you, and part of the excitement, part of the drama.

The other advice I always bear in mind while on commentary duty came from my dad. As a child, I received a strict church upbringing. In our household, my dad, who was a lay preacher, was very quiet. It was my mother who was the dominant one, the disciplinarian; she used to hit me with a frying pan, belts, anything she could get her hands on. Whereas I cannot remember my dad ever laying a finger on me. He just pointed me in the right direction. The one thing I always remembered was his instruction to ‘Be yourself. Always be yourself. You might not always be right – there is nothing wrong with being wrong – but be yourself.’ David senior was 90-odd when he died but, whatever the situation that confronted me, I always turned back to that same, long-standing guidance.

On air I have tried to keep to those guidelines. I have never been afraid of sailing close to the wind when it comes to innuendo, and I have always believed that you instinctively know where to draw the line between fun and bad taste. When I was England coach, dealing with players with families, mortgages and other responsibilities, the one thing I always said to them – we all know what blokes are like, we are all the same when we get together, whether we be sportsmen, press men, whatever; we want a lot of fun, occasionally act a bit over the top, or be a bit laddish – was never to do anything that would prevent your mother and father standing up and proudly declaring to all and sundry: ‘That’s my lad.’ It was as simple as that. As parents, you want to be able to say: ‘Yep, that’s our George … the one with his arse hanging out.’ I am all for being outrageous on occasion, but you have to keep it affectionate.

For example, I hope I don’t behave differently on camera from how I act off it. My view is that I am the same man and that I am pretty natural at what I do. Talking about cricket has always come pretty easily, put it that way, but neither am I afraid to say things out loud that come into my head. It is not always pre-planned but I never regret what I say, even though it can be close to the bone occasionally. During the Ashes in 2009, one of the cameras panned to a young lass, who had the biggest chest you’ve ever seen, walking in front of the stand with a couple of pints in hand. ‘Oooh, I wouldn’t mind two of those,’ I said. To me, genuinely funny innuendo is born of innocence.

When we are working, we will normally get a nudge from our crew to warn us that they are about to pan around the crowd. But when you are abroad, and therefore taking another company’s pictures, you haven’t a clue what is around the corner. Such was the case in the Durban Test of 2009–10 as SABC went into a random surf of the stands. The camera focused on a young lady, who at that very second produced an enormous sausage from a picnic tray concealed between her legs. Instead of panning away to something else, they kept on this 12-inch pork truncheon. What on earth does a bloke say when confronted by that image? You’re in a no-win situation. ‘Well, sorry, I have lost my train of thought,’ I declared, as this thing wobbled this way and that. Sometimes you get into giddy schoolboy mode and this was one such occasion. The double entendre continued later when, sat alongside Michael Atherton, they zoomed in on a couple of blokes who had carved out a watermelon and plonked the outer casings on their heads as hats. ‘Look at these melons here,’ I said, playfully. Well, the director could not have timed his cut from one image to another any better if he had been trying to stitch me up. Exactly as I said it, the camera panned around to a woman with an enormous pair of norks …

The only venue at which I tend to pre-plan a routine is at Old Trafford. I will say to Mark Lynch, the director: ‘Get us an aeroplane coming in.’ On cue, I will then announce: ‘Here they are. They’re coming to sunny Manchester on their holidays. Hundreds of ’em. Holiday season has begun, folks. In they flood from Barbados, Mauritius and Goa. They love the wet lands of Wigan, the spa town of Salford, they come here for the waters, you know. There are the two canals of Manchester as well, of course – the near canal and the far canal.’

Sir Ian Botham – ‘I’ll make you famous’

Our very own knight of the realm had an on-field presence that demanded royal respect. Within our environment, however, his title is less regal and he is regularly referred to as His Buffiness, His Buffikins or His Holy Buffness. Our ribbing of him is perhaps evidence of us mere mortals being able to drag him back to the real world. For on a cricket pitch, alongside his English counterparts, he was the first among unequals; capable of extraordinary feats at will. I was a witness to one such incident during my three-season stint as a first-class umpire.

It was a televised Sunday League match at Taunton between Somerset and Middlesex. With three balls to go, and 12 runs required to win, Mr I.T. Botham was facing West Indies paceman Wayne Daniel, and I was standing at the business end. ‘Diamond’ Daniel was halfway through his approach to the crease when Both halted him in his tracks and, prodding the pitch, looked up to me and asked: ‘Who you backing in this one?’ I told him in short that a dozen required off three was a good contest, but the Songs of Praise theme tune was about to hit its first bar, so, if he didn’t mind awfully, could we get on with it?

The first of the three balls to come down, a full-toss angled in from wide of the crease, was dispatched into the car park. Now, with the requirement reduced to six from two balls, had he asked me again who I was backing, I would have been starting to favour the batting side’s chances. Only a man of the most supreme ability would have dared to do what Beefy did next – he went and blocked one on purpose, just to enhance the sense of theatre. Middlesex’s senior players gathered around their fearsome fast bowler, waiting at the end of his run-up, to discuss where to bowl and where to position the field. The latter part of their deliberations turned out to be irrelevant, however, as another full bunger sailed out of the ground. The crowd went berserk, even the opposition must have appreciated his bombast, and, as I dismantled the stumps at the bowler’s end, I felt the full force of his willow across my backside. ‘You stick with me, pal, I’ll make you famous!’ he declared.

What a player he was. Absolutely brilliant. Without question the best cricketer our country has ever produced. This was a bloke who could turn games on their head with bat, ball or slip catching. He dealt in moments of inspiration. He played on instinct. He didn’t think too much about it, just got on and did it. And how he did it!

Shane Warne is from the same mould, and when playing cricket followed exactly the same rules. For Beefy and Warney the coach is what you use for travelling to the ground. There would be no interest for them in being told what to do or even being offered some well-meaning advice. Whereas others need a figure to point them in the right direction, these cricket geniuses had all the answers already. Their actions were always louder than any words. Botham’s ability has no doubt shaped his thinking on how players should deal with their own losses of form. His answer would always be to carry on your own merry way: to get out of a rut he would recommend a couple of glasses of wine, a day out fishing or a game of golf, not extra practice. You might lose form, he would argue, but what was lost could easily be recovered. For him there was not a great deal of thought required.

Because that was what worked for him – he could come back to the nets, give it a thrash and he’d be off on form again. Others might see a more technical necessity, but he kept things very simple indeed. Of course, his fantastic ability made it that much easier for him to have that attitude, but it was a great way to be – an enviable way. Start talking about trigger movements and he would shoot you down in laughter. Let’s face it, we are always on the look-out for a new Botham, just as Australia will search fruitlessly for a new Warne. In all the time that they played, and since their departures, the search for a replica has been on. But you don’t unearth genius very often. For a long time now Australia have been seeking someone to bowl leg-spin for them, but no one will ever be able to match Warne.

Beefy is one of life’s true alpha males, a real man’s man. So you can imagine the expression on his face when, in the aftermath of the Mumbai attacks in the winter of 2008–9, we were forced to deal with heightened security on our return, which included intimate personal searches. Everything was so much tighter when we went back, and while Botham’s Daily Mirror colleague Oliver Holt, the newspaper’s chief sports writer, somehow managed to evade the stringent identification checks with a flash of his 2008 FA Cup final accreditation, Beefy was being handled in quite a different way. Let’s just say the new multi-frisking was leaving nothing to chance. In fact, anything that could pass for a weapon was being given the once over before entry to the ground was permitted. So you can imagine the ire etched on English cricket’s greatest-ever player’s clock when this particular cupping incident took place on the opening day of the Chandigarh Test match. They carried it out with far too much enthusiasm, rather like the school nurse when she put you through that dreaded cough test in your medicals.

At times he was like a human whirlwind on the field of play. Few could match his velocity. Neither can they off it. Beefy is not an opponent you want to take on, particularly after play, because that is the time he really comes into his own. He has an unbelievable thirst. In truth, he should carry a health warning, because it’s not good to spend any length of time around him. Since his playing days there have been three distinct tactics among us fellow broadcasters: you have a general policy of avoidance, you make a pre-planned exit or you take your turn – ‘You’re with Beefy tonight, good luck.’ People have become adept at applying these over a decade and it seems to work a treat. Needless to say, avoidance has been my primary tactic, but I have also developed a hip shuffle towards the exit that those dancing queens Darren Gough and Mark Ramprakash would be proud of.

