Do You Know What?

by Andrew Flintoff

  In any walk of life, the most important things are what you can offer and whether you give it your all. If you spend too much time – or any time – worrying about what and how other people think, you’ll end up in a state of paralysis. That’s why I hated team meetings about the opposition. I’d be sat in a room with all my teammates and the coaches would be going through what the other team can do – where you should bowl to certain players, where they can score, where they can’t score – and I’d be thinking, ‘What’s the point of this?’ It would bore me to tears. I knew what Ricky Ponting could and couldn’t do, but I didn’t want to sit there talking about that. What’s important is what I can do.

  When it came to batting, I just tried to hit it. In terms of bowling, my good ball was my good ball, that’s why I was in the team. It didn’t matter if it was a tail-ender or Ricky Ponting, I just tried to hit the top of off-stump. If it nipped away, I might get an edge. If it nipped back, I might bowl you. You could show me every video under the sun and dissect everybody’s technique, but it didn’t change my approach. Glenn McGrath used to say he targeted individual batters. Bollocks he did, he just used to put the ball in exactly the same place every time, at 80mph. It was all just mind games.

  I was the same, more interested in what I could do than the fella standing down the other end. I’m not sure I could ever be an England coach because of my reputation. Then again, that’s nonsense. If I want to do it, I’ll go and do it. And if I was England coach, I’d talk about us, our strengths, what we can do to win, what we can do to identify when something’s not right with a teammate, and how we might be able to help him. It’s no different to musical theatre. Kay Mellor didn’t sit me down and say, ‘Right, this is what the critics or crowd want you to do’, she just wanted me to go out there and be me.

  CHAPTER 5

  FLOUNDERING WITH HARRISON FORD

  The advantages of interloping

  When I retired from cricket, a couple of journalists wrote articles suggesting I was floundering, groping around in the dark for a new identity. Did I feel a bit lost? Yes. When you retire from sport, your life changes dramatically. Playing cricket was the only thing I’d known since I was a kid and the only thing I’d ever wanted to do, but now I couldn’t do it. When I hung up my bat, I spent a lot of time wondering what I was going to do. Who – and what – on earth was I? Of course, I questioned a lot of things about myself. Now, despite seeing where I could have done better, I look back on my career with fondness, at how lucky I was, which makes life easier. But when I retired, I couldn’t help thinking that I could have played for longer and had been robbed of a chunk of my career. But it’s how you recover from setbacks that’s important, what you do next, and how successful you try to make it.

  I was 31 but felt like I was 16 again, trying to carve out a different living. I was unsure of myself, not knowing if I belonged. When I played cricket, I hated routine, rebelled against it, but when I retired I quickly realised that routine was exactly what I needed, to keep me from drifting. But to say I was bumbling through life simply wasn’t true. When I finished playing cricket, I decided that I didn’t want to coach or be a commentator, like so many former cricketers before me. It would have been easy for me to become a pundit and talk about what I knew. But I like talking about cricket on my own terms, and I reckon doing it for a living would have been like pulling teeth. I wanted to see what else was out there. And that has meant ending up in situations that other people have found difficult to accept or understand.

  I look at some of my friends and I envy them, because they have a nine-to-five job, live for the weekend when they go and get smashed, and head back to work on the Monday. There’s nothing wrong with that, because they’re happy. People think that if you ‘settle’ for that kind of life and aren’t bothered about getting a better-paid job or working your way up the career ladder, there’s something wrong with you. But I’d love to be like that, to be able to look around and think, ‘You know what, I’m happy with life, this is all I need and it’s brilliant.’ But I can’t do that, it doesn’t appeal to me. If I’m not working towards something, I get fed up, because I feel like I’m standing still. If life isn’t a challenge, I’m not alive. At times it’s exhausting, but it’s the way I have to be.

  I did a few bits and pieces in front of the camera while I was still playing, some presenting on Sky, got work with ITV4 before being offered the gig on A League of Their Own. I’d be doing my management agency a disservice by saying I stumbled into anything, because they have a strategy. And I’ve not done anything I didn’t want to do. So if I’m floundering, I’m a bloody good flounderer. I’m floundering with the best of them.

  After my knee operation, I was told I’d never run again. But I took that as a challenge. I rang the surgeon up, told him I was running a bit, and he told me that if I could deal with the pain, I should crack on. So in 2014, I came out of retirement to play a few Twenty20 games for Lancashire. I knew I wasn’t going to be anywhere near as good as I used to be, but I took a few wickets and scored a few runs in the final and ended up being signed by Brisbane Heat for the 2014–15 Big Bash competition. I loved it, but was rubbish, completely out of my depth because I could barely move. I felt bad, because Brisbane’s coach, my old Lancashire teammate Stuart Law, had put a lot of faith in me and I didn’t repay it on the field (although they did end up selling more tickets).

  I also commentated on a few games while I was playing, with an on-field microphone, and sang Elvis’s ‘In the Ghetto’ on the boundary when I was bored. That all went down well with the bosses at Network Ten, so they offered me a commentary role the following season and, as part of the deal, I was also offered a role on a live current affairs show called The Project. In Australia, they seem to think I’m intelligent, which is not a great reflection of the country. But the Aussies have always been very generous towards me, even when England were getting hammered on the cricket field. They accept flaws and failings, as long as you have a go.

