Buch lesen: «Start the Car: The World According to Bumble»

The World According to Bumble
Start the Car
David Lloyd

Dedication

To Diana, Tags, Susan, Phil, Steven, Ben, Spike, Graham, Sharon, Joseph, Joshua, Freddie, Sarah, Enty, Sam, James and Jasmine. Hope you enjoy it!

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Part 1 – In the Box

1 That Bloke off the Telly

2 The Sky Larks

3 Ranting, Raving and Reviewing

4 Life’s Tweet

5 It’s Not What You Say

Part 2 – In the Middle

6 Brushed up in Mönchengladbach

7 The Men in White Coats

8 Loose Lipped but Card Sharp

9 Twenty20 Kicks Ass

10 The Crown Jewels

11 Crowded Streets, Lonely Hearts, Alarm Clocks and Snakes

Part 3 – In the Blood

12 Get ’Em In!

13 Ian Rush? Who’s He? Exactly!

14 Hit for Six by a Pensioner

15 Hitting Sixties

16 Ooh, What a Ding-Dong Du

17 I’m Dreaming of a Hot Christmas

18 Suck-it-and-see Motoring

19 Every Slumdog Has Its Day

20 Birdies, Eagles and Mallards

21 The Million that Got Away

22 Hit the North

23 Bumble for Prime Minister

24 The Regiment

Photographic Insert

Acknowledgements

What next?

About the Authors

Copyright

About the Publisher

Introduction

Thanks for buying this book. The proceeds will go to a very good cause, namely the David Lloyd Retirement Fund, and, I assure you, will be redistributed to numerous outlets, in various personal pursuits across the globe. Oh, and rest easy in the knowledge that I will have fun doing so.

Of course, you might not have put your hand in your pocket to purchase this, so, for those of you who have received it as a gift on Father’s Day, on a birthday or at Christmas and want to pretend you have ploughed from cover to cover; for those of you who really like the thought of reading but never venture much further than the introduction; for those of you who normally do but find it to be the kind of book you just can’t pick up after putting down; for those of you who thought you were investing in the life story of some bloke involved in top-level tennis; for those of you wanting to know no more than the secrets of my successful leisure club empire (you’ll be sadly disappointed); for those of you whose concentration spans waver after a tweet or two; for those of you who have picked this up in the smallest room during a break between courses at a friend’s dinner party – here is the deal. Pretty much every essential detail you need to know about me is listed below. Welcome, however briefly, to my world.

My 50 Favourite Things

Career moment (playing): My 214 not out against India, Edgbaston, 1974

Career moment (broadcasting): Yuvraj Singh’s six sixes in an over off Stuart Broad, World Twenty20, 2007

Opponent: Joel Garner. He would bowl me out with a bath sponge

Team-mate: Graham Lloyd

Modern player: Can’t separate Virender Sehwag and Kevin Pietersen

Cricket ground: Sydney

Football team: Accrington Stanley

Footballer: Duncan Edwards

Holiday destination: St Ives, Cornwall

Tipple: A pint of Black Sheep or Timmy T’s

Meal: Chicken Madras with naan and lime pickle

Country: United Kingdom

Insect: Ladybirds are OK

Saying: ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down’

Animal: Dog

Pastime: Fishing

Personal item: Motorbike

Boyhood hero: Ken Barrington

Book: Tragically, I Was an Only Twin – Peter Cook

Film: Brassed Off

Band: The Fall

Album: Imperial Wax Solvent – The Fall

Motorway: M6 toll road

River: Wye

Hotel: Lygon Arms, Chipping Campden

Mode of transport: Bike

Season: Spring

Beatles or Stones? Stones

Colour: Black

Decade: 1960s

Restaurant: J Sheekey, Covent Garden, London

Pub: The Hesketh Tavern, Cheadle Hulme

Advice received: ‘Be yourself’ – my dad

Advice given: ‘If you are a politician, don’t knock on my door’

Cake: Fruitcake

Flower: Rose

Number: 134

Condiment: Lancashire Sauce

Board game: Cluedo

Gadget: Chainsaw

Film star: Ray Winstone or Russell Crowe

TV soap: Emmerdale

Politician: Not one of them cheating, conniving, low-down dregs of the earth

Cricket tour: New Zealand

City: Manchester

Car: Audi

Memory: Loss of

Piece of trivia: Monaco’s army is smaller than its symphony orchestra

Comedian: Tommy Cooper

Joke: My granny started jogging in 1998 … we have no idea where she is now.