It’s only when you have taken your turn that you realise there’s only one bloke who can live the way he does. Now I like a beer, but I can’t drink much. He doesn’t, but he can. He is massively into wine, and he drinks flagons of the stuff. I can have an odd glass but it has never done much for me. He is really into his vineyards and reading labels on the bottles, whereas I simply want a good old-fashioned pint in my hand, something I have never seen him armed with. I have seen him with copious amounts of wine, but he doesn’t go into pubs. He will search out wineries and I will seek pubs. We are pretty much chalk and cheese.

Whatever your chosen tipple, you have got to be able to get up for work in the morning, and so you have to get your drinking with Beefy (long game or short) down to a fine art. Have a glass with him and then clear off sharpish is the safest bet. His mates always look thirsty too, so one must keep alert. Others among the Sky crew are also into nice wines, particularly Lord Gower, but although he would probably spend more time with Beefy than anybody, he knows when to dodge in and out. He’s got Beefy avoidance down to a tee.

God help you if you spend an entire evening in Botham’s company – it can do horrendous things to your insides. For a long time I wondered how on earth he could get larrupped and still turn up for work the next morning as though he had been on carrot juice and cucumber slices. I discovered that his recuperative powers are catalysed by an uncomplicated concoction. There is nothing that Beefy can neck that four cans of Red Bull, three black coffees, two enormous belches and a huge fart won’t fix the next morning. Once that combination has been taken in and let out, he’s back to normal. It’s rather like kick-starting an old motor engine. In fact, he reminds me of the 1950s-style cars that you had to crank at the front to start. Once attended to, the engine is running again and he’s ready to rock.

We are all very different characters within our commentary team and that means we have some very different views. For example, the last time we were in South Africa Beefy went off for a couple of days on safari and came back with some evidence of his trip. It was when he flashed around pictures of his grandsons, standing on an impala that was best described as very dead, that I took umbrage. The photograph showed them in possession of a gun – they had shot this poor thing. I just can’t do that.

‘So here he is, Mr Impala, out for the day with his family, stretching their legs in the sun when …’ I began.

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Beefy told me. ‘There’s too many of ’em. Far too many. They have to be culled.’

I pointed out that there are a lot of Chinese people on this planet and some would argue too many. But, despite the size of their population, nobody goes around shooting them.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ he said.

The way I saw it was that this impala family was out having some breakfast one morning when their dad was shot and subsequently stood on. In one way Beefy was right, I suppose. I didn’t get that at all.

Off screen Both and I do not have much in common, I guess, but one thing we do share is a love of fishing. On another occasion during my three years in the white coat, I turned up at New Road to officiate in a Benson & Hedges Cup match. Beefy, now with Worcestershire, popped into the umpires’ room before play for a chat, during the course of which he invited me for a day out on a prime stretch of water on the River Wye. He also left me with a catalogue, telling me to pick out what I wanted and he would get any clobber sent on to me. As it happened, his friendly offer could not have been better timed, as I needed a new rod and reel.

Later in the day, he came on to bowl at my end, and announced himself with a loosener which plopped down the leg-side. My response, given the guidelines for one-day cricket, was to call and signal a wide.

‘It’s a what?’ Botham inquired incredulously, hands on hips.

‘It’s a wide,’ I replied. ‘You couldn’t have reached that with a clothes prop.’

‘Clothes prop, eh?’ he chuntered as he bristled past me. ‘You had better get one of those for your fishing because you’ll not be getting any tackle from me.’

Later that evening, as players and officials congregated outside that beautiful old bar they used to have at Worcester, I wandered over to offer him a drink. ‘Let me get you one in. What are you after, Both?’

‘I’ll have a bottle of pink champagne,’ he said. ‘They know what I have at the bar, just tell them it’s for me.’

‘A bottle of pink champagne?’

‘Wha’s up wi’ you, you tight git? I’ll get you one after.’

Now what would I want with a bottle of pink champagne? Heavens above.

Michael Atherton – Captain Shabby

I have worked with Athers for large parts of his professional life, so talking cricket with him comes pretty naturally. Our chats used to take place in the privacy of a dressing-room, or team meeting-room, but now we have them in other people’s living-rooms, and we are paid handsomely for the privilege. Knowing him as I have, it was no surprise to me whatsoever that he waltzed into the commentary box after retiring from the game and took up the microphone with such obvious ease. He is a bloke who does everything he sets out to accomplish with a minimum of fuss, whose professional standards are extremely high, and whose talents I believe will take him beyond commentating and cricket. He has strong opinions on the game and very good judgement, but also a capacity to expand his career into other areas. He is one of the cleverest blokes I have ever come across and is, as everyone would have to acknowledge, a brilliant writer, a factor which leads me to believe he will branch into other subjects, should he so wish, later in life.

Our working relationship goes back a long way and Athers was instrumental in my instalment as England coach, something which really did come out of the blue for me. In fact, it was not something that had seriously crossed my mind when on a January morning in 1996, as I picked him up from Manchester Airport following an underwhelming England tour of South Africa, he told me I had to get involved with the national senior side’s coaching set-up. At the time I was juggling my work as first-team coach at Lancashire with various other coaching posts across England’s age-group teams, occasional appearances on Test Match Special and a smattering of after-dinner speaking engagements. He was clearly batting for my promotion but, at the time, the job he was lining me up for did not even technically exist. In those days Raymond Illingworth acted as both chairman of selectors and England manager.

But Athers, much more progressive in his thinking as England captain than his public persona let on, was an advocate of modernisation. He no longer saw the benefit of that dual role and urged me to make myself available for a coaching position. Within a couple of months, following a disastrous World Cup, English cricket was the subject of an internal investigation. During the inquest into what exactly had been going wrong, Raymond relinquished the hands-on side of the job. The new position advertised by the Test and County Cricket Board, as it was then, was specifically on-field, bypassing the political side of things I did not care for, and therefore suited me down to the ground. In April that year I agreed to an initial six-month deal as England coach, forming an alliance with Atherton as England captain.

Professionally for three years we were as good for each other as we are now off-screen. I have developed a very good friendship with Athers, and – although he occasionally stops mid-sentence or mid-stride to wind me up by asking, ‘What on earth am I doing with you? You are just an old fella. A fella old enough to be me dad’ – we spend a lot of time in each other’s company. I have known him since he was a Manchester Grammar schoolboy, playing in the same Lancashire age-group team as my eldest lad Graham, so I guess he has got a point. During his junior days I would be there, chatting to his mum and dad as a fellow parent. I was there when he was developing as a cricketer at Lancashire during his Cambridge University days. I was as close to Athers as I was to any player during my time as a coach at both domestic and international level. He had just always been there. And that familiarity, and our understanding of each other, meant our captain–coach relationship functioned smoothly.

Above and beyond our friendship I have never swayed from my belief that Athers was a bloody good England captain. This is not a subjective assessment either, formed because of our geographical roots or friendship, it is just a solid observation from within the dressing-room. Unfortunately, partly as a result of being his own man, he never got the credit his efforts in the role deserved.

When we were in tandem neither of us came across as we would have wanted at times, but behind closed doors we complemented each other perfectly. He knew my personality and I his. He opted for a ‘give ’em nowt’ approach to the press, and I occasionally said too much. Our natural characters led us to be perceived in certain ways. My passion and enthusiasm occasionally spilt over, and I would argue black was white to protect the team, while Athers actively played up to his Captain Grumpy image to get his own back at the tabloid press. In turn his portrayal to the cricket-loving public was hardly flattering at times, which affected their perception of him. Like it or not, in the positions of power we were in, your image is determined by your professional utterances, and while Athers’s behavioural choice did not damage the side one iota, neither did it promote him as a warm, welcoming individual to the nation he led. Hopefully we both have the balance right in our current vocations.

Popular opinion would have been that he was surly and moody. Nothing could have been further from the truth when it came to his social interaction with his contemporaries. Nobody within the game had a bad word for him back then; and I believe that is still the case now, even though he has to be publicly critical of players on occasion both on air and in print. He had an exterior when he was England captain that could not have been further from the bloke trapped inside it. For a long time it was a case of what you saw was not what we got.

This split between his public and private images stemmed from the fact that he just couldn’t be doing with the press, which is ironic, I guess, given that his post-playing career took him straight into its bosom. In defence of how he dealt with things at that time, you also have to remember that he was drugged up to the eyeballs. His back condition meant he was habitually on Voltarol tablets. Oh, and in case you were wondering, those things are not to be swallowed. They are, excuse the expression, taken up the arse. Now, to my mind, shoving those things up your bum would be enough to make anyone a bit grumpy. And the journalists in question at the time of his captaincy would now agree that on less medication he is really good fun to be around.

