by David Lloyd
Richie was the master of delivery. With famous lines like, ‘Captaincy is ninety per cent luck and ten per cent skill . . . but don’t try it without that ten per cent,’ he had people hanging on his every word.
When you are on lead commentary, on the first morning of a Test match, say, it feels like you’re batting for the folks at home. They’re not alongside you but they’re with you nevertheless, and there is always a moment of excitement when it’s your turn to set the scene. Sometimes, when David Gower hands over from the studio you have to give it a moment’s pause to allow the rest of the world to come in. Then, once you have composed yourself, you’re away. It’s a little bit like the start of an innings. You want to get going; to get that single to get off the mark. And hopefully once you get going, you will have painted the picture for the viewer, helped them to qualify what they are seeing, and started the process of getting them on the edge of their seats. Then, it’s time for the players to keep their part of the bargain.
Being a commentator is to be part of the entertainment industry, and I view my job as one to entertain. On occasion I am sat there imagining that Bryan Henderson, who as producer sits behind me, has Lloyd, the letter P and number 45 swirling around his head. But the skill is to know when it’s time to dumb down and when to be deadly serious, and it’s the cricket that generally dictates the mood. The fun is between overs and during lulls in the action – it’s then that a flick of the lazy switch and a search of the Western Terrace leads to sweepstakes on the size of the beer snakes or the number of fancy dress Elvises. Sometimes a steward confiscating a beach ball can be compulsive viewing.
What the public don’t like, I’m certain, is being shown a bank of dignitaries in the crowd, which is becoming an annoying trend in some parts of the world. Who are these people and what do they do? Well, they certainly didn’t play cricket, even when they were twelve stone lighter. For some reason, though, the Indian broadcasters insist they have to be shown because they’re important. But if I’m out on loan to another broadcaster as part of my contractual obligations with Sky, I refuse point-blank to say who they are, and never will. I just shut up. It’s different if you happen to spot a Hugh Jackman, Michael Parkinson or Mick Jagger in the crowd, but gratuitous plugs for non-cricketing, non-celebrities? No thanks.
Brian Johnston was one of a kind in his search for gentle mischief, but I’m not sure in these days of the politically correct he would get away with his tactic of avoiding tricky names for overseas players by dubbing them something completely different. Peter Baxter was a stickler for getting names right, but the 1991 tourists from Sri Lanka had a couple of particularly tricky names to pronounce, and when the seamer Kapila Wijegunawardene made his Test debut at Lord’s, Johnners said: ‘I’m going to call him Wagner, after the great composer.’
But there was never any malice, just unadulterated fun in that TMS box, with Fred Trueman playing up to his billing as the clown prince. One of Fred’s foibles was his time-keeping, always turning up at the last minute, worrying about where to park his car, and making sure his wife Veronica was comfortable for the day. On one particular occasion in 1992, on his home ground of Headingley no less, he had made his way up to the rickety old commentary box at the top of the rugby stand behind schedule. The Test match between England and Pakistan had already started and it was the famous occasion when Neil Mallender had been chosen as a horses-for-courses selection.
Fred came blustering into our chicken coop after the first over had gone down: ‘What a job I’ve had getting in, parking up, and getting Veronica to her seat. I’ve sat her with Sir Lawrence Somebody-or-other.’ This was Sir Lawrence Byford, president of Yorkshire County Cricket Club.
‘Fred’s arrived, everyone, wonderful to see you,’ Johnners greeted him on behalf of the nation.
Fred had got his pipe with him and it was stoking up like Ferrybridge Power Station. Within a couple of minutes, the entire box was covered in fog and visibility became a challenge.
Johnners rejoined: ‘See you’ve got the pipe going, Fred. You don’t inhale, do you?’
Before Fred could get a word in, Bill Frindall raised his head from his scorebook to interject: ‘No, but we do.’
Then Fred chips in by asking: ‘Who’s that running in from the Kirkstall Lane End?
‘Neil Mallender, Fred.’
‘And who does he play for?’
‘Northamptonshire, Fred.’
