Do You Know What?

by Andrew Flintoff

  Everything I’ve said I wanted to do, I’ve done, and I’ve not turned down many things that really appealed to me. I wish I’d been a bit more like I am now when I was playing cricket. I was fearless to a degree on the cricket field, but if I played now I’d be even more gung-ho. It’s the only way to be. What’s the worst that can happen? That phrase has become a bit of a mantra of mine. Seriously, what’s the worst that can happen if you give something your best shot?

  I’ve got a mischievous side and like to shock. Not just other people, me as well. I always put myself in situations where I’m not sure what the outcome is going to be, where I’m not sure if I can pull it off. I love that feeling of not knowing what I’m getting myself into. Nothing is going to come close to the buzz that cricket gave me, but the closest buzz I can get now is throwing myself into things that are quite likely to sink me. The number of times I’ve been in a meeting, discussing a potential new work project, and found myself thinking, ‘How have I ended up here? This is just daft.’ But instead of making my excuses, getting up and walking out, I’ll have a little chuckle instead.

  I’d love to play cricket again, it was my dream job. But, that aside, I’ve never been happier and more comfortable in myself. And although it might sound strange, the fact I feel so comfortable means I’m happier to roam from my comfort zone. So when I was approached to perform in a musical, my reaction was, ‘Yeah, why not. What’s the worst that can happen?’

  I got a taste of the stage when I hosted a show for ITV called All Star Musicals, which involved seven famous people who had always wanted to do musical theatre getting a chance to perform at the London Palladium. Michael Crawford – Barnum, Phantom of the Opera, Frank Spencer – was a judge and mentor, and I had to rehearse my opening number while he was watching from the wings.

  Of course I was nervous because I was a fish out of water. I was surrounded by all these musical theatre folk who had been singing and dancing their whole lives, so I felt very vulnerable and insecure. But I knew that feeling well, so was able to control it. When I was playing cricket, I’d get scared a lot. I tell people I have no fear of failure, but I do. Nobody wants to fail, so anybody who says they’ve got no fear of failure is a liar. I was nervous before every game I played, before I came on to bowl, especially before I came out to bat. Nobody would have known, because I’d be sitting on the balcony in my pads, drinking a cup of tea. But I promise you I was.

  The only reason people think feeling nervous is bad is because they’ve been told it is. In most people’s minds, nerves are horrible, a negative, destructive phenomenon. But when I played cricket, I revelled in nerves. I liked standing there in the middle, with the bowler sprinting towards me and that sensation of not knowing what was going to happen next. The nerves made me move faster, feel more focused, more energised, more alive. The reason you play sport is to be involved in those big moments. Even now when I watch sport I get a bit jealous. I’ll watch someone take a penalty in a big match and think, ‘I wish that was me.’

  When I started doing A League of Their Own, I’d drink before I went on, to overcome the nerves, and it became the norm in most of the things I did. I got the dosage wrong a couple of times and didn’t really know what was going on, which isn’t great when James Corden and Jack Whitehall are whistling jokes past your head at 100mph. But now I’m a non-drinker, I’ve learned to just get on with things. So when the time came to perform my number at the Palladium in front of 2,000 people and Michael Crawford, I had that tingly, nervous feeling again. I loved not knowing if I was going to fluff my autocue, fluff my lines, sing out of tune, get some dance steps wrong. It was the same feeling I get when I do live stuff on TV. I won’t know what I’m going to say, my heart will be pounding, but as soon as I’m on, something just clicks.

  I still question myself a lot. I find myself in positions, with work or socially, where I think I’m not going to be able to do it. The number of times I’ve been out onstage or doing a TV show and thinking, ‘I’m not sure I’ve got this in me, I genuinely don’t know if I can do this.’ But if I’m not doubting myself, I’m in the wrong job.