PART ONE

Chapter 1
THAT BLOKE OFF THE TELLY

Being on television inevitably means you get recognised by people when you are out and about. It is something you become accustomed to, and I have never really had a problem with it, although I did once get freaked out when a bloke came straight out with ‘You’re David Lloyd, aren’t you?’ Because when I say I am recognised, I genuinely am – only never as myself. I have had Rasputin (he had a massive beard, didn’t he?), Tony Blair and Alan Titchmarsh over the years. Nice to know I have made such a good impression.

To be fair, at least it is normally another famous face from the world of cricket that I get. Although with my specs on I also encountered one of the more bizarre shouts. An Australian bloke walked up to me in a pub in Manchester and did a double take. ‘Hey, I know you, you look like one of the Proclaimers,’ he said, his forehead crumpling in thought. ‘What do you mean, one of the Proclaimers?’ I protested. ‘I either look like both of them or none of them. They’re bloody identical twins! Or they were the last time I looked.’

It is not as though this identity crisis has hit me solely since I hooked up in the Sky commentary box, either. Now I come to think of it, it has followed me around since my playing days. When I signed for Cumberland in early 1985, I was asked to do a local radio interview over the telephone. We went through the usual rigmarole of how the move had come about, what offers had surfaced elsewhere, how I saw the side’s chances that summer and what role I would fulfil within it.

It was a pleasant enough chat, and the interviewer wound down with a final question: ‘Do you think you will adapt to the Cumbrian north-west weather again quickly after spending so much time in the Caribbean?’ The silly sod had got me mixed up with my brother Clive. I put him right, of course, and following a lengthy pause I heard his muffled voice relay the information to his producer: ‘Hey, they’ve only gone and signed the wrong one!’ I had some great times with Clive at Old Trafford, he has been a great pal, and he still lives down the road, but fancy getting a pasty bloke like him mixed up with a bronze Adonis like myself!

Nowhere are people more cricket daft than India, and appropriately it is there that I have experienced some of the daftest shouts. One chap in Rajkot was overjoyed when I agreed to pose with him for a picture at the airport. ‘You are my most good commentator Sky Sport,’ he told me, through clenched teeth, as we grimaced for the first snap. After seven more shots, I made my excuses and left. ‘Thank you, Mr Paul Arlott,’ he said. ‘For being my friend.’

Now they don’t get a great deal of international cricket in Rajkot, I grant you, so the locals tend to get excitable when a game comes to town. After England were trounced there in the winter of 2008–9, I was asked for more photos at the ground. I was only too happy to oblige until the chap pointing the camera said: ‘Excuse me, Mr Duncan Fletcher, look this way please.’ There must have been a particularly virulent strain of this eye infection going around, as later that evening came a knock at my hotel door. Three chaps were standing outside and greeted me with: ‘You are our favourite umpire, Mr Hair.’ And you can imagine the levels of my paranoia when even the hotel staff weighed in. Upon checking out next morning, the receptionist said to me: ‘Thank you for staying with us in Rajkot, Mr Bruce Yardley.’ I was glad to get out.

This was enough to put a chap permanently on edge. In Bangalore, one autograph hunter instructed me: ‘Please sign this, Tony Greig.’ So I did exactly that to get my own back. OK, Greigy was a former England captain, but he is six foot four and speaks with an unmistakable South African accent. I undoubtedly preferred the next error, as I left the ground in Chennai during a pre-Christmas Test match. ‘You are most famous English Mike Brearley,’ I was unequivocally told. I gave myself the once over, confirmed in my own mind I was not, but appreciated being thought of on the same intellectual level. If you are involved in mistaken identity it’s always better if it paints you in a decent light.

And you can also have some fun. Whenever we are in Leeds for a Test match, I make a dash for the Princess of Wales pub and sink a pint or three. A group of us were in there one year when a rather big Yorkshire lass, bedecked with tattoos from head to toe, sauntered up and barked: ‘You’re the commentator, aren’t you?’ She was quite an intimidating sight – supping a pint like a rugby front-rower between sentences – so I meekly replied, ‘Yes, I am.’

‘I just wanted to say I love you on Test Match Special, Jonathan,’ she continued. Jolly nice of her to say so, I thought, as I subtly brought up Agnew’s number on my phone, passed it on to her and suggested she give me a call any time she needed tickets.

Chapter 2
THE SKY LARKS

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.