As captain, he had a terrific talent for mucking in as one of the lads one minute, and then flicking the switch to become more aloof as the situation demanded. He fully understood the split role necessary for him in this position of authority. He would want his team to be as happy, as competitive and as professional as possible. He would let players know when they had messed up – almost always in private – and expect them to address his criticism positively. He wanted everyone within the collective to display total commitment. Athers was not looking for brownie points outside the team environment, and he needed to be firm: his team were not as successful as those led by Nasser Hussain and Michael Vaughan in later years. The comparison is harsh, however, because his team was a struggling one, whereas those that followed were built after England had hit rock bottom and under entirely different off-field circumstances. He never got enough credit for his tenure from the public, but I can say that during my time he carried out his role with a combination of good humour and good grace. Inside the environs of Team England (the next regime officially branded it just that) he had the respect and indeed admiration of those playing under him.

The same unflustered approach to life which has been a trademark since his emergence as a schoolboy talent at Old Trafford (someone once joked he could ‘block it for England’ as a 16-year-old, which was ironic given his great ten-hour effort against the South Africans to save a Test match in Johannesburg in the winter of 1995–6) remained in his general attitude to the captaincy. It was what allowed him to put the blinkers on when he batted and stop fretting about the rest of the team. Through all of the highs and lows of his international career, his personality remained unaffected. The personal traits which had marked him out since adolescence, notably his stubbornness and scruffiness, were incorporated into Atherton the Captain. Sky do well to hide the sartorial faux pas, but day to day he is no different now.

Among our set he would win the Captain Shabby award hands down. In the summer of 2007 we all sent him up on Sky over his dress sense. A nice lady called Edith Versace had emailed in, we announced on air, remarking on how smart we all looked that summer. In this fashionista’s opinion, we had all raised our game – even Atherton. She wondered: ‘Have you ever thought of becoming male models?’ Strange she should ask, came the reply, because we had dug up some old Lancashire club shop catalogues from the early 1990s – you know the type: county cricketers fancying themselves as Dolce & Gabbana catwalkers. Don’t know about D&G, Athers looked much more like Man at C&A to me. Not sure what was going on either with the bouffant hair, or the budgie-smuggler shorts. In summary, his look was best described as ‘doubtful’. But the expression on his face suggested he would be buying tickets on himself if it was a raffle.

Regardless of what he might think, he is beyond redemption when it comes to personal presentation. No matter what he wears. You can put him in the best Armani suit of all time: he will think he looks like the dog’s doo-dahs; truth is, he looks like a dog’s dinner. Nobody can pull off scruffy quite like him, and I guess that is quite an achievement in itself. He plays on that shabby theme all the time; I’ve lost count of the occasions he turns up with his shirt looking like a concertina, collar undone and hair wisping all over the place. When it comes to his attire, I am not sure he has recollected that he ever left Cambridge, because he could still pass for a student. Sometimes he will stand there and seem to be expecting reassurance. ‘I look good today, don’t I?’ he will fish. ‘No, you look like a bag of shit again, Athers.’

We have fallen out on numerous occasions over the years, but I don’t recall either of us ever holding a grudge against the other. With us two we have always said what we think, agreed to disagree, or even blazed at one another, before moving on to another subject with great haste. We are completely comfortable with each other, so it would take something of seismic proportions to knock us out of kilter.

When our beloved Bertie, our faithful fox terrier, died in early 2009 I happened to be in contact with a couple of journalists in the press box in St Kitts, via Skype. Suddenly, Atherton’s smiling mush appeared on my computer screen. ‘Eh up, Bumble, how’s things?’ he asked. ‘Not good,’ I replied. ‘Bertie’s passed away. Died a couple of days ago.’ Kidney disease, combined with other complications, were giving him no quality of life and it was heartbreaking to have to make that final decision. He was an absolute trooper, a great companion and well known to cricket followers around the country. It was a sad tale but – perhaps it was the tone of my voice, or the way I looked, which may have been in contrast to the solemn nature of the news I was relaying – something clearly tickled Athers, and once the giggling started he simply could not stop.

Poor old Bert had been taken from us at the age of 12, we had been down the vets for one final, suitable moment with him, and all that sod Atherton could do was laugh! Diana was so distraught, she had not gone to work for a couple of days, had failed to get out of her pyjamas and dressing gown even, and could not even spare a glance at Tags, our other dog, whose own sense of loss was evident as she traipsed around the house in a forlorn search for her pal. The entire household was absolutely mortified. We were all cut up about it, but Diana had undoubtedly taken it the worst. Yet throughout the relaying of all this information, the chuckling continued. He was pissing himself. I guess it highlighted the fact that really good pals, while caring deep down, often seem to revel in each other’s misfortune. I certainly thought no ill of him, and he felt no malice towards me. But as I sat morosely in chilly Cheshire, he cackled in the Caribbean. Good old Bert’s ashes now sit above the fireplace alongside my dad’s and those of Judy, another of my previous dogs.

Perhaps Atherton was having the last laugh on this occasion, having come out second best to Bertie in his pomp. Now I can’t actually remember him being done, but whenever Paul Allott used to pop round to our house, Bertie used to line him up for an assault, so it is eminently possible. The points of attack being either behind the ear or behind the ankle. Paul seemed to be the primary target, but a whole host of Lancashire players have been snapped at over the years. When we lived in our old house in Cheadle Hulme, Neil Fairbrother popped around for one reason or another, and as he approached I restrained little Bert by his collar, standing behind the garden gate. ‘Oh, bless him,’ said Neil, getting out of his car and offering a friendly, stroking arm as he wandered up. WHOOSH went Bertie’s jaws, straight into the fleshy part of the hand.

Tags is also an absolute beauty, having learnt everything she knows from the master. Anyone can come into our house, and she’s fine with it. She’s as pleasant as can be in greeting you – in fact she’ll make a right fuss. ‘You’re most welcome,’ her behaviour tells you as you enter through the front door. There is no territorial angst, anyone can come in and plonk themselves on the sofa. She’ll even come over and either sit on your knee or perch herself next to you, making a fuss of you, as though you’re her long-lost buddy. Oh no, getting in the house is a placid, welcoming experience with Tags. But you bloody well try and get out again!

She will not hear of it. Our house, to her, is a bit like a secret society: once you’re in, you’re in. Poor Diana goes to work in smart ladies’ suits and the majority of them have now got holes in the back, where Tags has had a go at her. Think about leaving and she’s after you. If we have builders round, it will be all sweetness and light as they come in to assess the job. ‘Isn’t she a lovely thing?’ would be a typical remark. But believe me, they’ve revised their opinion before they’ve got the tools out of the van. She’ll be nipping their arse and clawing their legs all the way.

In fact, whenever we have someone around, it’s a military operation to get them out the door unscathed; one that usually features a biscuit being strategically placed at the other end of the house, while the visitor escapes. She falls for it every time, bless her, but no sooner have I got the door shut behind us than the little rascal is launching herself through the air, chomping at the handle like Michael Jordan attempting a slam dunk. She learnt all she knows from Bertie, of course. To her this is perfectly normal behaviour. We used to have a plumber who came to the house looking like someone straight out of a Guns N’ Roses tribute band. Although plumbing was his trade, his personal trademark was the builder’s bum. Given a glimpse of a cheek or two, Bertie would be straight on board, indulging his taste for flesh.

Athers has always had a wicked side to his humour – and a tendency to chortle whenever others were in despair at their cricketing fortunes. Mark Butcher tells a good story of when, during the summer of 1999, in his only game as captain of the England Test team, he asked for the inclusion of all-rounder Craig White, to balance the XI. After the request was knocked back, he was forced to go in with two spinners against New Zealand at Old Trafford, and frustratingly lost the toss. Ill-equipped to dictate the pace of the game from that point onwards, and with nobody to provide new-ball penetration once the opening bowlers were blown, Butcher boiled over in the dressing-room. Athers sat alongside him and guffawed. Whenever certain colleagues blew a gasket, he would be off on a chortle. He would have some great jousts with Angus Fraser in the nets and enjoy witnessing the full teapot performance on the field. He has always appreciated dark humour. His laughter managed to get him through plenty of failure and frustration as England’s longest-serving captain, and that was to his immense credit. He got it just about right for me because he was so natural.

