Last in the Tin Bath

by David Lloyd

  My own watchful style may not have been a natural fit at the top of the order, but establishing myself during the 1968 season came against a backdrop of positivity. The heckles I had become accustomed to hearing from the regulars at Old Trafford – those who formed the infamous Pit of Hate in front of the pavilion being the most vociferous – were becoming muffled if not completely silenced by an increased amount of runs from me at a quicker tempo. Not least in the run chase I engineered to seal Lancashire’s first victory of the season, when we needed a touch near seven an over for the final seven overs and got them. My success dovetailed with that of the team: the win, the first of eight from June onwards, catalysed the surge to a sixth-placed finish and cemented my place in it as an opening batsman. I was becoming an established county performer with aspirations of higher recognition.

  CHAPTER 4

  Red Rose Rising

  The habit of winning heals dressing-room rifts and sweeps problems under the carpet. It’s a fact that sprinkling a team with success has magical properties – it makes personality clashes look invisible and strained relationships look like civil ones. We were certainly a happier unit at Lancashire as the years went by, but the team that developed an addiction to silverware actually came together due to a pretty unseemly fallout between our predecessors and the Old Trafford hierarchy.

  It emerged from the upheaval of 1964 when players such as Peter Marner and Geoff Clayton were dispensed with because ‘their retention was not in the best interests of the club’. Jack Dyson was ditched for being ‘not up to the required standard’ according to the committee, who had lost patience with a core group of the club’s players, both for their on-field shortcomings and their off-field attitudes. Politics has never been of interest to me and the seventeen-year-old Lloyd, D. was certainly not one to dwell on the slings and arrows of this conflict, so my recollections of this upheaval are hazy. But it’s safe to say that the seismic change of that year wouldn’t have happened to a winning dressing room or at a happy club.

  It was a lack of trophies that had developed committee-room agitation towards the dressing room in the first place: without a Championship pennant since 1950, relations between the club’s hierarchy and playing staff had become strained and, even though Lancashire had not been accustomed to success, at least the prospect of it had been retained – until that year at least. Faith in the old guard was regressing for some and it clearly caused in-fighting when doors were closed and players’ abilities debated.

  The upshot of it all was felt not just in the dressing room but also at committee level. Secretary Geoffrey Howard moved to Surrey during that season, and another couple of members of the committee left. Those that remained decided the time was right to remove the velvet glove from the iron fist. As well as the sackings of Clayton and Marner on what was to become known as the Night of the Long Knives, the revolution took in the dismissal of Ken Grieves as captain. It was decided that Brian Statham would oversee the first team for the next couple of years.

  An outsider might suspect all this stemmed from players wanting more money and a section of the committee resisting due to a lack of faith, but that was never my understanding, which I admit was fairly limited as a teenager in my first year on the staff. Those that were ousted were just viewed as rebellious players, and one act of rebellion in particular stood out. It came in a game against Warwickshire at Old Trafford, a Gillette Cup semi-final no less, during which the visiting team put all the fielders on the boundary towards the end of Lancashire’s stiff chase of 295.

  The ground was full and Geoff Clayton reacted petulantly to Warwickshire’s tactic – there were no fielding restrictions whatsoever in those early days of knock-out cricket – by blocking. Clayton walked off unbeaten on 19 and Lancashire lost by 85 runs. He clearly thought ‘bollocks to you’, probably viewing such negativity as not being within the spirit of the game. This was his way of rebelling, but he got into fearful trouble for it, and ultimately it was the action that triggered his departure from the club. This set of players would no doubt have felt downtrodden by the committee and had no voice; they might have been senior in terms of their standing in cricket, but players such as Clayton and Marner were subservient because of the discrepancies in status between management and workers. It was real blue collar/white collar stuff.

