Last in the Tin Bath

by David Lloyd

  We were too inconsistent, and that reeked of fatigue to me. We had the talent but displaying it across an entire match, let alone a series, was often beyond us. The core players lurched into games knackered, and preparation could have been so much better.

  By the end of that winter, it was becoming clear that my tenure had run its course. Whispers were getting back to me while we were in Australia that the board were interviewing Bob Woolmer. To hear that kind of thing when you are committed in a job is not nice. I don’t know whether they did carry through with this interview or not, but it was deflating to consider they might be scouring the world markets for a replacement. I felt there had been some significant steps forward, yet we didn’t necessarily win enough for either me or my employers to be fully satisfied – they had shown doubt in one sense by removing the rolling aspect of my twelve-month contract. In shaping the fortunes of the England team, I felt we were heading in the right direction after nine wins in thirty-four Tests, but I concede we could have done better. For the ECB’s part, there could have been greater support, particularly when my passionate nature got the better of me.

  Discussions were already underway on my future – Tim Lamb said he didn’t feel able to give me any promise of longer-term commitment – when in mid-March, six weeks before the 1999 World Cup squad were due to meet up, I travelled to Ian MacLaurin’s London offices to map out my own career from that point forward. Although it was the best job in the world as far as I was concerned, and my coaching instincts alerted me of potential reward to come, the pragmatist inside me offered a contradictory view. I needed clarity over my future. My contract was due to run out in August and now into my fifties I was looking for some security.

  So it was that on the eve of a global tournament we agreed I would leave ahead of schedule, thus allowing my successor time to bed in against New Zealand ahead of that winter’s tour to South Africa. From a self-preservation point of view, I didn’t want to be in a position where I left that meeting in New College Street, London, with the potential to be sacked weeks later with no other employment lined up. From the board’s point of view, they saw the World Cup as a massive competition and didn’t feel compelled to make a decision at that time.

  Yet I didn’t feel that the planning replicated their thoughts on the competition’s importance. Lots of small things that would have made a big difference just weren’t right. We were based in Canterbury when I had tried to make an advantage of being the host country by requesting we were based in Leicester, a more central location. We were under-prepared courtesy of a payment dispute by the players and we got what we deserved. Meanwhile, I got the career change that I was aware of becoming a possibility the previous winter when the BBC’s Test Match Special, the new players in televised cricket Channel 4, which had started screening home internationals, and Sky Sports all made tentative approaches towards me. Neither was there time to lick my wounds as the inquests took hold in soggy Birmingham – because within hours of our exit John Gayleard from Sky Sports was on the phone, telling me I was starting my new job with immediate effect.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Engine’s Running

  It could have been ‘Don’t panic, Mr Mainwaring,’ or ‘Oooh, I could crush a grape.’ Just as easily it might have been ‘I don’t believe it,’ or ‘You plonker, Rodney.’ All these catchphrases have one thing in common. None of them is mine. Then again, to tell you the truth, neither is ‘Start the car,’ my signature on commentary. Sure, it has become synonymous with my stints behind the microphone for Sky Sports, a job I began immediately after the 1999 World Cup campaign, but it wasn’t a line I can lay claim to because I pilfered it during my days on the northern after-dinner circuit.

  During the 1980s, I would often be paired on evening bills with a comedian from Blackpool called Mick Miller, and we were each booked in half-hour slots. Being a meticulous timekeeper when it came to his stint, Mick would always be keeping an eye on his watch. If you ask me, that was natural enough because I always wanted my time to be over as quickly as possible at these dos. Speaking in front of a hundred blokes plied with booze was certainly more of a means to an end than a labour of love, as far as I was concerned. Glancing down at his wrist, when he realised he had ticked over past the 29-minute mark, Mick would tell the floor: ‘I’ve almost done my time, the money’s mine, start the car.’