But he also had a totally undemonstrative manner and went about things quietly. I lost count of the times when, as England captain, he would shun the fun-loving group on a night out in order to knock on the door of a player who was down-hearted and in need of a gee-up over dinner. The team knew it but, because of his refusal to express himself in public as he did in private, few others did. Nobody embodied better than Atherton the team spirit I wanted to see running through the side, although I would have to say Fraser was his equal in this department, displaying all the qualities you need in a sporting environment. Neither was it lost on his contemporaries just how good an international batsman Atherton was during his pomp. I always wondered how much better he could have been without the constant discomfort he felt in his lower back. There is no doubt in my mind that this restricted his performances; at times he was getting through Test matches others would not have contemplated starting. His dedication to the England cause was unerring until it reached the point at which, no longer able to mask the effects of the injury, it was too bad for him to commit to participating. However, to his credit, he rarely missed a game, and but for his condition would have averaged considerably more than the 37.69 he finished up with in his Test career.

He also always put the needs of the team first. Twice during the summer of 1997 Athers tried to resign the England captaincy and was talked out of it, first by Ian MacLaurin and then by me – because I reasoned that the side would suffer for him quitting. He had first notified David Graveney as chairman of selectors of his decision to walk away immediately after the Ashes were lost that summer, only to be moved by the persuasive tones of MacLaurin to see out the international season. Even after that stirring win at The Oval, which left the series score at 3–2, however, he was ready to jump ship. This time, Grav advised him over a drink at the then Hilton Hotel, opposite Lord’s, that he should phone me before his decision was rubber-stamped.

Athers has always been his own man but, like me, has always taken fatherly advice. I have no doubt that what Alan Atherton told him privately was similar in tone to what he heard from me when he called. My passionate view was that the England team at that time was best served by continuity in the captaincy and not by making change for the sake of change. I got across the point that the man on the other end of the blower was our best man for the job. Some sections of the media called for his head – partly, I am certain, because a new captain would undoubtedly be more quotable than the dour one they knew.

His resignation at that time would have been a triumph for others, and Atherton is not the kind of man who should be remembered as one who quit. That was just not in his nature. We had also progressed the team, in my opinion, in the eighteen months we had worked together. We were heading for the Caribbean that winter with a genuinely good chance of a historic away Test series win over West Indies. Atherton deserved credit for that, if it came off. With all this put to him, he climbed down once more, but it was to be for the second and final time. After a 3–1 defeat which was the biggest disappointment of my time as coach, he stood aside.

He has always been among the elite in his field, and nothing has changed since he swapped willow for pen. His writing is excellent and the rest of us pull his leg all the time about being what I call journalist serious. He threw himself into the role of columnist with the Sunday Telegraph and coped just as comfortably when offered the position of cricket correspondent with The Times. And, of course, such prominent positions mean one should mix with the right company and, moreover, do so at the right establishments. In short, the most credible writers among the English press pack tend to head for the swankiest restaurants imaginable. You know you’ve made it when you are noshing with the Pompous Diners’ Club. The kind of chaps who are very serious about their food, wine and table conversation.

The Independent on Sunday’s Stephen Fay, aka Captain Claret (so monikered for his rubicund complexion), Telegraph men Derek Pringle and Scyld Berry, and Times duo Simon Barnes and Alan Lee are all fully-fledged members. So as Nasser and I head off for a curry, we rib Athers about his social and culinary aspirations. His defence is always something along the lines of: ‘I’m from Newton Heath. I’m just a bloke from Newton Heath.’ However, while I am tearing into a naan bread and lamb rogan josh, he will be contemplating lamb shoulder, accompanied by turmeric potato, tomato confit, pineapple-coconut salsa with a rapidly reducing jus. The latter being the kind of thing Willy Wonka might have concocted to go alongside his everlasting gobstoppers.

A typical Atherton menu:

Starters

Pig’s trotter, sweetbread and apricot salad

Beetroot and liquorice terrine, apple purée, pickled walnut

Chilli salt squid with nuac chum, lime, mint and coriander

Warm asparagus, goat’s cheese crème, toasted hazelnut, brown butter vinaigrette

Mains

Slow-roasted antelope loin, aubergine soufflé, butternut and tomato

Magret duck breast, confit leg tortellini, pea parfait, nectarine and juniper

Seared beef fillet, soy braised mushrooms, pomme cigar, carrot-honey purée, bordelaise syrup

Pancetta-wrapped monkfish, pommes fondant, roasted pear, braised apple and red cabbage

Desserts

Whipped gorgonzola, mustard pear, pistachio sable

Boysenberries, bitter chocolate ganache, lemon thyme and buffalo yoghurt sherbet

Amarula panna cotta, smoked fudge foam, espresso ice cream.

Nasser Hussain – aka Unlucky Alf

Nasser and I have become very close friends since his retirement, not that our relationship has ever been anything other than very cordial in the past. In fact, during our England days, I had pushed for his inclusion in the Test team when I was coach – and was rewarded when he scored a double hundred in the Ashes victory at Edgbaston in 1997 – and also lobbied for him as an opener in the 1999 World Cup. I was as happy as anyone with the success he made of the England captaincy – and he did it his own way. When he eventually got the job it was at just the right time. For many different reasons, circumstances were on his side. Whereas previously the England team used to turn up on a Tuesday, hours after their last county appearance, now they were on the verge of central contracts and a greater level of professionalism. The job had moved on massively in two years, and Nasser used that to his advantage brilliantly and was very creative as a captain.

He can be really good fun now, but he was nothing like that as a player. The Nasser Hussain I knew built himself up through such a crescendo of concentration before each match, bubbling away for hours before reaching boiling point at the toss, that you were better off not talking to him. It was his way of preparing for the contest ahead: as an emerging player he always wanted to be on his own, and would immerse himself in the detail of getting his own game right. He wanted to prepare privately, which meant intense net sessions and extra throw-downs to fine-tune his batting. Everything was about his individual game during the period in which he was establishing himself as an international-class batsman, and the team ethic only came as he matured. For the first half of his England career he would be very snappy in preparation, and it was not until a match got under way that he calmed down. We are all different, and he was one of those players who wanted a lot of time to prepare for Test matches.

Captaincy undoubtedly increased his awareness of others, and others’ respect for him. There were already significant signs of this development in his character, in fact, when his name was first bandied around for the national captaincy. Nasser had fronted the England A tour to Pakistan during the winter of 1995–6, and the reports that came back from John Emburey and Phil Neale, who were in charge of that trip, spoke glowingly of his approach to the job and his ability as an on-field leader. In summary, they believed him to be a very good captaincy candidate for the future. However, his volatility and perceived self-centredness were to count against him after Athers stepped down as England captain in the spring of 1998.

Because of the glowing report from the A tour, there was some support for the Essex man. Unfortunately, it was not coming from the Essex corner. Sitting on the England Management Advisory Committee were two fellows from Chelmsford, Doug Insole and David Acfield and when the time came to discuss the subject of Atherton’s successor at a specially convened meeting chaired by Bob Bennett, they were unequivocal in their conclusion. ‘Under no circumstances should you consider our chap as captain of England,’ they insisted. ‘He would be absolutely awful. He is far too volatile a character.’

However, Nasser was showing distinct signs of maturing at that time, and those lingering doubts about his temperament did not prevent his elevation a little over twelve months later, following Ashes defeat and an early exit from the World Cup, which coincided with my resignation as England coach. What I would say is that it was on the 1998–9 Ashes tour that Nasser really came of age both as a Test match batsman and as an individual. It was there that you began to appreciate his awareness of the team ethos – to the extent that there was no longer any reason to doubt his captaincy credentials. Yet, even upon his appointment, I am not sure Duncan Fletcher wanted him as his leader. But whatever his initial thoughts, no one can argue about how good a partnership they made. Arguably, people soon began to appreciate that behaviour which may on the one hand be seen as insular or selfish can equally be viewed as a sign of determination and ambition.

Thankfully, for the purposes of this chapter, the position of responsibility did not completely rid him of the petulance and fiery temper for which he was renowned in his youth. As strops go, Nasser’s were of a seriously high standard. We can all think back to our junior and club days and recall some great dressing-room ranters, I am sure, but this guy was an Olympic qualifier. And his best-ever barney is still available to the rest of us in the Sky Sports commentary box now. It came during the opening Ashes Test in Brisbane in 2002–3. Naturally, the first match in any series against Australia is always going to be a humdinger – you throw everything at them and they return it with interest – so Nasser was probably regretting asking the Aussies to bat first, particularly after Simon Jones’s horrific injury in the field left him a bowler light.

In fact, it was Jones’s knee damage that accounted for the presence of two crutches in the England dressing-room. They came into view as a cameraman panned around the Gabba’s stands following Nasser’s dismissal. His camera then fixed on the balcony of the dressing-room, a place of relative serenity, it appeared, with coach Duncan Fletcher gazing up at the television screen, presumably awaiting the replay of the dismissal. Duncan did not move a muscle as Nasser walked in and therefore appeared on screen, directly behind him – there was no ‘Unlucky’ or ‘What’s happened there, then?’ Nothing. He just kept his eyes fixed on the monitor overhead.