  I met Kay Mellor at a casting for her drama series, Love, Lies and Records, and landed a part in one of the episodes. She thought I could do a job in her musical adaptation of Fat Friends, which was a big TV hit in the early 2000s and starred, among many other now-famous names, James Corden. Kay cast me as Kevin Murgatroyd, the slightly dopey fiancé of the lead character, which took a leap of faith on her part, because while she might have suspected I was slightly dopey, she had no idea if I could perform onstage.

  I was far more nervous doing musical theatre than I was doing boxing. I turned up for the first day of rehearsals and that same old thought came back again: ‘What am I doing? Why am I here?’ The first thing we did was gather around the piano and have a sing-song, and I was just moving my mouth, so that nothing was coming out. Everyone else was having a little contest among themselves, seeing who was the loudest and the best, and to say I felt inadequate would be putting it mildly. But I had a little chuckle, began to feed off the nerves and, before I knew it, I’d pulled myself together.

  You know when you watch a musical and it feels a bit embarrassing when someone starts singing, well, now imagine being that person who has to start singing. But I thought, ‘It doesn’t matter how much I practise, I’m never going to be as good as most of them, I can only be as good as I can possibly be.’ Once I’d sung in front of them for the first time, I realised I enjoyed it. It’s like swimming with sharks: you’re floating about in a cage, and you’ve been told that the sharks aren’t going to attack you, but you’re still thinking, ‘This is absolute madness.’ But the sharks don’t attack and it ends up being one of the best things you’ve ever done.

  I didn’t just want to get it right for me, I wanted to get it right for Kay, because she had shown so much faith in me, as had Nick Lloyd Webber, the son of Andrew, who had written the music. If someone puts faith in me, I give it back tenfold. It was the same when I played cricket. I didn’t want a coach telling me how I should bat or bowl, I just wanted to play for someone who backed me 100 per cent. Obviously, I needed a few tips on acting and singing, but now that they’d thrown their weight behind me I knew I would improve.

  I didn’t really have any expectations of what my theatre colleagues were going to be like. I used to think, ‘Cricket, sport, that’s my world, that’s my bread and butter, my meat and two veg, anyone who isn’t into cricket or sport is a bit strange.’ Professional sport is a very insular world, sportspeople think it’s the only way to live. When you live in that world, you think you have to stick with the same group of mates and behave in a certain kind of way until your dying day. It’s such a narrow way of thinking.

  When I retired from cricket, it dawned on me that I’d missed out on knowing so many interesting people. There I was hitting and throwing a ball about for all those years, thinking it was the only show in town and that these were ‘my people’, sod all the rest, and there was actually a bigger, wider world out there in need of exploring. Now, I don’t care what walk of life someone is from – wrong ’uns are wrong ’uns, whether they play cricket or work behind the counter in Greggs. In the same vein, good people are good people, end of story.

  I’m friends with a lot more women now, gay people, people who have no interest in sport and barely know what cricket is. So I got on with the main players in the musical really well, they all knew my background and could not have been more welcoming and supportive. Jodie is from Blackpool, just down the road from me. Sam Bailey was a prison officer before she won The X Factor. Kevin Kennedy, who played Curly Watts on Coronation Street, has lived a life outside of the acting game – he was even a member of the Smiths, before Morrissey joined and they became the Smiths. My understudy was a fella called Joel Montague, who was absolutely amazing. I felt a bit bad, because he’d just finished playing the main role in School of Rock in the West End. He’d won awards and accolades, so I tho
ught he might be a bit resentful towards me. But he was lovely, helped me a lot.

  I did get few scathing looks, because noses had been put out of joint. If I fluffed a line slightly in rehearsals, I’d see hands go over mouths, presumably because they were moaning about me. I get it: they’ve been to drama school and as far as they’re concerned, some bloke who played cricket has popped into their world and been given a plum role, including a few songs. But that’s life, and I don’t feel bad about it. I cast for it, gave it everything I had, and landed the part.

