Right, Said Fred

by Andrew Flintoff

  During the pandemic, the golf clubs were closing a bit earlier than normal, which meant I couldn’t hire a power caddy and had to get a push trolley instead. I’m not going to lie to you, that threw me. I was so disappointed about the lack of power caddy that I couldn’t concentrate on my game. Over at Coombe Hill in Kingston, I couldn’t even hire a push trolley, because of germs. When the man in the pro shop told me, I felt this wave of frustration rise inside me. All I could think was, ‘My bag is bigger than Tiger Woods’. This is going to be the worst day of my life.’

  But after a couple of holes, I had a little word with myself: ‘Mate, who do you think you are? What have you become? Pull yourself together man. You’ve only just turned 40, you don’t need a power caddy or a trolley. It’s just a bag of clubs. And look around. It’s beautiful. Just crack on.’ After that, I had a lovely round of golf with my mates, although I did buy a smaller bag from the shop. I find that the older you get, the more you crave comfort. You get complacent, so you have to keep checking yourself.

  From a youngster’s point of view, there are a lot of things that aren’t great about getting older. But once you start getting older, you realise that embracing those things is preferable to pretending you’re still young. Take clothes. Everyone experiments with different styles until they reach a certain age, when they settle on a look, either consciously or unconsciously. And that’s pretty much them for the next 30 years, until they start wearing chunky cardigans and orthopaedic shoes.

  I’m a tracksuit man. But I’ve got my own tracksuit style. I like to match it with a beanie hat and a gilet. I’ve got far too many gilets. I genuinely love them. I bought one, just to experiment, and now I’ve ended up with seven or eight, for every possible occasion. Big warm ones for winter. Lighter ones for those early spring days. Waterproof ones for the rain. And one of them is my favourite item of clothing. Not a Hugo Boss suit or a pair of Loake brogues, but a gilet.

  I can’t even explain why I like it so much. It’s just so cosy. I’m not particularly proud of the fact. I mean, not so long ago, if someone had used the word ‘gilet’ in my presence, I would have laughed in their face. If I’d seen someone under the age of 40 wearing a gilet, I would have said, ‘Look at this lad in a gilet. Who does he think he is?’ The weird thing is, for years British people went around pretending they didn’t know what a gilet was. Of course they did, it’s just that they used to be called body warmers. But the fact is, I love gilets. They are magnificent items of clothing. Scratch what I said about not being proud of my love of gilets, I would gladly shout it from the rooftops.

  There’s no point raging against the dying of your youth, you’ve got to open your arms and say, ‘Come and take me.’ Otherwise you end up being one of those blokes in their forties and fifties, dressed like they’re in their twenties, still slavishly following the latest trends, still hanging out in bars where everyone is half their age. I see those blokes on the school run, wearing baseball caps and skinny jeans with fat thighs and bellies pouring over the top of the belt. They’ll also be wearing a tight designer T-shirt and a pair of Gucci trainers. I’ll look at them and think, ‘Mate, don’t do it. Embrace comfort. At least embrace the gilet.’

  I flirted with some of the stuff, so I know what I’m talking about. Especially when it comes to baseball caps. I looked like Steve Buscemi in that social media meme, except without the skateboard on his back: ‘How do you do, fellow kids?’ I had to have a little word with myself: ‘Andrew, you’ve got children, have some dignity, stop wearing the baseball cap.’

  I’m pretty certain I’m not having a midlife crisis. The fascination with fast cars would suggest different. But I’ve never really understood that accusation, because I would have loved driving fast cars when I was 17, it’s just that I couldn’t afford them. I think that’s what happens when you get older, you end up buying the things you would have liked as a kid but didn’t have the money to buy, whether it’s Nike Air Jordans or cars. I don’t think that’s a midlife crisis necessarily, I think that’s actually quite a nice thing.