Neither was Fletch moved as this bat flew across the room; he just kept staring up at that telly. Never once did he look at his captain. Nasser was remonstrating, arms akimbo, to his team-mates, pointing at the replays. Fletch did not flinch. He probably anticipated what was coming. Unfortunately, poor Simon Jones clearly didn’t, and was not in a position to do anything about it anyway. To release his frustration, Nasser made a grab for the crutches and attacked them with gusto – standing on them, bending them, kicking them. Poor old Simon was just sitting with his leg up, helpless. Goodness knows what he must have thought as he contemplated a serious setback to his international career. We play that episode to Nasser every now and again to cheer him up. It is absolutely priceless television.

Nowadays he takes the rise out of everybody and has a real cutting sense of humour. He is the kind of guy you need to know in order to understand what is going on inside his head sometimes. He loves a piss-take, with a bit of niggle for good measure, and enjoys getting some stick too. But I am not sure how flattering he found physical comparisons to a certain famous Russian when the alert Jonathan Agnew spotted the likeness. Aggers’s photo of Nasser interviewing Graham Onions, with the caption ‘Vladimir Putin talks to President Ahmadinejad’, is the funniest thing I have ever seen posted on Twitter. A cracking lookalike double.

Nasser didn’t often see the funny side of things when he was playing the game, probably because he was so unfortunate when he batted. As a cricketer, he was just Unlucky Alf, so often the recipient of deliveries that nobody else got and nobody on the planet would have played. Miracle delivery, grubber, snorter – Nasser attracted them. Add to that the fact that he was never out – it was either that the pitch was wrong, it was a shit decision or the wind was blowing the wrong way – and you get the full picture. He was just ‘one of them’.

His most unfortunate dismissal came in Trinidad during the 1998–9 tour of the Caribbean, when a delivery from Carl Hooper did for him good and proper. The ball literally rolled along the floor after pitching and hit him on the shoe plumb in front of off-stump. It was a stonewall lbw decision and made him look a bit of a twit. But how on earth are you meant to play a ball like that? I am sure that is what was going through his mind as he trudged off muttering, kicking at everything in his path, his bat bouncing off the floor. When he got to the dressing-room, he found Atherton, his sympathetic captain, killing himself with laughter. What else can you do when a team-mate gets one of the unplayables? We sometimes run the footage back now, during rain delays, if our discussions have taken in batting on tricky pitches, and someone will inevitably ask Nasser: ‘How do you play that? What would you recommend? Commentators have always said you’ve got to get forward. You don’t appear to have …’

‘Forward? Forward? How do you get forward when it’s rolled along the floor like a marble?’ he flames. On some matters time has not been a great healer with Nasser.

Generally he has mellowed with age. At the time of that match at Port-of-Spain, however, his tendency to ire was at its career height, and with that in mind, his team-mates would prepare and protect themselves against the Mount Vesuvius moment. My youngest lad Ben was with us on that tour and was employed as a look-out by big Angus Fraser, who fancied a kip in the dressing-room but was only too aware of Nasser’s appetite for destruction when dismissed.

‘Listen, if that Hussain bloke gets out, you come and wake me up straight away. No messing,’ Gus warned our lad. Now to this day I am not sure whether it was the comic nature of the demise that threw him off guard, a sense of adventure or genuine absent-mindedness, but Ben failed to carry out his task. Poor old Gus was fast asleep as the cricket equipment in Hussain’s path was redistributed around the place. He awoke with a judder, an action which only served to increase the velocity of the rant. ‘So, you don’t want to watch me bat, huh?’ Nasser raged. ‘You would rather go to sleep when I’m batting. Not worth watching, aren’t I?’

So, with one of his mates beside himself with laughter and another snoring as he entered the room, Nasser completely lost his cool and thrust his fist through the front of a wooden locker, an action which brought a premature close to his strop, as he could not pull his hand back out without incurring some serious damage. With splintered pieces pointing this way and that, doing so could have severed his hand, so here he was, his fury not sated but forced to contemplate one of international cricket’s great injustices from a stationary position. Fraser was anything but stationary, as he hot-footed after Lloyd junior, whose ability as a nightwatchman was in keeping with others’ efforts on the tour. ‘Why didn’t you come and wake me up, you little swine?’ Gus bellowed, as he chased our Ben round the back of the stand.

I am not sure Nasser wanted to dwell on his dismissal after freeing his mitt from the hurt locker, or whether there was much mileage in doing so. Had he wanted to analyse the freakery of his downfall, it would have involved a process which seems incredibly antiquated now. Those were the days when cricket was in its initial stage of embracing technology, and players could watch themselves back on video – but this meant that we, as a touring party, were forced to lug around huge cases of VHS cassettes and three enormous television monitors. We would have tapes upon tapes of Brian Lara, Steve Waugh and Waqar Younis in action, a library of footage designed to help us assess their strengths and weaknesses, in addition to hours of footage of our own players both from net sessions and in match scenarios. Trailing this archive material around, however, was seriously hard work. Just consider the fact that with no flat TV screens this meant huge tubes and boxes. We had three steel box containers to transport around, and even then because of the limit on screens it meant players had to share. If Alec Stewart was watching his front-foot driving, he might be given the hurry-up because Jack Russell wanted to have a gander at someone’s bowling, or how he kept to Phil Tufnell in the last Test. It seems unfathomable that technology has moved on so much that a decade later, if you want to prepare yourself for the pace of South Africa’s Dale Steyn, you could be watching the last six deliveries he bowled in international cricket within seconds of the thought popping into your head. Press half-a-dozen buttons and you can be privately studying his last few wickets on your mobile phone.

Most of Nasser’s preparations these days are to do with going somewhere for free, or at an hour which will allow him to be in bed before dark. He might have earned a reputation as a rabble-rouser as a cricketer, but he is fairly chilled in his everyday life. We wind him up something rotten about being tight, and he lives up to the reputation, but I hate to admit he can be quite generous at times. That’s not to say that if he sees something for nothing, the eyes do not light up. He always enjoys things more when he’s on the cadge. One of the first questions he asks when we get up to anything on days off is ‘How much will it cost?’ And it never ceases to amaze me how the best golf courses Nasser has ever played always seem to be the ones that offered a complimentary round or were paid for by the sponsors or hosts. If you are out for dinner with him, he will often disappear as soon as the main course is done, which means he lopes off without paying. It makes it look as if he’s a blagger but, in the interests of truth and to collapse a myth, I can confirm that the settling up is done the next day. It is not the fight with the moths he is concerned about in opening his wallet at the table, he just has a habit of hitting the hay by nine o’clock.

There are rumours that he sleeps in his cap, because off screen you rarely see him without it. Indoors or out, he perpetually has that sports casual thing going on. He was wearing it one day as we drove on the freeway in South Africa, on the way back from a round of golf, when we got pulled over at a compulsory road block. Men who wear caps for the hell of it always arouse suspicion, and so when he produced his driving documents in the Afrikaaner heartland, I warned him: ‘I think we’re going to be here for some f—–ing time, what with your name an’ all.’ Neither of us was quite sure what was going on, but this burly policewoman was chuntering away completely in Afrikaans. She was not in the upper percentiles of the country’s intelligentsia, shall we say, and with communication at breakdown, and the process seemingly interminable, I started ordering my breakfast. ‘I’ll have double egg, bacon, sausage and tomato,’ I began. She had waved us on before mention of the fried bread, so the distraction tactics clearly worked.

We didn’t want her sifting through her records for too long, because Nasser could easily have been a feature on there. He had already crashed two vehicles on the trip – those Hertz hire jobbies which are the size of a mobile home – to earn the tour nickname Mr Magoo. One day, in Port Elizabeth, we set off from the hotel, with a little lad running alongside us, dodging through the traffic. Nothing too unusual in that: you often get cricket-mad lads who will do anything in their desperation for the signature of a former England captain. But it was not a pen he was holding up, it was part of our charabanc that had fallen off. Nasser had scraped the side of the car, and this lad was saying, ‘Your trim, sir.’

As it happened, his signature was not required at the time, adding insult to injury, but it was needed later in the piece as he had to fill in a form for the car hire company to register what had happened. So imagine his surprise when we got to Durban and he discovered an even bigger motor to handle. Unperturbed by the challenge, Nasser was intent on taming the beast, only to run it straight into the garage wall of the hotel.