  Geoff left for Somerset after that downing of tools on the job, while Marner headed for Leicestershire. Bob Barber, who was in that Warwickshire team, had departed two years previously. Not everyone was happy at this exodus of players, however, and when some questioned the committee’s motives those that remained were overthrown and a new committee was formed in the Cedric Rhoades-led revolution. That uprising meant stability was always going to be a couple of years away, although there was no evidence in that decade that stability was a prerequisite of success anyway. A glance across at our neighbours and deadliest rivals provided evidence of that.

  In my early days on the Lancashire staff, even the thought of playing Yorkshire would wake you up in a cold sweat at night because they were a star-studded wrecking machine. Every one of them had played international cricket and they used to give us a really good hiding. They were a fabulous team. Names such as Padgett, Taylor, Close, Boycott, Binks, Illingworth, Wilson, Nicholson and Trueman just tripped off the tongue; they were a most talented bunch of individuals who made the most of the sum of their parts. There were no overseas players among them of course, due to the then strict selection policy of picking only players who were born within the county boundaries – needless to say they rammed that fact down your throat all the time.

  For us, it was a gradual process to get on a par with them before eventually winning the odd match against them. Nevertheless, the expectation from our own public that we would beat them, despite the obvious gulf in class, never disappeared. To a Lancashire supporter, the Roses rivalry was so important in the greater scheme of things that even if you’d had a terrible season but beat Yorkshire, everything was okay.

  That was not something that happened very often, because this was one of the best cricket teams ever put together. They just had all bases covered: good pace bowling, an unbelievably robust batting order, a great spinner and perhaps most importantly of all an aura about them. If you doubted their dominance, they reaffirmed it for you during the intervals. At lunchtime they would delay their entry into the room so they could put their blazers on and all walk in together. It was one of the only times they ever were ‘together’ and this superiority complex left witnesses in no doubt that this ceremonial ritual was all done on purpose. They used to walk past us en route to their adjacent table, fixing us with a stare as they went. For a young upstart like me, it was as intimidating an experience as facing Fred Trueman in his pomp.

  There were huge crowds on hand to watch them in those days too. It was like being thrown to the wolves. And they would haul you all over the county for these floggings too. They didn’t just invite you over to Leeds for your punishment. They would occasionally book you in at Sheffield’s Bramall Lane, Middlesbrough’s Acklam Park, Bradford Park Avenue and Scarborough’s North Marine Road, so the rest of Yorkshire’s towns and cities could enjoy our misfortune.

  To be honest, the only light relief in any of these meetings came when one of our committee men, Harry Birtwistle, accompanied the chairman Cedric Rhoades to a Bradford match. Having fallen asleep on the journey, upon arrival he was brought into the changing room to wish us all the best.

  The Park Avenue facilities hadn’t seen a lick of paint for years and the floorboards were all splintered. Harry had a good look round and then ordered: ‘Cedric, get these changing rooms decorated and tidied up, we can’t have lads changing in here.’

  ‘We’re playing away, Harry.’

  ‘Oh, I thought it took a long time to get here.’

  To be fair, Yorkshire would give us an almighty beating on the field for three days but always invite us for a beer afterwards. Just so they could remind us how superior they were,
you understand. Not sure if they ever shouted their rounds, though. Later in my career David Bairstow, who was a great mate, would take us up to the Original Oak pub just up St Michael’s Lane after a day’s play in Leeds. They don’t make cricketers like him anymore. He was so loud on the field, he wouldn’t get past health and safety. He would need to be fitted with a volume control and come with some kind of warning.

  It was actually a Yorkshireman who was my buddy coming through the ranks at Lancashire. From very early on, it was pretty obvious for most with a trained eye to see that both Barry Wood and I were future opening batsmen, and we were looking to make our way in the game simultaneously. Barry being a Yorkie and coming from a massive family of sisters and brothers meant we were chalk and cheese, yet we seemed to work well together from the start.

  As with most opening partnerships that have developed along the right track, we complemented each other perfectly and had an understanding when running between the wickets that didn’t rely too much on calling yes, no or wait. We just had a mental telepathy when it was right to run and when it wasn’t. When we sensed there was a single on, we just used to go; it was like a sixth sense.