  I couldn’t tell you the exact game in which I first used this magpied phrase, but I always liked the idea of the getaway when the job was done and so began using it to signify to the viewers that in my opinion a run chase had been broken or that a team’s pursuit had been thwarted. Furthermore, I’m not sure how it stuck with me, as it wasn’t a conscious decision to use it repeatedly, but cricket’s audience must have latched onto it, because if there is one line that recurs with my time behind the microphone, that is the one.

  There is a chance I muttered it in those first few weeks of work for Sky in the summer of 1999, immediately after defeat to India had us in the England camp reaching for the car keys ahead of schedule. That spring saw seismic change for me. I became a married man again, and with that came a new life in Cheadle Hulme with Diana. I also became a television commentator again.

  During my discussions with Ian MacLaurin in London, I let it be known that other job offers had to be considered in the absence of anything concrete being promised from August onwards when my employment with the ECB was due to expire. I proposed a post-World Cup departure as the most suitable for all parties. Of course, professional pride triggered a desire in me for him to shout me down and turn talk to a future that involved me. It was not forthcoming and the Team England identity we had worked hard to create was going to be given to another to safeguard. To the last, I have to say MacLaurin was supportive, and he gave the distinct impression that he was sad rather than glad that we were parting, and that he didn’t want to sack me. Conversely, he was in no position to give any promises.

  But as I left the job with England I walked straight into another with Sky. News of my departure was released immediately, and within twenty-four hours I was being given a ten-minute deadline in a phone call with Gayleard. I asked for extra time to consider and was given a firm no. Within the hour, a faxed copy of a contract offer was in my hands, and my official departure press conference with England was immediately followed by another with Sky in which they presented me as their new man. ‘David Lloyd, Sky Sports, Old Trafford,’ sounded all right to me.

  Suddenly Ian Botham, Paul Allott, Bob Willis, Michael Holding and David Gower, all guys I knew personally, were going to be colleagues. I would be made to feel very welcome, but it did rankle a touch at first that these guys had been critical of the work I’d been doing as coach. That didn’t last long, though. You have to come to terms with a few things when you jump the fence. As soon as you’re on the other side of it, you appreciate that little bit more that you are going to get praised and you’re going to get criticised. There’s an expectation on you to have opinions if you are commentating for a living. It’s a public service, lest we forget.

  My first ever commentary was for BBC radio in the 1986 NatWest final between Lancashire and Sussex when I was used as the Lancashire expert and John Barclay chosen as the equivalent for Sussex. My first mistake was to turn up in a suit. Of course, for radio you don’t need that. But I believed that working for the BBC meant I had to look smart. Naively, I also expected there to be rehearsals in advance when I agreed to the gig, so it was something of a shock to the system when I was thrown live on air. It’s a simplistic way of looking at things now, but all you really need to know in that position is your subject, and I was pretty well qualified there.

  In the course of time, I was also to discover that when it came to another of the broadcaster’s gifts, I had struck gold. You need to have a voice for radio, and I know I’m so lucky in this regard, because (and I don’t know why) according to people whose expertise is TV or radio, lots have told me that my voice is perfect.

  N
ot that my initial experience with the Beeb proved a smooth ride, despite that first engagement at Lord’s being followed by further offers of work. For when Peter Baxter, the producer of Test Match Special, wrote to me during this period as an irregular summariser and offered me a more regular position, I declined. At that jack-of-all time in my life, I considered myself too busy to take on a regular position. I was trying to earn a living through my dinners, coaching and other things besides, and was fearful of throwing all my eggs in one basket.

  After this, Peter wrote back to me instructing me to think again. I chatted to Christopher Martin-Jenkins about the situation and he advised me that although I might find that the remuneration was quite modest, radio and a flagship show like TMS provided a profile from which came many, many spin-offs. So that, in a nutshell, is how the broadcasting part of my career started.