‘Well, I am here to tell you that there have been some great bowlers run in from the Kirkstall Lane End – and he’s not one of them!’
He added: ‘Neither does he look like a well man, to me.’
Of course, Mallender’s nickname was Ghost because of his milky white complexion, and a target for Fred’s curmudgeonly treatment of any rival seam or swing bowlers. It would not have mattered a jot to him that Mallender claimed eight wickets, and returned the best figures on debut by an England bowler in a decade, to help his side to victory. In my mind, from an English perspective, there has never been anyone to touch Fred. It was clearly the same in his mind too, although he didn’t half play up to the caricature of himself that everyone was so fond of developing.
When Jonathan Agnew came on board as the BBC’s cricket correspondent, he and I would playfully masquerade as listeners and send in questions via fax, then sit at the back of the box giggling as Johnners would ask things like: ‘Who in your opinion, Fred, are the six fastest bowlers that England have produced?’
‘Well, there were me . . .’
‘Oh, there must be seven,’ Johnners would say, in that wonderfully understated tone.
Cricket lends itself to the most serious analysis and slapstick humour sitting side by side, and that is why TMS has been such a well-loved institution. But, like me, these men were true patriots and cared deeply about the fortunes of the England team, none more so than Fred.
Back in 1984, after David Gower’s declaration set West Indies 342 in 78 overs to win a Test match at Lord’s, Fred was being teed up by the lead commentators with lines such as: ‘Well, it’s going well for West Indies here, Fred,’ and ‘What a start, England would have thought there were only two results possible on this final day . . .’
Other than a grunt, Fred didn’t say a word, leading to him being asked: ‘Would you like to expand on that?’
‘No. They’re that bad I am saying nowt!’
Of course, that was not what was expected of a radio summariser, and the quick-witted Christopher Martin-Jenkins replied: ‘Well, the general idea on radio is that somebody does so, so I’ll continue.’
On another occasion, the ‘it-was-always-better-in-my-day’ Trueman was in full flow when discussion turned to the best batsmen to have graced the game. ‘Well, there was Leonard. He was a wonderful player, Leonard,’ said Fred, referring to Len Hutton.
‘Then, there was the great Wally.’
To which Johnners said: ‘Which great Wally’s that?’
Fred added that the great Wally in question was Wally Hammond, one of the most difficult batsmen he had ever bowled against. Cue guffaws when Frindall, whose brain was the equivalent of a Cricipedia, said: ‘That’s strange, Fred, because you never actually played against him.’ It turned out that their careers had just missed each other’s.
Two things you could be sure about in the TMS box: there was never a dull moment and there would always be a glass of red wine or two after lunch. Trevor Bailey, a TMS stalwart for a quarter of a century until 1999, would get asked a question and be in such a state of relaxation that his initial response – a ‘mmmmm . . . mmwww’ – sounded as though he was heavily constipated. Nothing much would follow. The Boil – as he became known because of the way Bailey sounded when pronounced by Australians – had a language all of his own. Nothing impressed him as much as a meticulous seamer: ‘He’s accr’t, very accr’t,’ he would enthuse. To be honest, I’m not sure what Trevor would make of the disparity between bat and ball these days, because rather than condemn the beamer he would
be all for one being slid in every now and again to keep the batsman honest.
No one was more eccentric than CMJ, whose position as a most respected broadcaster, author and national newspaper cricket correspondent was offset by his absent-mindedness. Known as the Major, it might have passed for Major Mishap because he was renowned for such madcap errors as trying to ring The Times sports desk with a remote control rather than his mobile, mildly agitated at the lack of reception. On another occasion while at his hotel, he was listening to music on his MP3 player while cutting some newspaper articles out to paste in his scrapbook. When the music stopped he assumed he had run out of batteries. So he put a new set in, frustratingly and confusingly to no avail. In need of help, he tracked down Mike Selvey, of the Guardian, for some technical guidance. It turned out he had cut straight through the wire.