  In contrast to me, Barry was confrontational as a young bloke, but there was a similarity in the way that we, as generations of northerners had before us, began with nothing and fought our way up. Pitched together at the top of the order was one way of getting to know each other, and that was extended on away trips to us rooming together too. Barry and I were typical of the group that came through, I guess, because as opposed to the sinister side of the piss-taking when I arrived in the dressing room, us lot were on a par. We were all in it together, all really great mates.

  And thanks to that bloody twat John Sullivan, God bless his soul, I was Bumble. John had been the creative director in some of the nicknames along with Harry Pilling, his old mucker from Mossley. As I said, to protest or contest that I looked like these Bumblies was a zero option. Although I have thought of taking exception to the shortening of it by Neil Fairbrother, someone I played with right at the end of my career and who later became my agent. He calls me Bum on every email or text message, and I’m not sure many people would accept that.

  The distribution of nicknames helps develop camaraderie and team spirit. Initially they are shared between the inner sanctum only and help create informal identities; you form a bit of a clique, an ‘us and them’ scenario, you’re either in the gang or you’re not. My nickname all the way through my youth was Sel because the foreign secretary was called Selwyn Lloyd. That’s what I would be called on the school bus as well as by team-mates when playing football or cricket at weekends. In Accrington, that is how people would acknowledge me if they passed me in the street.

  Now I was Bumble, while Barry Wood was simply Sawdust. Geoff Pullar, the senior batsman, was Noddy because he possessed both quite a big head and a drop-top sports car, and it was reckoned he looked just like Noddy when he was sat in it. Jack Simmons was plain old Simmo, David Hughes later became Yosser after the character in Alan Bleasdale’s Boys from the Blackstuff, Ken Shuttleworth was Shut, then there was Peter ‘Leapy’ Lee, in recognition of the English singer who hit the Top Ten with ‘Little Arrows’. Ken Snellgrove was Nelly, and Frank Hayes was Fish because we joked that he drank like one at the time.

  Other players were known by their unusual middle names, as it gave them more distinction. So Clive Lloyd was always Hubert and another one of my big mates Paul Allott was always Wally or Walt because his middle names were John Walter. In fact, whenever you get him and another Walter, Mike Selvey, the Guardian’s cricket correspondent, together in a press box it’s like a scene off The Two Ronnies. ‘How are you, Walt?’ ‘Yeah, going all right, Walt. What about you, Walt?’ ‘Yeah, I’m fine, Walt.’

  For young lads such as us, county cricket was like one permanent road trip and we made the most of our away days. The club allowed us a maximum of five cars for each one and that would give you enough room for twelve players and the scorer, plus all the kitbags. Now before you get any illusions of grandeur, we are talking modest vehicles – Ford Anglias rather than stretch limousines. But this simply added to the adventure.

  By 1966, my first full season on the first-team stage, I had passed my driving test and owned my own wheels to boot. As a young apprentice at Lancashire, I used to run down Water Street to Melbourne Street to catch the Manchester bus. Once at Lower Mosley Street bus station in Manchester, I had to get on the Sale bus out again to Old Trafford. It stopped right outside Manchester United’s football ground and then I used to have to stride along the road with my cricket bag on my shoulder. The return journey had to be made at night and so my getting to and from work in those initial days was some trek.

  This all stopped though when my mum and dad bought me a light blue Mini. Over the road to our house was a little butcher’s shop owned by a chap called Amos Robinson, who became a real family friend. Knowing what I was doing, Amos had been keeping his ear to the ground for news of any cars that would come up for sale. He was well positioned, for this being the local butcher’s, he was subjected to chat all day. He also owned the only telephone we knew of in Water Street, which he would loan out at sixpence a call.

  Sure enough, Amos got wind of a Mini for sale and the owner lived over in the next street. Mum and Dad dipped into what savings they had and bought that Mini for me for £250. Money remained tight but there were three wages coming in now and no real car costs other than petrol, as in those days everyone serviced their own vehicles, and I was no different. Whenever there was any problem, I would get it up on a ramp and check it over. Engines were pretty easy if you knew what spark plugs and distributors were. It was all about getting your timing right. Oil changes were dead simple. You just took the sump out of the bottom, changed it over, altered your filters and that was that.