  And I’d also think, ‘You know what, they booked me because they wanted me.’ I’m not going to make any bones about it, I knew why I was there: to attract people to the show who don’t normally go to the theatre. So I wasn’t bothered, I found it funny and it lit a fire under me.

  Matthew Syed – who’s one-third of our BBC 5 live podcast, the other being Robbie Savage – once said that it looked like I winged everything, including the podcast. I’ll be honest: I don’t do a great deal of preparation for the podcast. But you can’t get away with that in musical theatre. I had to learn scripts and how to sing, or at least how to hold a note, just as I practised bloody hard to get good at cricket. I noticed that some of the cast didn’t want to see their notes after a performance because they didn’t like criticism. But I wanted pages and pages of notes because I was desperate to improve.

  At the premiere in Leeds, all I was thinking was, ‘Me mum and dad are sat in the audience and I’m standing here in a boiler suit about to start singing.’ My dad is a classic Northern man, he says exactly what he thinks. So, in the first scene, I had to fix this door, and I had to fix it properly, because otherwise I knew he’d be sat there thinking, ‘He’s not done that right.’ I didn’t seek them out during the show because I didn’t want to be distracted, but I saw them at the end, when we were taking our bows, which was lovely.

  My missus was also there, which was a little bit awkward, because I did this song with Jodie Prenger – who played my fiancée – which finished with a kiss. While I was kissing her – it wasn’t an open-mouthed snog, with tongues flying everywhere, it was just a stage thing – I could hear Robbie Savage, a man uninhibited by the niceties of the theatre, shouting, ‘Go on, Freddie!’ Me and Jodie started giggling, and I whispered, ‘Sorry about that, it’s just my mate Robbie. He’s an idiot…’

  It definitely doesn’t feel right, kissing someone else in front of your missus. But it could have been worse – I could have been doing Strictly (which Robbie did a few years back), where I’d be spending six hours a day with another woman, picking her up, throwing her upside down and sticking my nose in places it shouldn’t really go.

  The crowd in Manchester was mental. I started singing one song and people started laughing. I was thinking, ‘You’re not meant to laugh at this bit.’ I was a bit thrown, lost my thread, got behind a bit and got stuck singing this note a bit too high. I sounded like a dying owl and had to pretend I’d got all emotional.

  It was tough at times, because almost everyone else was a proper singer, while most of my singing experience was karaoke – usually after ten pints, sometimes in the Press Club, with my arm around Ricky Hatton – so I wasn’t always in tune. But questioning yourself is never a bad thing. It’s completely natural, and helpful, which is why I don’t mind doing it. I’ve had imposter syndrome all my life, even with cricket. I question myself every day, but it’s not the questions that are important, it’s the answers you give. That’s what makes me tick. If I’m not going to back myself to do something, I can’t expect anyone else to. I’ve done a bit of treading water, but I’ve not sunk yet.

  I’m not really into quotes, but there is one from former US president Theodore Roosevelt, from a speech he made, that sums my attitude up nicely:

  It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

  I think I would have liked Theodore Roosevelt, he seemed like my kind of bloke. But most of the time, I kept the message simple. It’s probably not what Kay Mellor wants to hear – or anyone who’s worked with me or might in the future – but I got through the production with the thought, ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  CHAPTER 4

  MY OWN WORST CRITIC

  Not giving a shit

  I was an easy target for the theatre critics, although I’m told most of the reviews were positive – Robbie used to read them out on the podcast. That said, calling me wooden was a bit lazy. If you’re going to slate me, dig out a more original word than wooden.

  During the run, I suddenly lost confidence in my singing. They changed my song a little bit, made it slightly higher, and no matter what I tried to do, I couldn’t get it right. Leaders are important in any walk of life, because they’re the people you can go to when you need a little bit of guidance or support. But my resident director, Craig, was ill and I really missed him. Usually when I sang well, the conductor would give me a wink or a thumbs-up. But now when I looked over, his head was buried in his music. I hadn’t had that feeling in a long time. It was like running into bad form as a batsman. When you’re in good nick, all you can see are gaps. When you’re in bad nick, all you can see are fielders.