There are some lovely drives on a tour of South Africa, and Nasser, bless him, had volunteered to be chauffeur. It was a call of duty, in fact, that led him to turn down the privilege of playing golf at the picturesque Fancourt, a course on the Garden Route, designed by Gary Player. He took a call from Paul Collingwood, inquiring whether he would like to make up an eight, as they were one short, but to his eternal credit he did the decent thing and turned them down. That was touching, as before the £300 fee for the privilege of a private flight and eighteen holes was mentioned, he had seemed keen. ‘I’m sorry, I really can’t let my mates down. I’m needed to ferry them around as designated driver.’ Once a team man, always a team man, I guess.

David Gower – the Lord of Cool?

Nasser has always had a reputation for having a feisty side, but it may come as a surprise to some that Lord Gower also has something of a volatile temper. He is an extremely good presenter, a very clever bloke who does everything in a typically laconic manner, and never appears to be flustered. Truth is, he never is when it comes to being on air, but off screen, boy can he blow a fuse. Beneath that chilled exterior – his style as a presenter is so reminiscent of the way he batted – there is some fire. From nothing he will erupt, then as quick as a flash the lava is cooling, and he has calmed back down again.

He has always been that way, but you remember him as a player for being a wonderfully relaxed batsman. I played against him a fair bit, and cricket for him was all about having fun. He played for sheer enjoyment, and if anything went wrong he would simply say ‘sorry’. He would not be bothered, there would be an apology by way of recognition if he nicked off in a pressure situation, but he would not be overly concerned. Within seconds he would be more interested in the whereabouts of the book he’d been reading before he went out into the middle.

I recall one County Championship match in which I was officiating at Grace Road when he played absolutely magnificently, as only he could. It was a pleasure to stand and watch as he caressed, eased and touched the ball here, there and everywhere. Overnight he was 70-odd not out, and his innings was the kind that made you look forward to play resuming. Next morning, in the very first over, he had an unbelievable hack at this nondescript delivery, the ball went straight up in the air and, as he trudged off from whence he came moments earlier, all he could say was: ‘Oh dear, the lights seem to have gone out.’

Things naturally came very easily to him, he was a touch player and has always been good at whatever he has put his mind to. Holding things together in that presenting role is a real knack and not something I could ever do. Some can, some can’t, and I am in the latter category. What David has got – and Ian Ward also has this, by the way – is an ability to flit from being instructed to instructing with natural ease. When you sit watching them on screen, you may not realise that while they are talking, bringing people like myself into a wider debate with their questions, they also have directors and producers rabbiting in their ears.

The biggest compliment I can pay him is that he always makes me feel calm, and that is exactly what you want in my position. With him I always know where I’m going, what he wants us to talk about, why he wants to talk about it and that we will get there in a smooth ride. With the way international cricket is screened around the globe these days, you can often be working for other networks or sharing resources, and my experience of other presenters can be quite the opposite. At times you are sitting in a studio thinking, ‘Crikey, where are we going now?’ But Lord Gower makes me feel at ease, which is an essential part of his job.

He has made that presenting role his niche, so I don’t have much interaction with him in the commentary box. Neither do I see a great deal of him outside work. While I play golf, he could think of nothing more boring. He is much more likely to set off for historical sites such as battlefields, no doubt in search of his ancestors, rather than do something as mundane as hit a golf ball around for four and a half hours. He would class that as absolute purgatory. And just as he would not engage me in conversation about a 1996 Château Margaux, I wouldn’t try to persuade him to join me for a pint of Chiswick in the Lord’s Tavern, among the Barmy Army. That’s just not him.

Shane Warne – Entertaining in the Extreme

There are two things that connect me and the great Shane Warne: Accrington Cricket Club and Sky Sports. Few people will know that Warne played as a professional at my club during the 1990s, shortly before he made his international début for Australia. Our paths did not cross back then, as I had packed up playing at the weekend and was progressing my coaching career. But all the reports I heard around the town were that Warne was the life and soul of every party going. He used to fall off his stool at the end of a night. It was the sign that everyone had had a good one. If he didn’t, people would worry something was up. He has always been Jack the lad, of course, and part of his vast appeal is that he is a guy who knows how to have fun. If there isn’t any around, he goes elsewhere to find it.

There are simply not enough hours in the day for Warney; he is a real larger-than-life character. In one respect he is very similar to Beefy, always planning what he wants to do next. ‘What we doing tonight? Tomorrow? Next week?’ He has a busy social diary all right, but whereas others are connoisseurs of wine or beer, he is an aficionado of fast food. Yep, one in a million is Warne when it comes to this. Everything has to be just so: chips not only have to be hot but served at exactly the right temperature. He looks at chips as others would look at a glass of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon after swilling it around their palate. With pizza, he is looking for a specific consistency and depth of base. He looks at it with an expert eye and talks you through its success or failure. Oh, and he doesn’t eat anything other than chips and pizza, as far as I can tell. He also smokes fags like world supplies of tobacco are about to run out, and as we usually operate at strictly non-smoking media centres these days, he will forever be dropping notes into security guards’ top pockets, so he can go and have a puff out the back.

Shane is a real character and slipped seamlessly into our commentary team during the 2009 Ashes, just as I knew he would. He made a great start to his broadcasting career with Sky – he just looks the part for a start. As he ought to, given the outrageous amount of work he has had done. He’s got new teeth, new hair, and goodness knows what else. With all the showbiz glamour of a man nicknamed Hollywood, however, come impeccable manners and a fantastic attitude towards the sport.

Australia will always be up there, they will always be competitive, but you just don’t replace Warne, and my favourite moment of the Noughties was when he left the field at the SCG, the scene of his international début, for the final time. I sneaked out on to the field, camera in hand, and got a wonderful picture of Warne and Glenn McGrath walking off. He was just holding the ball to the adoring crowd. It is a picture I treasure and one I keep on my computer.

That picture to me symbolises what a profound effect he had on the game. You will never see the like of him again in terms of his character and ability. He was a complete and utter one-off. It is hard to pinpoint exactly what made him so good. People might say it came so easily that he did not understand, or appreciate, what he had got. But I think he did. He was such a confident lad. The only thing which suggests he ever worried – and it’s so well documented that I am definitely not telling tales out of school – was the fact that he was such a chain-smoker. Yet, if he ever lived on his nerves, there was no sense of it in his career performances.

To him the art of leg-spin came so ridiculously naturally that he makes a mockery of his competition. When, during his initial summer with Sky in 2009, he did a spin-bowling demonstration at a break in the Oval Test, he did so after borrowing a pair of shorts and shoes off Michael Clarke. He must have had five fags before he went out into the middle, chain-smoking one after another. ‘I ’ope it goes OK. I don’t want to mess up,’ he said. He hadn’t bowled anywhere since last Pancake Tuesday at the IPL, and he was accompanied for the feature by two of our young English leg-spinners, Will Beer, of Sussex, and Somerset’s Max Waller, their limbs loose towards the end of their seasons.

When Warne chats away as he does, the camera is his own; he has as much presence as a commentator as he did as an international performer. He knows when to look and when to look away, when to make his point and when to keep quiet. And just as in the middle, he knows how to milk the big moments, with that inherent sense of timing. This particular afternoon Nasser, who was hosting the live feature, threw him the ball in real Nasser style, as if throwing down the gauntlet to an old nemesis for the final time. ‘C’mon then, show us one,’ he said, abruptly, not long after he had warned the TV audience that this Aussie, fast approaching 40, had not bowled for months on end.

Well, blow me if Warne didn’t rip this flippin’ leg-spinner three foot. With no warm-up, no practice deliveries, his very first ball produced that trademark fizzing sound through the air.

‘Ah, pretty good that,’ Warne said. ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with another.’

The jaws on these two young kids just dropped. They are two nice young leg-spinners, who can both give the ball a pleasant little spin, but Warney absolutely tore his one ball. That was enough to confirm to anyone what we already knew – he’s a flaming genius.

His presence is enough to inspire a team, and I remember the way Australia reacted to his return in the 1998–9 Ashes. We had just won at Melbourne, bowling the Aussies out in what you might call English conditions, to reduce the score to 2–1, with one Test to play. But who was back for that final Test in Sydney? And they made damned sure there would be nothing in the pitch for the seamers, as they prepared what could best be described as a dustbowl for Warne, Stuart MacGill and Colin Miller, who opened the bowling with off-cutters and then switched to spin later in the innings, to operate on. In those conditions the returning superstar might have run amok, but his presence only served to inspire MacGill, who had been phenomenal in that series, even further. He took a dozen wickets to Warne’s two as we lost by 98 runs. Imagine how good a career MacGill would have had without the greatest-ever exponent of the art of leg-spin pissing on his chips.