  What little extra money I did spend on my pride and joy proved to be a false economy. In the next street there was a battery of garages and not enough cars to fill them, so we hired one at an outlay of fifty pence a week to protect mine from the elements and house it overnight. Blow me down, if within a week I hadn’t run it straight into the garage door. Of course, we couldn’t afford to get the prang mended – at least not until I got my county cap and a significant pay hike.

  Anyway, here were a dozen blokes setting off, heading south 95 per cent of the time, representing Lancashire. I can’t get across how proud we all were of that red rose. I hope it’s still the same. There was an immense pride in travelling down to places like Taunton and Chelmsford and a social aspect to it all too. You would get to know your colleagues better over a few hours’ nattering, most of the time about every subject other than cricket.

  Unless, of course, your travelling companion happened to be Geoffrey Boycott. Essentially, when Boycs became a British Satellite Broadcasting team-mate of mine during my commentary infancy, I became his driver. It was not part of my contract, more an informal arrangement with formal instructions. For example, whenever we were scheduled to be working somewhere in the Midlands or down south that involved only a minimal detour, he would instruct me to pick him up at such a time, making the announcement a bit like a town crier would news of a royal birth or an outbreak of war.

  Then, when our journey was underway he would push back in the passenger seat, stretch his legs out and knock out a few Zs. In the days before sat navs, my natural orienteering skills were not great, so he would often wake up and check that I was on the right road before dozing once more. Stop for petrol and he would chastise me for not filling up before we departed. ‘You know your problem. It’s attention to detail. Preparation is the most important thing. That’s why you never scored any bloody runs,’ he’d tell me. It reminded me of being back at school.

  Trawling the county circuit was a wonderful existence. It was like heaven, really, when you think about the fundamental aspects of competitive sport. You had huge respect for your opponents, got on with them at the end of a day’s play
, but were desperate to turn them over during the hours of 10.30 a.m. to 7 p.m. Every time you strapped up the buckles on your pads, your focus was on winning that game for Lancashire.

  Sometimes, due to mind-boggling scheduling that would pitch us into a one-day match in Southampton two-thirds of the way through a three-day contest with Glamorgan, the intervention of heavy traffic, an accident or roadworks meant our convoys would arrive after midnight for matches that were due to start in a matter of hours. The organiser of the fixture list during my playing days was clearly someone with a sense of humour, because invariably we would be involved in a match at one end of the country one day and at the other end the next.

  Some of these trips would involve multiple stop-offs for food. Particularly when Jack Simmons was in transit. Jack was a very old-school cricketer who made provisions to get through a day’s play. For example, he used to tuck a biscuit in his back pocket when we were fielding so he had quick access to some snap during those lengthy afternoon or evening sessions. He couldn’t go a full one without, and it was a similar story for our car expeditions. On one occasion we were heading to Canterbury and he insisted that we stopped at Chorlton for fish and chips. If you don’t know the area, that is a total distance of two and a half miles from the gates at Old Trafford. You would think that would have put the big lad ‘on’ until our arrival, but we had to get through London to get down to Kent and he insisted on stopping at the Seashell on Lisson Grove for a second helping.

  Occasionally, we would be given a coach for lengthy trips, as was the case when we got snarled up on the way to Tunbridge Wells one year. We arrived at our designated hotel at approximately two o’clock in the morning, the place was blanketed in total darkness and there was only a night porter remaining on duty. After a journey like that, it was understandable that a number of the lads were gagging for the toilet. Having disembarked, we were looking to book in with this chap, whose hair had a similar consistency to Shredded Wheat, which suggested he had been aroused from his slumbers to deal with our checking-in process. Clearly tired and already in a bit of a flap trying to sort out all our rooms, he was asked: ‘Where’s the toilet?’