There was great joy in the Test Match Special box in the summer of 2014 because Henry Blofeld celebrated forty years on the team, and I doubt his level of enthusiasm has dropped. I cannot imagine how many pigeons and buses he’s called over the years. Probably a similar number to wickets and maidens. He may not have been a professional cricketer himself, but Blowers is as calamitous as the rest, and with commitment to boot. For the opening Lord’s Test of the summer, he turned up looking his usual resplendent self in his red trousers, which must have been touch and go after setting fire to himself during his own dinner party. Apparently, an errant candle found its way onto his attire. The old boy said he thought he was being cremated but he lived to tell the tale and was in sprightly form – if slightly scorched.
Talking of dinner, it’s a presumption that the Sky Sports commentary team hangs out socially after hours. But that is absolutely not the case. There are lots of people with lots of opinions in that box, some iconic cricketers who played for England and many former captains, and as in a dressing room environment we all have different interests and different people we click with: Ian Botham and David Gower like fine dining, fine wines; Mikey Holding is devoted to his computer and horse racing; Michael Atherton, Nasser Hussain and myself generally tend to be beer-and-curry men with producer Bryan Henderson and Mark Lynch, the director. Ian Ward is great company and has a permanent thirst.
Some things we do religiously, such as the grand slam of naan in Nottingham. On a short stretch of Maid Marian Way, there are about half a dozen Indian restaurants and we are in a different one every night. Starting off with a couple of pints at the Old Bell, the Lincolnshire Poacher or Olde Trip to Jerusalem, we then slip off down to one of the curry houses. We tend to let off more gas at a Trent Bridge Test than anywhere else.
On other occasions, Atherton does go off piste to join the pompous dining club, attending restaurants that serve things called jus and foam, and provide tasting menus with twenty little bits of nothing on them. On one occasion, Gower and Derek Pringle were tasting some wines at £120 a bottle. One was slatey and the next one was gritty, apparently. I told them that they sounded ridiculous, like they had experience of sampling roof tiles and the remnants at the bottom of a budgie’s cage, but they dismissed me as a heathen and told me to jog on.
It takes all sorts of different characters to gel to make a team, and Shane Warne and Hussain make quite a contrast. Warnie can be very dramatic early in a morning, regularly warning our producer Bryan Henderson that he has not had enough sleep, only to qualify it with: ‘But I am here – I’ve turned up for ya.’ Goodness knows what he has been up to. Unfortunately, the most trouble he has ever got me into was when a ball slipped from my hand during one of our lunchtime masterclasses and struck the lens of one of the £34,000 cameras. Our previous boss Paul King told us off like a couple of naughty schoolboys.
Sometimes Nasser will tell us he has seen enough of us during the day and will stay in his hotel room on his tod. Who do you think the winner is there? When he does come out, it can often lead to disaster. On one night out in Hampstead, first his car wouldn’t start and had to be trailered back to Essex. Then the hotel lost his luggage, so he had to come out in his work gear. Finally, the boss promptly spilled Sauvignon Blanc over him. Not sure Nasser saw the funny side.
In contrast to the slapstick of TMS, Paul Allott and Bob Willis are very serious broadcasters, some would even argue dour and boring in Bob’s case, but away from the camera they can be outrageous fun. Bob has found himself a great niche on Sky Sports with his Verdict – the part of the highlights show during which he tells it exactly how it is. For me this has become compulsive viewing; everyone is waiting for what he is going to come out with next, and social media is always abuzz in anticipation of Bob’s appearance when England have done badly. After losing 5-0 in Australia during the winter of 2013-14, he was asked for his thoughts. ‘They should all be sent home, economy class,’ he said. ‘Some of them strapped to the wings.’
When Duncan Fletcher oversaw the previous whitewash down under seven years previously, Bob got out of his seat, sending wires flying everywhere, to lean into the camera five metres away, prod it and say: ‘I know you are watching, Duncan Fletcher. Go now!’ At times he is unmissable.