  My mate Dave has just bought himself a Ford Fiesta XR2, mark 1. In black. Not that I could drive it – I’m not sure I could get in it – but I totally understand why he’s bought it, although he is bigger than me. Because when he was a kid, that’s probably what he dreamt of driving. I know a lot of kids have posters of Lamborghinis or Ferraris on their walls, but they’re just a fantasy. But when I was a kid, owning a Fiesta XR2 was a realistic ambition. Or something like a Sierra Cosworth or an Audi Quattro or an Austin Montego GTi, or a souped-up Ford Capri Ghia, like Del Boy drove in Only Fools and Horse, they were achievable.

  Aside from nostalgia, the good thing about driving a car like a pimped-up Fiesta or Montego, rather than a Lamborghini or a Ferrari, is that you’re not going to be paranoid about driving it. You reach an age when you start buying things and are afraid to use them, in case they get soiled or you feel like a tit. Like trainers. What are trainers for? To protect your foot and make doing sport more bearable. But when you get older, and start buying more expensive trainers, you don’t want to put them on. It’s like a mental block.

  A few years ago, I was having a mooch around Sports Direct, which is like an Aladdin’s cave to me (row upon row of hoodies and gilets) and I saw a pair of Travel Fox trainers. This wave of nostalgia came over me, because I remembered being in Fleetwood with my auntie Joan, looking through the window of a sports shop and seeing a similar pair of Travel Foxes. Back then, they were about 70 quid, which was way too expensive. But now I could afford them, so I bought myself a pair. I was just so happy. But I’ve never worn them. I’m too old. I just love the fact I own a pair. I should add that on the same day I bought the Travel Foxes, I also bought five pairs of Dunlop Green Flash. They were only about £12 a pair. They were my back-up, the little run-arounds that do all the work while the flash cars sit idle under dust sheets in the garage.

  I’ve started doing it with furniture as well, like my grandparents. The footstool in my living room has a blanket on it, so it doesn’t get dirty. But no one will ever see how nice it is, because of that blanket. It might as well be an upturned beer crate, like students use.

  I’m the same with bikes. I’ve got one that I’ve cycled thousands of miles on. I’ve ridden that bike from Athens to London, all through Ireland and around Australia. It’s not particularly expensive, just a Boardman, but I’m attached to it, in a way I’ve never been attached to a car. I love that bike. I’ve got another Boardman that’s almost exactly the same, but I hardly use it, because it feels like I’m being unfaithful.

  I’ve also got this other bike with deep-set wheels and electric gears. But I can’t possibly ride it. How could I ride it? It’s worth a fortune. Not that I paid for it, someone gave it to me. But that doesn’t make any difference. What if it started raining and it got some mud on the wheels? Plus, I’d look a proper tit on it. A bike wanker. If you’re going to ride a bike like that, you can’t be overtaken going up hills. It can’t happen, because it’s so ludicrously expensive. And every time you heard someone coming up behind you, you’d be paranoid that they were on a 100-quid bike from Halfords. It would be like driving a Ferrari and being overtaken by a Vauxhall Corsa. It’s so light, that’s why they are so expensive. But it’s a false economy – I don’t want it made easier, I’m training and I’m 17 stone.

  I must confess, I rode it once, during lockdown. I took a wrong turn and got punctures in both wheels. I opened my little saddle bag and there was nothing in there. I had all the Lycra gear on, which matched the bike, and everyone was stopping to ask if I needed any help. They were probably being lovely, but I couldn’t help imagining they were sneering and laughing under their breath. In the end, I phoned up my mate Dave and asked him to come and help. When he arrived, he had an electric bike for me. So now I had to cycle home on this electric bike in all the gear. Electric bike folk are the scum of the roads. Normally, you get lots of nods and waves. On an electric bike, people
look at you in complete disgust. I couldn’t get home quick enough. I flicked it into the fastest gear and started flying past groups of cyclists. I’d give them a little greeting – ‘Morning. Good day. Have a good ride’ – and disappear into the distance. They were hating it. Absolutely hating it. After a while I thought, ‘If you’re hating me leaving you for dead, why don’t you get one?!’

  Since then, this ludicrously expensive bike with the deep-set tyres and electric gears hangs on the wall in the garage. When people see it, they always say, ‘Oh, that’s a nice bike.’ And I immediately start talking about my Boardman, like a dad trying to divert attention to his hard-working kid who doesn’t get enough attention.