  Needless to say, Peter’s forthright correspondence, and CMJ’s supplementary advice, made me re-evaluate where my split work life was heading. It was one that was becoming more and more hectic and varied, and certain parts of it were more lucrative than others. If my ambition had briefly taken in a desire to be part of a new international umpiring panel when it was first floated in the late 1980s, it proved a fleeting one.

  When I was learning the ropes behind the microphone with Test Match Special, I was grateful for the generosity of spirit shown to me by trained broadcasters, those who knew the tricks of the trade. As with most things, being part of a commentary team becomes easier with practice. Back then, the main commentator, the lead, described the action. The summariser, someone to have played the game to a high standard and more often than not a former international such as myself, then came in between overs to provide expert analysis. Your job was to reflect on what had just gone on and what might happen. Then it was time to shut up, allowing the lead man to call the full over before you interjected again. That process was sacrosanct, although the contemporary template is much less structured and at times resembles a free-for-all.

  At the time I was dealing with broadcasters of the calibre of CMJ, Brian Johnston and Don Mosey, unbelievably accomplished lead commentators, so there was little chance of me straying off course, and from the back of the box I was able to listen for guidance from fellow summarisers such as Trevor Bailey and Fred Trueman. Yes, we had great fun but there was a real discipline to it all, and it was as much for their skill at the job as my understanding of it that I would never cut in out of sync. Johnston, Martin-Jenkins and Mosey were like conductors, guiding you in and out.

  Another who made commentary look like a cakewalk was Richie Benaud, an outstanding cricketer for Australia, an ace as a captain, but lest we forget someone who went on to become the finest of broadcasters on retirement. He put in the hard yards to learn the skills, and he used the greatest trick of them all regularly. It is a misconception that commentating is solely about speaking. It’s not. It’s about knowing when to speak. Equally, it is about knowing when to stay silent. Richie was a master of this.

  There’s a lesson here for a few of the blokes who pick up a mic in this day and age. Not long after television channels made a move to three commentators, I had the honour of being asked to do a stint on Australia’s Channel 9 during an Ashes Test over there. Richie’s modus operandi was to keep his utterances to a minimum. In so doing, when he did have something to say, you listened.

  On this occasion in question, the usual economy of words had been employed by him when he picked up on something in the middle and flicked what we call the lazy switch, so he could have a quiet word with the director without the viewers hearing him. He wanted some footage of an incident he’d spotted a couple of overs earlier – Shane Warne had done something in the slips and it had passed the rest of us by. After a short interlude, the footage he wanted was located. Warne, who hadn’t bowled yet – but who would go on to skittle England for the umpteenth time – had picked up his bowling marker, a small white disc, and thrown it to where he thought he’d be starting his run-up. Between overs, they broadcast Warne’s gesture, with a simple accompaniment: ‘Shane Warne’s just put a marker down.’

  That was Richie’s only contribution in the half-hour we were on together, but it beat anything else we had to offer. One line! It was classic Benaud: he had the eagle eye to see what Warne was doing in the first place, the confidence to stay quiet while we rabbited on, and the perfect choice of words. As he might have put it himself: marvellous.

  The coverage at the 2015 World Cup emphasised just how good he was. Ill health meant he couldn’t take his place as scheduled, and absence made the heart grow fonder for his laconic style. For some reason Star Sports, the tournament’s global broadcasters, used a team of rookies to commentate and threw their least experienced together, it seemed, for the final. Some of them were among the game’s greatest modern-day players, wonderful talents, but with bats and balls in hand, not mics.

  Frustratingly, it was painfully evident that none of them had done much commentary. Neither was it apparent that they had observed how the job is done properly or been given any meaningful advice by those who had offered them a place in the commentary box either. It was terrible TV. They just couldn’t pinpoint the moment – no emotion, no elation, no despair. At times, you had to remind yourself that a cricket match was being played as they regaled the viewers with tales of their own careers. They had plenty to say, it seemed, just not much on the most significant one-day match played anywhere for the last four years.