As a character, as a mate and as a performer, Warne is absolutely top of the tree. When he waltzed into our box at Sky for the second Ashes Test of 2009 it was obvious that he had done things in television before. And it also helped that he is a complete natural. Regularly people will ask me, ‘What’s the best advice you’ve ever had?’ They are normally talking about cricket and are expecting a reply like ‘Keep your elbow high and play with the full face.’ But I sidestep the technical stuff and tell them that the best thing to do is what comes naturally. To me, that is what Warne does. He is just so comfortable on screen, and what you see is what you get.

Certainly, Warney being himself helped me click with him on air, and it wasn’t long before I got him going. We were chatting away about what we had been up to between Test matches, and Shane was recalling a memorable few days up at Archerfield in Scotland, playing golf with Beefy. ‘Oh mate,’ he said, and proceeded to ramble about doing this, doing that, having clearly had a spanking good time. Knowing he was a lad of great manners, however, I just knew he would come back with ‘What you been up to?’ Right on cue, he did so.

‘Actually, I’ve been to LA,’ I replied.

‘Oh, that’s great, mate, yeah, I like LA. Love it, in fact.’

‘Do you? Have you been to Lower Accrington? Oh, of course you have.’

‘Pardon?’

The following week, I told him, attempting to put a serious spin on things, that I was off to the USA. ‘Whereabouts?’ he asked.

‘The Uther Side of Accrington.’

We were having a ball, bouncing off each other, and getting paid for it. But he was certainly becoming wary of my humour, so I waited for the next Test match before I snared him again.

‘Been anywhere nice, Shane?’ I said.

‘You’re not getting me with that one again, Bumble,’ came back the reply.

‘C’mon, where’ve you been?’

He relented and started telling me how he’d done this and done that.

‘Great,’ I said, adding a hurried, muffled ‘Well I’ve been to T-o-u-r-k-e-e.’

‘What?’ he said, giving a quick glance at my lack of tan. ‘You’ve been to Turkey?’

‘No. Torquay,’ I replied. ‘You’re not listening. And I also had a couple of days in Sw-dn.’

‘Wha’d ya say? Sweden?’

‘No, Swindon.’

He just put his microphone down and said: ‘Get me a pint of what he’s had.’ During our stints we got on like a house on fire, and I was in stitches with his suggestion that we could take cricket to a new level with what one might call after-the-watershed highlights.

‘I’ve got this management company back in Australia,’ he explained. ‘And I’ve put it to them that we could begin specialising in extreme commentary.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it would be great,’ he said. ‘Just for the Internet, you could tell it exactly how it is, rather than have to toe the party line, like you do on TV. When the ball raps the batsman on the pad, for example, and the fielding side all go up for lbw, and the umpire gives him out, when he’s clearly nicked it, you have just got to come straight to the point and say exactly what you think: “You blind c—–, he’s f—–ing hit that!” Or, if there’s a massive waft outside the off stump, a big deviation, the ball changes course and there’s a huge appeal – HOWIZZEE! – when the call is answered in the negative, you could wade in with: “You’re f—–ing kidding, aren’t you, mate? He’s knocked the f—–in’ cover off it.”’ Great idea, I told him, just not sure we could do it. I have heard a few people have access to this Internet thingy these days.

Warney is just your typical Aussie bloke, no airs and graces, or side to him, just willing to call it as he sees it. Pure, unadulterated fun. We did get a taster of what he was getting at within our own family-friendly guidelines. We had only been sitting down for a couple of overs at Edgbaston when the ball was whacked through the covers for four.

‘Terrific shot,’ I said.

‘Oh, he’s twatted that,’ Shane joined in.

Everything went totally quiet in the commentary box. Our producer Paul King took the opportunity to have a quiet word. ‘Look, Warney,’ he began, and explained the problem. ‘No, we can’t have that. It is not a word we can use on air.’ Shane was typically apologetic. Putting his mic down, he said: ‘Sorry, mate. In Australia that just means he has hit it hard.’

We made him aware of the different connotations over here, and he was kept abreast of what can and can’t be said. ‘Do you want me to put it right with the viewer?’ he asked, full of innocent enthusiasm. ‘Tell ’em what it really is? I didn’t know it meant the c—–.’

‘No, just let it go, Shane,’ came back the collective response. He is just Mr Bloke and his enthusiasm got the better of him. You can’t speak highly enough of him. He is a very affectionate chap, a very infectious character. Yes, he has had off-field issues, but there is no edge to him at all. He just enjoys life to the max. He understands he has cocked up a few times, the way everybody does, but you can’t speak too highly of him. As a cricketer he had few peers in history, and his treatment by the crowds around the country in the 2005 Ashes showed how he was revered. Only the very best receive such levels of abuse, and the standing ovation he received at the end of the series, and the chants of ‘We wish you were English’, said it all. Everyone loves a fallible hero.

The Others

Rather like a cricket team, our group features many different qualities, skills and interests but we all combine well as a unit. Charles Colvile brings us something totally different as a presenter because as a trained journalist he has that instinct for a story. When Charlie sniffs something he gets straight into it, and I think that is a terrific quality. We are all well connected, given our backgrounds in the sport, but Charlie is someone I respect greatly because of his news sense. I enjoy being around journalists – whenever I get a break during the day’s play I will pop into the press box for half an hour to have a chinwag – and there are some brilliant ones in our sport.

Paul Allott, aka Walt, is our all-rounder, our utility player, because he can slip seamlessly into any of the given roles. He is equally at home as a presenter, reporting at the toss, commentating, and hosting the after-match presentation – whatever he turns his hand to he does with assurance. He is also a tremendous eater, not quite in the Jack Simmons category, but when hungry, boy, can he put away some grub. Walt is a big unit, which means he can hack it in Botham’s company without spending the rest of the night in casualty, and a talented sportsman. Undoubtedly he is the best golfer among us – has been playing off very low single figures for years – and dedicates himself to fitness sprees throughout the year. In one stretch he sank four rowing machines.

Michael Holding is the nicest guy you could ever wish to meet; such a polite and gentle man. As a broadcaster he has a wonderful voice, and as a bloke I am not sure he has an enemy in the world. So it’s hard to believe what a nasty bugger he could be with a cricket ball in his hand. He used to run in all day, and send it down in excess of 90 miles an hour. But his big passion is for horse racing, as long as there are no jumps involved. A flat fanatic is Mikey. He is also possibly Jamaica’s greatest debater. Once he gets going off air, at the back of the commentary box, he will not let go. He reminds me so much of the Felix Dexter character in Bellamy’s People. His capacity for debate is unbelievable, and once he is on one he does not budge from his stance. He is very trenchant in his views.

Going back to his playing days, you didn’t need to tell anyone how fast he was because his reputation went before him. Everyone who faced him verified that he was like lightning, and he caused his own team-mates some problems when he played with us for seven matches at Lancashire. He took 40-odd wickets but could comfortably have had more. We had two good slip catchers in Andrew Kennedy and Jack Simmons. Well, they were good slip catchers until Michael’s arrival, at least. Everything kept hitting them in the chest! At one stage Simmo sent for the 12th man, John Abrahams, moments after shelling one. Mikey was not flustered, because he knew the ball was going like an express train. But Jack, in his high-pitched Great Harwood voice, implored John: ‘Fetch me my reading glasses.’ He then stood there with them balancing on his hooter in a bid to clock this thing flying off the edge at great speeds.

During my umpiring days, Mikey was playing in a match for Derbyshire against Northamptonshire at Derby. Robin Boyd-Moss was batting against the new ball and got himself into a royal tangle against a throat ball on a quickish pitch. He got his hands up to defend himself and the ball struck his glove with such velocity that his thumb surround was knocked clean off and flew towards the slip cordon; Boyd-Moss’s thumb, meanwhile, had gone in about five different directions. That tells you how ferociously quick he was.

Bob Willis has had his detractors but he is passionate about the game, and about English cricket, and is someone who doesn’t go round the houses to get to the town. I must admit I’ve missed Bob since he slipped off the regular international commentary team, because he has good, strong opinions and is magnificent to work alongside. He is very intelligent and reads the game so well, you can bounce your ideas off him. Not that you can often beat him to the punch, because he calls it exactly as he sees it. To me there is nowt whatsoever wrong with that style. His following as a studio pundit for exactly that reason is phenomenal. Emails and texts are pinging around Sky’s inboxes to a chorus of ‘Go on Bob, get stuck into them.’ The public like to see people display their passion, and he is not shy on that front. All the lads who are playing for England now make a habit of saying ‘that bloody Willis’, but what I would say to them is they’ve got to meet him, go and have a beer with him and chat. Because you can’t fail to like Bob Willis – he’s a great bloke, who is just doing his job.