  I think a far bigger sign of a midlife crisis, cycling-wise, is the clothing. You get these people who wear all the branded stuff, as if they’re a member of a Tour de France team. I don’t get it. Why? You wouldn’t stitch a load of fake sponsorship onto your golf polo shirt, to look like the pros. The big brand in cycling is Rapha. Don’t get me wrong, they do some lovely gear. But some of their jerseys cost over a hundred quid. And unless you’re Bradley Wiggins, you look like a complete whopper in it. Not least because everyone knows you’ve paid over a hundred quid for something you can get in Sports Direct for a tenner. You know when someone turns up in Rapha gear that they’re more about the cafes than the cycling.

  They’re a strange bunch, cyclists. There’s no getting away from it. Very tribal. Lots of them pretend to hate cars, even though they drive cars themselves. When it comes to the war between drivers and cyclists, I’m neutral. I can see why cyclists get upset with drivers, but I also think that cyclists do things to wind drivers up on purpose. Like riding two abreast and holding the traffic up. I know it’s legal, but why not just ride in single file for a bit and let the traffic through? I was driving one day with the roof down and stopped at some traffic lights. This fella on a mountain bike came up on my inside and pulled over right in front of me. The traffic lights went green and he started huffing and puffing his way up this hill at about 1 mph, in the middle of the road. So I shouted at him, ‘Sorry, mate, can you pull over, so I can get through?’

  ‘I’m allowed to do this.’

  ‘I know you are. But you’re holding everyone up. Why not just pull over?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mate, I’m a cyclist myself. I know what you are and aren’t allowed to do. But it’s a case of being aware of other people.’

  ‘The bike is the future. I can do what I want.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But why would you want to be a knobhead?’

  He couldn’t answer that one.

  But the whole driver–cyclist debate is a real minefield. For every knobhead like that fella, there are probably 10 knobhead drivers. It doesn’t need to be a war. You get these drivers who shout at cyclists, ‘Pay your road tax!’ That doesn’t even make sense, because everyone pays for the roads, whether they drive or not. Some of the rows are just daft, involving people who are just making stuff up as they go along, in order to bolster their position.

  As wonderful as it is to be out on the open road on a bike, it can bloody hurt. The biggest pickle I ever got myself into was when I cycled from Athens to London. I hadn’t been on a bike for years but I thought I could just jump on the saddle and get on with it. But after about three days, I couldn’t feel my old fella. It just suddenly went numb, as if I’d trapped it in a door. It was like a dead fish. Obviously I couldn’t just ignore it, that would have been very careless. So after another few days I said to the medic, ‘Doc, I’m afraid you’re going to have to have a look at my old fella, I can’t feel it.’ Luckily, I knew him from my time playing cricket for Lancashire. He took a look and was quite blasé: ‘Oh, that’s quite common in cyclists.’ I was quite taken aback. I said to him, ‘That’s all well and good, doc, but does the feeling come back?’ Apparently, it was to do with something called the penile nerve. The old fella only started to resurrect itself about three days after I arrived in London.

  That felt like touch and go, not something I ever want to experience again. The weirdest thing was, because it was completely dead, it was almost like touching someone else’s old fella. Each to their own, but that’s not really something I’ve ever wanted to do. But I’m told women cyclists have it a lot worse. Apparently it’s to do with the saddle, which is designed around the meat and two veg set-up, not a lady’s parts. I think I’ll leave it at that. Some of what I’ve been told is quite graphic.

  I get self-conscious just walking about in the gear. Lycra doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. You order a coffee and the counter, where all the scones and flapjacks are laid out, is roughly old fella high. Sometimes I have to put my helmet over it, so that I achieve a double helmet. It’s not like my old fella is particularly impressive, but I just feel like I’m exposing myself in front of women, children and dogs. Nobody needs to see that. I think there should be a rule that shorts have to be worn over the top. Almost like a reverse of the swimming pool rule in France, where they make you wear Speedos. Or that you have to wrap a towel around your midriff. Or maybe you shouldn’t be allowed in shops at all? That might sound drastic, but it makes sense to me.

