‘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!’
Chapter 3
RANTING, RAVING AND REVIEWING
The press box is probably my favourite place to visit at a cricket ground. I have valued a good newspaper since I was a nipper – in the outside lavatory in Water Street where I grew up, the Daily Sketch or Daily Record cut into squares was a useful substitute for toilet paper, which was seen as a luxury we could not afford – and I believe they should play an increasing rather than a decreasing role in our everyday lives. I am fully aware of the modern-day influence of the Internet and other electronic media news outlets, but there should always be a newspaper industry.
We are extremely fortunate in cricket that we are served by so many top journalists. When I look at the travelling band that follow the England team around, I am genuinely gobsmacked at just how good some of them are. They are a pretty diverse group as well, united by one thing: a real passion for what they do and a real passion for the sport. You have to be good in your field to rise to international level, and that is what they have done, established or new, in their journalistic careers. I love mingling among these pretty opinionated so-and-so’s. They’ve all got something to say and love a good debate on the topic of the day.
It is a real hive of industry, and one thing I would love to counsel contemporary players on is the role these writers play in our game. Contrary to opinion that has become cliché in dressing-rooms over the years, these newspaper reporters are not their enemy. Through the ages there has always been this convenient defence that the press have a certain agenda, and I certainly thought it at times throughout my career. When I was England coach I naturally wanted to fight my corner, and if someone wanted a joust I was up for it. I had some real ding-dongs with certain individuals, but there is not an ounce of ill feeling towards them now. In fact, I would like to think I have made some pretty good mates among the press, ones with whom I share many an evening supping ale, engaged in bar talk.
Such is the make-up of our national press that we become a real travelling circus for major tours. For the Ashes trips, for example, the broadsheets will have their correspondent and in some cases the number two, in addition to the dukes of their trade, the chief sports writers – you know there is an event in town when Patrick Collins, Martin Samuel, Oliver Holt and Paul Hayward turn up. These guys are terrific writers, but those at the coal face of cricket, reporting on it every day, are a wonderfully dedicated bunch of characters. Stephen Brenkley, of the Independent, is known as the Ombudsman because he believes no group decision can be passed
