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!