There have been other great Bobisms over recent years. One day Charles Colvile expressed the opinion that it was a shame rain had stopped play, and that it had denied the Barmy Army their money’s worth. ‘What do you think of the Barmy Army?’ Charlie asked him. ‘They should all be gassed.’ He also got hounded out of the St Lawrence Ground in Canterbury to a cacophony of boos in a domestic game after Colvile got him going again on the subject of the lime tree that once famously stood within the boundary before nature and high winds took their course. In contrast to Colin Cowdrey, who eulogised it to the extent he claimed if he had a wish for a final act on earth, it would be to speed a cover drive towards it for four, Bob simply snarled: ‘Should have been chopped down years ago. Whoever heard of a tree in the middle of a cricket field?’
Comedians like Frankie Boyle can get away with that kind of thing and much worse, but Bob does tend to upset people. You have to remember he is playing a bit of a role here. What should not be underestimated, however, is his passion for English cricket, and in his assessment of it he pulls no punches. If you had a chance, you would be hard pressed not to enjoy his company over a couple of pints because he lives life.
You are certainly left in no doubt that this is the case with Bill Lawry, a master of immersing himself in the action. He completely feels it, becomes like a fan in the very best possible way. People say that players don’t leave anything on the pitch when they have played well, and it’s a bit like that in his commentary. When he calls a game, he’s out of his seat as it reaches its climax, and standing up is something I have copied. At the end of a match when the run chase is counting down, you are just in the zone. It’s no good being too cool for school. You have to transmit the emotion involved. There’s a winner and a loser here. There are viewers at home wanting one team to win and the other to lose, and part of the excitement of a good game is being taken on an emotional journey. When you know you have done it right, it’s an exhilarating feeling. Sky are not a company that blow the wind up your backside, but when it’s all finished and the guys are de-rigging after an epic conclusion and your producer gives you a slap on the back and a thumbs up, that is satisfaction.
Taking pride in what you do is a prerequisite of any job for me, and I have to admit to not enjoying the contrast in style when I have worked for Star Sports – who own the rights for International Cricket Council events such as World Cups. Undoubtedly, there has been a massive shift during my time with them towards incessant chat, and the motormouth style they do nothing to discourage is a total turn off for me. They get iconic players through the door and plonk them behind the microphone, which is doing everyone a disservice.
Graeme Smith, Rahul Dravid and Brian Lara were examples of wonderful cricketers, but as I mentioned earlier subjecting these giants of the modern game to stints alongside each other for World Cup knockout matches, without appearing to have given them any pr
actice or experience, was totally wrong in my book. When I watch cricket on television, I find myself studying the production rather than the action itself, and I was so horrified during the semi-final match between South Africa and New Zealand, arguably the best contest of the whole 2015 tournament, that I had to switch the volume off.
Some people can make commentary look easy, and they tend to be the ones who do the job regularly. These guys were badly exposed for their lack of mileage in the field, but they were not wholly to blame. The majority of the fault lay with the producer, I’m sorry to say, who should have been telling them to get off peripheral subjects and focus on the monitor alongside them. When a game is going on, there is a huge vista in front of you and a tiny monitor that you work to. Primarily you work to that monitor, not the full field, as you need to know what pictures are being screened and what is coming up. You work off the monitor and glance at the game, not the other way around.
When commentating, you’re not only communicating with the rest of the world, you’re communicating with the rest of your colleagues. Instructions through the earpiece tell you what is coming up – you are listening to the director for what happens next while the assistant producer alerts you for advert breaks, taking you in and out on a one, two, three count. The producer is sat behind you, alongside you are your co-commentators and the assistant producer is downstairs. It’s a skill that takes some mastering and I defy anyone to present evidence of it being completely mastered first time.
You simply cannot be coming in halfway through a sentence when the rest of the world is joining you, because the audience naturally thinks: ‘What the hell are they on about?’ This takes some getting used to and some are unable to do it, and don’t even try, refusing to either listen to or wear the earpiece altogether. I know when we at Sky invite players or coaches in for short stints in domestic matches to give them an insight into what goes on, nearly all of them are reluctant to wear these essential accessories because they find it a distraction. The knack is to have the volume turned down so the voices are there, in the background, passive rather than active but audible, so you can navigate your way through.