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.
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