His image may not suggest it, but he is a gentle, unassuming chap off air. He can be the happiest soul going but, whatever you do, do not get him singing. Because once he starts, you cannot shut him up. He does a very passable Bob Dylan impersonation and can trawl through his entire back catalogue, word perfect. Our Bob is a great humorist, a great wit and great fun. Whenever we have a day off, he will saunter up and ask: ‘Right, what we doing then? Shall we go off for a spot of lunch? Yes, let’s have a spot of lunch.’ Invariably that means lunch, dinner and supper merging into one without you noticing. He can be great company.

Another bloke who always fancied himself as a bit of a pop performer, Mark Butcher, has shown himself to be very proficient with a microphone since retiring from the game. He stepped in for me when I was struck down by dengue fever on the first day of the Test series in Bangladesh. Butch was out working for BBC radio but, as a Sky regular back home, showed himself to be a great team man by stepping in when the need arose. Popular opinion was that he did a terrific job, but Nimbus clearly weren’t impressed as they refused to pay him. He only discovered they were not shelling out after England’s win in Chittagong had been completed. Athers texted me to suggest I should give him a ‘little consideration’ for standing in. Naturally, I agreed but thought that a heart-felt round of applause should suffice as my illness would have provided him with a priceless experience. You can’t put a figure on that.

Geoffrey Boycott – Him from the Other Side

Contrary to popular belief, me and Geoffrey get along together OK. Yes, we have had some run-ins over the years, but we get on just fine. You don’t spend decades in the game without having some seriously heated differences, stand-up rows, call ’em what you want. We have had many a spat – being two of a kind, I guess – then shaken hands and agreed to let it pass. He is, and always has been, a forthright so-and-so, and that is why he polarises opinion. People either love him or hate him: there is no middle ground. He is his own man, as everyone can tell, and quite individual in what he does, stirring up debate and clinging to one or two hobbyhorses. One thing that I have never told him is that my missus, who is cricket daft, is one of those on the love side. She thinks he is absolutely brilliant on radio, listens avidly when he is on air, and I’ve lost count of the number of times when she has recounted a period of commentary when he is ‘on one’ alongside Aggers. I haven’t plucked up the courage to ask: ‘Do you think he’s better than me?’ I don’t think I could bear the answer. He’s told me enough times himself over the years.

Diana’s fondness for Boycs is not the first affection she has felt for an England opener, of course. Discounting my own international career, my wife also recently revealed an unrequited romantic involvement with another of our surname more than thirty years earlier. To my astonishment, nay amusement, it was Andy Lloyd, known affectionately to me and many others around the English cricket circuit as Towser. Now Towser, it transpires, penned sonnets during the late 1970s expressing his affection for my good lady. However, despite them being retained as evidence by the said Mrs Lloyd, Towser denied being their composer when I quizzed him thoroughly on the subject, but freely admitted to calling her with advice to back Sea Pigeon in the 1979 Ebor.

Geoffrey and I don’t spend a great deal of time together, because he is usually on air when I am, but I have often been on the wrong side of his tongue. Now Fiery has always enjoyed a gag at others’ expense, and to his credit he is good at coming up with a punchline to emphasise his magnificence in comparison to your own measly existence. During our playing days, I remember chatting to him at the end of a game and asking whether he had been getting any runs. It was a question that got the customary raised eyebrow and curl of the lip. ‘I always score runs,’ he rapped. ‘But I did have a bit of a rough time down at The Oval last week. That Geoff Arnold, with his fast-medium outswingers, bowls off stump, gets you playing at things you shouldn’t be playing at. I thought I had it all worked out – played it when I should play it, left it when it was right to leave – when he produced a jaffa. He went wider on the crease, angled the ball into me, it pitched on off stump and straightened, squared me up a bit and just as I went to leave it I got a thin edge and was caught behind.’ There was a pregnant pause, and then it came. ‘Of course, an ordinary player like you wouldn’t have touched it.’

Another time, I got a phone call out of the blue from him. ‘I’ve booked you and me to play in a pair at a golf day in Blackpool,’ he began, barely pausing to introduce himself. ‘We’ll do well, I know it, but make sure you get some practice in first, I don’t want you turning up cold.’ He might have hung up had I not interjected: ‘When is it?’ As it happened, I was not available on the date in question. ‘I can’t do that, Boycs, I am going fishing that week,’ I told him, after checking my diary. ‘What do you mean, going fishing?’ he asked. ‘Well, I’m booked to go away on a fishing trip,’ I explained. Very abruptly he finished the conversation. ‘That were always your problem – fishing outside the off stump. That’s why you never got any.’ With that he put the phone down.

You could quite easily get a call from Geoffrey having not spoken to him for twelve months, so there was nothing much unusual in that. There was never any ‘How are you? How’s the wife? How are the kids? Have you been on holiday?’ You just got your orders, straight to the point. ‘Y’ know who this is, and y’ll be speakin’ at ma benefit dinner in Crewe,’ Geoffrey instructed me on one occasion. ‘I’ve put ye down.’ ‘Oh, hello, Geoffrey,’ I said. ‘I don’t think Crewe is in Yorkshire. Certainly wasn’t the last time I checked.’ ‘Well, it is for this f—–in’ night, so get yourself down there.’ So what do you do? You go. After all, you have received the royal command.

There were 427 people attending this do: it was dead simple to work out because there were 42 tables of 10, plus a top table of seven. I viewed the room and thought to myself what an earner he must be on. It would have been one cracking night for his benefit year. He had a good margin on the ticket, there was a raffle, an auction and sponsors all over the show. I was daydreaming about how much lucre might be in it for him when the club chairman stood up and said: ‘I’m pleased to introduce our first speaker of the night, a Lancashire and England cricketer, David Lloyd.’

I got up, did my bit, and things went well – laughter filling the air usually being a decent sign on these occasions – so I thought I had done OK as I sat down. At which point, the chairman was back on his feet saying, ‘And now the moment is here, the man you have all been waiting for.’ Up gets Fiery, who somehow failed to mention the sponsors at the front, or any of the fundraising features of the evening. He didn’t even say to the other 426 folk in the room, ‘Thanks for coming.’ The only thing he said before his arse hit the seat again was: ‘The previous speaker was introduced as a Lancashire and England cricketer. Everybody in this room knows he wouldn’t have played for England if I hadn’t been injured.’ Thank you and good night.

It is true that I made my international début in 1974 as Boycott’s replacement after he withdrew, partly due to lack of form, and partly due to his relationship breakdown with then England captain Mike Denness. I had been on the periphery of selection for a couple of years, and Boycs had not helped my cause when, during the 1973 trial match at Hove (a traditional contest involving all candidates for the forthcoming Test campaign), he ran me out in the second innings before I had faced a ball. I had gone out second time around desperate to compensate for a woeful first effort that had resulted in my dismissal, lbw for nought. So, whether he was injured, out of form or out of favour, Fiery’s absence undoubtedly offered me my chance, but he had arguably been involved in its delay as well.

You have to get used to his very distinctive ways, that’s for sure, and I got myself acquainted with them during our time working alongside each other for British Satellite Broadcasting. I was his lackey at that time, or it certainly felt that way, driving him around the country. Whenever a game was on his side of the Pennines, he would tell me, ‘You can pick me up and drop me back, see you at x o’clock.’ Now I have never been the best navigator of a route, so would often veer off track while he dozed in the passenger seat. Stop for petrol and he would awake with a judder, berating you for not filling up before you set off. ‘Preparation, attention to detail, it’s just like batting, you have to plan ahead,’ he would blather on. ‘Come to think of it, you never did any of that. That’s why you never scored any runs.’

In the early days of Sky commentary, Geoffrey was on with Charlie Colvile, whose enthusiasm during his stints in the box often spilt over. Whenever a wicket fell or a ball disappeared into the stands, Charlie would crank up the volume. He went absolutely potty with excitement every single time, something which his Yorkshire co-commentator was all too aware of from having tuned in at home. This was one of their first times together, and the pair were still getting to know each other – Charlie sounding out Boycott with various questions – when a wicket fell. ‘GOT HIM – GREAT DELIVERY – WELL BOWLED – GEOFFREY!’ That was the cue for Boycs to summarise what had been witnessed with some expert analysis. But that was not forthcoming. Instead, Fiery, live on air, rasped: ‘Don’t do that, I have heard it all before and so has my cat George. Every time you shout like that he runs up the chimney and it takes days to lure him down again!’