  How we missed Richie that evening. He never went overboard, and the size of the occasion would not have changed him one little bit, but he could have captured all those qualities in that understated way of his.

  Sometimes he could be very understated indeed. I remember talking to Michael Slater, who teamed up with him in the commentary box in his later years. He told me about one day when Richie did two half-hour stints as one of Channel 9’s trio, and did not utter a single word. That was Richie – content to sit on nought and make hay later when the opportunity presented itself. If there was nothing to add to the picture the viewers could see, he wouldn’t offer anything.

  One thing that you have to remember on TV is that the viewer can see the cricket. Your voice is supplementary. It really pains me now, for example, when some commentators start reading out a graphic that has appeared on screen for all to see. It might be the top ten leading run-scorers at a particular ground, or the best batting averages of players when chasing in one-day internationals. Visual aids are part of television coverage. They are meant to complement the topic of discussion. So to read out the list from top to bottom is incredibly naïve, even patronising. Perhaps it’s indicative of a spoonfed generation. I would be having a quiet word, reminding them that the viewers in 99 per cent of cases will be able to read.

  In contrast, Richie would consider the list, and then say something like: ‘The way things are going number four could soon be moving up as high as number two.’ He wouldn’t even name names – he respected the intelligence of the viewer. And I know how much viewers respond to that.

  One of his best qualities was that he never sought the limelight. He wasn’t in it for the ego. He’d turn up in the commentary box and if he was off-air, he’d set up at the back of the box, take out his computer, have a gander at the latest horse racing cards or do his homework on the newest player on the scene, recent performances from a team or the characteristics of previous matches at the ground in question.

  He was always fully equipped when he took the chair. The chemistry he had with the likes of Tony Greig and Bill Lawry was amazing. It was unmissable. And it was based on a deep mutual respect and love of the game.

  Boy, he loved the game. One evening, Richie, the former Manchester United manager Ron Atkinson and I were treated to dinner in Birmingham by the News of the World, which we were all working for at the time. Ron was covered in his signature bling and telling us all how he could get into any nightclub in town. He was clearly ready for a lively evening. Richie w
asn’t a big drinker but he’d allowed himself a couple of glasses of red, and he started telling this story about the great Australian leg-spinner Bill O’Reilly. It’s fair to say the story was on the longish side, and by the time Ron had disappeared into the night and Richie was being bundled into a waiting taxi, we were still learning all about the man they nicknamed Tiger. We had got as far as his third Test appearance, I think.

  That enthusiasm was typical of Richie’s devotion to the game. But he possessed this wit that made all other commentators want to be like him. He didn’t really go in for after-dinner speaking, but he might occasionally be asked to say a few words at functions. Once he spotted me in the audience at one, and quickly remembered the time I had my virility challenged by that hoodlum Jeff Thomson (have I mentioned that before?).

  ‘Ah, there’s David Lloyd,’ Richie said. ‘I remember him telling us in 1974-75 how he could play Thommo with his c**k . . . and then he proceeded to do precisely that.’ The joke was all in the pause and the timing.

  He was a great leg-spinner, a superb tactician, and a lovely bloke who won respect with his demeanour. I can just imagine how warmly he’ll be welcomed by some of the other great commentators up in the sky: Brian Johnston, Alan McGilvray, John Arlott, even Fred Trueman. Fred was often known to splutter: ‘I just don’t know what’s going off out there.’ Richie, it’s safe to say, never suffered from the same affliction. He was the doyen of the commentary box because he was so astute.

  If there has been anything that has linked me to Benaud it has been attitude, I hope. ‘What I want most from being a television commentator is to be able to feel that, when I say something, I am talking to friends,’ he once said. That’s how I feel about my job. I share his mantra of engaging brain before speaking (although some might not believe that at times). What I mean is that it’s much better to get whatever point across in as few words as possible. Whether you are trying to make a serious reflection on the match’s progress or raise a smile or a chuckle, do it succinctly. Do not rabbit on.