on the winter tour to the West Indies in 1989/90. They had arrived at the Porter Tun Room in the City of London for the Cricket Writers’ Club annual dinner on the eve of the NatWest Final to which several past and present cricketers are invited as guests of the members. This is the time when, traditionally, most of the talk is concerned with who will be in the squads for upcoming winter tours. When Morris and Agnew set off for the evening they must have thought they might have been in with a squeak. After their conversation with Ted they knew they had another think coming. ‘Excuse me, chaps’, Ted called out as he was walking down Chiswell Street in search of the venue. ‘You two look like cricketers. Do you know where this dinner is taking place?’
These stories may be amusing in hindsight, but as a professional I find that kind of amateurish behaviour hard to tolerate. Ted might have been a fine player and a lovely guy socially, but as far as I was concerned he was taking money under false pretences, money that could have been diverted to many other projects that would have served the game better.
But my opinion of him is not just based on the obvious gaffes he committed at regular intervals. For it was during that disastrous series of 1989 that I found not only was Dexter a man I could not respect, he was also a man I simply could not rely on at all.
Our performances throughout that series were undistinguished to say the least. Looking back, we had started off on the wrong foot even before a ball had been bowled. After the 1988 winter tour to India had been called off due to the Indian Board of Control’s objection to the inclusion of players who had been on the first ‘rebel tour’ to South Africa in 1982, England were looking for a new captain. The original choice of Dexter and the manager Micky Stewart had been Mike Gatting, but when that was vetoed by the chairman of the TCCB, Ossie Wheatley, who for some reason felt that Gatt had still not served sufficient time for his supposed misdemeanours, they turned reluctantly to David Gower. That meant that England were going into a vital series with a captain who the selectors had not wanted in the first place. This caused problems right from the start.
When Gower won the toss prior to the first Test at Headingley, Ted stuck his oar in straight away by persuading him that the inclement weather forecast (which incidentally turned out to be wildly inaccurate) meant England should ask Australia to bat first. And they did, all day and all the next day, scoring 601 for seven declared before going on to win the match by 210 runs. When I returned to the side after injury for the third Test at Edgbaston, we were already two-down and no one was really sure who was running things – Gower, Stewart or Dexter, least of all the captain himself!
At the same time, one of the worst-kept secrets in modern cricket history was starting to seriously undermine team spirit. The South African cricket authorities, led by Dr Ali Bacher, were in England recruiting players for another ‘rebel tour’ to be played that winter while the Test side were due to take on the West Indies in the Caribbean. The dressing room, and everywhere else it seemed, was awash with rumours of just how much money was on offer, who was going and who was not. It had reached the stage where the England committee asked players to sign a declaration of availability for the winter tour.
I had been targeted by the South Africans in a big way and was interested in what they had to say. Of course I was intrigued by the possibility; I would be lying if I said otherwise. So when Bacher rang me after the Edgbaston Test, I was definitely listening. The cash on the table for signing up for two winter tours was staggering. Even when I called their bluff by asking for half a million pounds, the organizers did not seem unduly perturbed. Everyone understood that those who did go could more or less kiss goodbye to the thought of playing Test cricket again for a long time and, in my case, probably for ever. Financially, however, it would have made a lot of sense. Although I was also under no illusions as to what would have happened to existing and future commercial contracts, I knew that most of my Test playing career was behind rather than ahead of me and that, had I accepted the South African money the financial benefit to myself and my family would have been enormous.
By this time, Micky Stewart, on behalf of the England management, was doing his best to persuade me not to go. They wanted me in the West Indies, he said, and he pleaded with me to make myself available. They made it quite clear that if I did so, I was more or less guaranteed a place on the plane.
It took a lot of soul-searching to come to a decision. I discussed the situation fully with Kath and my solicitor and long-time friend Alan Herd and once again, as I had done in 1982, I came to the conclusion that I had more to lose than gain.
The bottom line was pride: professional and patriotic. The West Indies were the one side against whom I felt I still had something to prove, both to myself and to the public. I had never fulfilled my potential against them as I should have done, and I wanted another crack. So I informed Micky of my availability and he accepted the news gratefully.
Then they proceeded to let me down badly. The night before the squad for the tour was due to be announced, Kath answered the phone. Ted was on the line.
‘Hello Ian,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’re not taking you to the West Indies.’
‘You what?’ I replied. ‘You begged me to make myself available for the winter tour and I told the South Africans where to go as well. And now you are saying you don’t want me after all.’
‘Er well, I didn’t ask you personally,’ he replied feebly.
I felt like I had been stabbed in the back. I went berserk and slammed the phone down on him. I don’t think I have ever felt so devastated. Seeing what a state I had worked myself into, Kath left the room; she knew I was not going to be fun to be around for a while. I was so enraged that if Ali Bacher had been sitting there with a contract and a pen I would have signed without a moment’s hesitation, and to hell with the consequences. I took myself off to the drinks cabinet and emptied a bottle of brandy in an effort to get it out of my system. Then, to really rub it in Micky and Ted later denied that they had persuaded me to make myself available. As far as I am concerned their denials were a lie.
To this day I’ve never been given a satisfactory explanation. From what I have been told it was Gooch, who replaced David Gower as captain when he was sacked at the end of the series and then also found himself out in the cold, who did not want me. Maybe I’ll never find out for certain. What I do know is that it was another phone call from Ted, on quite another subject, which finally removed any doubts that my England career was over.
A few days before the Trent Bridge Test against Australia in early July 1993, I answered the phone and, bearing in mind how he and the other selectors had studiously ignored my performances all summer, I was surprised to hear Ted on the other end of the line. That surprise quickly turned to amazement when I heard what he had to say. He asked me if I would be interested in taking the England A-team to Holland as captain.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Trying to avoid a conversation with him because I had heard enough and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of even discussing this farcical suggestion any further, I replied that I had prior engagements and left it at that. But when I put the phone down I was seething. Ted had spent half the summer messing me about and now he had the cheek to ask me to get involved in a clog-dancing mission. All I could think of was that this was supposed to be some sort of peace offering for excluding me from the Test side, or a fancy public relations exercise. Either way, I was thoroughly cheesed off. It was just about the last straw.
The Test side was losing and showing no signs of improving. When they picked the side for the third Test from a position of 2–0 down with four to go, the party of thirteen contained five uncapped players. And then I received this call from Dexter asking me if I would like to waste my time in Holland. I knew now that my last chance had gone forever. If Ted really didn’t want me to be part of the new set-up, why didn’t he have the decency just to say so, instead of all this messing around? In the back of my mind I can’t help thinking that