  I have vivid memories of my failures on a cricket field, could tell you almost every way I got out since about the age of nine. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t relive the good bits, I’d want to fix those bits that went wrong. For the most part, I was a confident cricketer. I thought I was going to get Brian Lara out every time I bowled to him, even when he scored 400 against us. I thought the same with Sachin Tendulkar, who I regard as the best batsman who ever lived. I didn’t just want to get him out for the good of the team, I also wanted to get him out to impress him. It’s players like that who bring out the best in you. But before the 2005 Ashes, I’d never felt pressure like it.

  We’d beaten everyone over the previous few years, the press were talking us up, they were talking me up, and it all got on top of me. When I bowled in the first Test at Lord’s, my eyes were like saucers and I wasn’t really in control. And when it was our turn to bat, I took a spot in the dressing room, overlooking the balcony, and was frozen to my chair. Usually, I’d be out the back, watching a bit of TV in my pants, having a laugh with Harmy. I couldn’t make sense of it. I was thinking, ‘All these people are here, me mum and dad are watching, we’ve not won the Ashes since 1987, I’ve got to bat against Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne, look at the size of that press box…’

  When I walked out to bat, I usually felt alive – ‘This is my stage, this is where I want to be’ – but not that day. I took guard, looked around the field, and it seemed like there were about 30 Australians. I felt completely impotent. McGrath bowled me for a duck and we lost the game by a landslide. I choked, there’s no other way of putting it.

  Afterwards, I took a week off, went down to Devon with the family and didn’t touch a bat or a ball. While I was down there, I thought, ‘What were you thinking? You do this for fun. You pride yourself on turning up at the big moments. Next time, play the game on your terms.’

  Second Test at Edgbaston, the first bad ball Warne bowled, I was going to have a go at. He lobbed one up, I didn’t properly commit, but it just beat mid-off and ran away for four. After that, I was up and running. If only I could travel back to that first Test at Lord’s and tell myself it doesn’t matter as much as I think it does.


  I’d also go back to the last Test of that series at the Oval. I was in the form of my life, thought I could do anything, had just hit Shane Warne straight back over his head for six, and then I popped one up for a caught and bowled. Kevin Pietersen came in, finished it off and we regained the Ashes, but that was the biggest moment in that series and I didn’t come through it. That’s my overriding memory of that day, not regaining the Ashes after 18 years, but getting out. I still close my eyes now and see that ball coming out of Warne’s hand. I’ll be in bed, struggling to sleep, and I won’t be thinking about winning Sports Personality or World Player of the Year, I’ll be thinking about the time I got out first ball against Pakistan – Danish Kaneria, fucking googly! Even now, I’ll remember every line I fluff and every shit joke I tell, not things I’ve done well. The difference being, the memories don’t pain me as much.

  Because I’m my own worst critic, I couldn’t have cared less what the actual critics thought about my performances. When I started playing for Lancashire and England, I didn’t need to read about my performances in the newspapers. I already knew everything I needed to know – whether I played well or badly, won or lost. When people say they never read any of their press, they’re lying. But I honestly didn’t read much. And now, if I get any negative reaction on Twitter – and I’m lucky I don’t get too much of it – I know it’s coming anyway, because I’ve done something rubbish, like a bad TV show.

  In the theatre world, everyone knows the critics, and when the reviews for Fat Friends started coming out, people would stick them up on the noticeboard, or you’d have actors thanking the critics on Twitter. That amazed me, because we were playing in front of packed audiences every night, they were standing on their feet at the end of every performance, clapping, cheering and looking happy. Everyone who had paid to come and see us loved it, but some people were hanging on one person’s opinion. Who cares? I was performing in Fat Friends for me, for everyone else in the production and for the people who paid to watch. What could I do about any bad reviews anyway? I knew I could barely sing, so I just had to learn my lines and try my best every time I went out there.