  When I was a young man, if a mate started losing his hair, it was a gift. An open goal. All his mates would be in raptures: ‘Are you finding it’s taking you longer to wash your forehead? You should put your jam on your forehead and invite your hair down for tea.’ That kind of stuff. But now I’m entering middle age, I feel a bit bad about that. People have feelings, and I’ve started having them as well. No one wants to lose their hair, whatever age you are. And people might laugh when you take the piss out of them, but they’re probably hurting inside.

  Nowadays, it’s fairly normal for people to have hair transplants. So much so that I reckon bald men will be quite rare in a few generations’ time. But hair transplants still sound like hell. Apparently, they take all the thick stuff from the back of your head and slap it on top (I think it’s a bit more scientific than that. At least I hope so). And I assume that if they take it from the back of your head, they can take it from anywhere, like your arse. Although I wouldn’t fancy that hairstyle. You’d end up looking like Art Garfunkel, except with even tighter curls. But that’s just one process. I’ve seen another one where they put individual holes in your scalp and blood is pouring down your face. And if some men are prepared to go through that, that tells you how much they hate going bald and how wrong it is to take the piss out of them.

  Cricketers led the way with hair transplants, we’ve been having them for decades now. Advanced Hair Studio led the way in the 1990s, which was when former Aussie spinner Greg Matthews became the first one to have a transplant. Graham Gooch liked the look of Greg’s rug, followed suit, and soon everyone was getting involved: Darren Gough, Jacques Kallis, Shane Warne. I was on an England tour of Sri Lanka as a kid, having a few drinks in the bar, when Goochy’s new hair fell off. The heat must have melted the glue. It just slipped down his forehead. I had to tell him and he fixed it in the bogs. The following day, some woman flew out from the London clinic to sort it out.

  Mercifully, the technology has moved on since then. They don’t just glue the thing on, like an old-fashioned rug. But the problem with it is, people get stuck with the same hairstyle for the next 20 years. And you get people saying that their hair is miraculously growing back, which is obviously not true. I think they become delusional. Talking of delusional, my old England teammate Anthony McGrath used to say that if a cow licked the top of your head, your hair would grow back. He’d say to people, ‘Just hop over that fence, kneel in front of the cow and if it licks your head, hey presto, you’ll have a thick mop of hair in no time. Trust me . . . ’

  There was a time when people found hair transplants difficult to accept. Someone being bald one day and having a full head of hair the next was an affront to them. But I don’t think people care about that anymore. And the likes of Goochy and Warney have played a big part in that, because
they didn’t try to hide it, they were shouting it from the rooftops. They might have got a bit of ribbing from their mates, but that probably only lasted a few weeks. If you can get new hair, and if it makes you feel better, why wouldn’t you?

  If I was getting it done, I’d want it to be pricey. If the bloke said it was going to cost 15 grand, I’d be asking why it didn’t cost 30. Like if you were having a penis extension, you’d want it to cost a lot of money, so that you knew you were getting the very best treatment. Reassuringly expensive, like Stella Artois. You don’t want to mess about with things like that, you want the best person on it. I’m a big haggler, always trying to get things for cheaper, whether it’s a car, a house or a washing machine. But not in this case.

  My brother went bald young, in his early twenties, and I felt for him. My dad’s still got his hair, and he’s in his seventies, so I don’t know what went wrong with my brother. He used to dye it when he was a teenager, so that might have had something to do with it. The one good thing about going bald that young is that you don’t really age for the next two decades. Thankfully, my hair is going absolutely nowhere. It’s solid as a rock. I shaved it myself for about eight years, and I’m convinced that’s what kept it thick. When you’ve got a shaved head, you don’t use any hair products. No mousse, no gel, no clay, no putty. Just whatever shampoo is on offer at Boots. It means the top of your head is like an unsullied meadow, instead of a farmer’s field, covered in pesticides (unlike what’s underneath it, which is full of shit). It also kept the individual hairs on their toes. I reckon they were thinking, ‘I will get back on his head, if it’s the last thing I do. Push! Push!’