  Mind you, Aussies have gone soft. You can’t cross the street unless there’s a green man, otherwise you’ll get done for jaywalking. You’ll be standing there at the lights, there won’t be a car within four miles, and they’ll all be stood there like statues. If you do ignore the lights, people will tut and shake their heads. I was over there recently, trying to cross a road at about 3 a.m., and this lollipop woman started shouting at me and threatened to call the police. I was thinking, ‘I’ve got this, I’m 40 years old, I don’t need people ushering me across empty roads.’ Everything is ‘inappropriate’ over there, so I spend a lot of time thinking, ‘Why are you rolling your eyes at me?’

  My ambition was never to be on TV, my ambition was to play cricket for Lancashire and England. If there’s something exciting I want to do, I’ll do it. But if it all goes wrong tomorrow, I can just go home and forget about it. That’s a strangely liberating attitude. It frees you up, allows you to play shots you wouldn’t otherwise play, instead of being like a rabbit in the headlights. So when The Project asked me to interview Will Smith and Margot Robbie in Los Angeles, I wasn’t really fazed. Why would that bother me when I’ve faced Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne at Lord’s in an Ashes Test match?

  I caught a bus to the cinema to watch their film, got some popcorn, settled in, didn’t like it, and left after half an hour. The following day, I didn’t really know what I was turning up for, because I’d never done one of those press junkets before. I was sat in this waiting room with all the other journalists and got chatting to an English fella, who said to me, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘What are you going to ask them?’

  ‘I think I’m just gonna talk.’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Eight minutes.’

  ‘Wow, you’ve done well, that’s double time.’

  My name gets called out, I walk down this corridor, plonk myself outside this room and this girl wanders over and says,
‘Gerald is ready for you now.’

  ‘Who’s Gerald?’

  ‘The gentleman you’re interviewing.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m just here for Will and Margot.’

  ‘No, you’ve got to interview everyone…’

  When I open the door, I’ve got no idea what’s inside. I see this bloke sat there and recognise him as the older fella in the film, but I’ve still got no idea who he is. I sit down opposite him, say hello and ask what it was like working with Will Smith. His answer is unsettlingly brief. The film was about deceit and lying, I worked out that much, so I ask him whether it’s easy to act in a film that’s all about deceit and lying. Again, he keeps it economical, and it occurs to me that I’ve still got about six minutes left. Time to go off-piste.

  I eye him up and down and realise he’s dressed quite outdoorsy, in a check shirt, gilet, cargo trousers and boots, so I say to him, ‘Do you like fishing?’, and his eyes light up. Suddenly, Gerald is alive, telling me about the biggest fish he’s caught on the fly and how all the world leaders should meet on a riverbank, fish together, bury hatchets and solve all the world’s problems. He goes on for about five minutes, which would be great if we want it, but we don’t want it, because the show’s never going to use it, so it’s just wasted air.

  Gerald in the trash can, I’m ushered into another room, where I have to speak to some big bloke I don’t know from Adam, called Adrian. I come straight out of the traps with, ‘The film is about lying and deceit, is it ever acceptable to lie?’

  ‘I could call you a fucking idiot right now and you wouldn’t know if I was lying or being truthful.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea, mate, but if this is how you want this interview to go, let’s crack on, I can be like that as well.’

  That was an awkward eight minutes.

  Next it was Will Smith and Margot Robbie, which was a relief, because at least I’d seen Will in The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and Margot in Neighbours. As I waited my turn, the room went into meltdown, because the girl before me tried to take a picture, and she was bundled out as if she was a selfie terrorist. When I walked in, I pushed a curtain open without realising it was part of the set, and it fell on top of Will and Margot. But I didn’t really care, because they were just a man and a woman I didn’t know but who happened to be famous.

  Because I’d seen Neighbours more recently than The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, I focused on Margot.

  ‘What’s it like working with Will Smith?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s fantastic…’

  ‘But you’ve worked with all of the biggest actors in the world – Harold Bishop, Mrs Mangle, Toadfish…’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m English, but I work for an Australian programme called The Project. Heard of it?’

  I don’t think she’s heard of it, but I plough on anyway.

  ‘I was playing cricket in the Big Bash and ended up doing this. Bit strange really…’

  Will Smith was looking left out and confused.

  ‘One thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been in Australia is that the men have started taking very good care of themselves. They’re all into grooming. That’s not very Australian, is it? Look at Shane Warne, he promotes facial creams, wears a wig, whitens his teeth. Even Ricky Ponting has had a hair transplant.’

  Margot was looking at me all puzzled and Will was sat there like a bookend. So I said to him, ‘Will, are you into male grooming?’

  ‘Hey man, black don’t crack.’

  ‘Would you contemplate having a hair transplant?’

  He looked at me as if to say, ‘Who is this fucking idiot?’ before patting the top of his head. ‘This ain’t going nowhere, I’ve been tested.’

  I sat there thinking, ‘Easy, mate, it’s fine, I was only joking’, while the woman was gesturing for me to wrap things up. Strangely, neither Will nor Margot got in touch afterwards.

  Mark Wahlberg was an absolute bellend. I watched Ted 2, which was even worse than Ted 1, texted Piers Morgan and asked if he had anything on him. Piers texted back and said, ‘Great bloke, loves his cricket, he’s thinking of getting involved in the Caribbean Premier League.’

  I thought, ‘Perfect, I’m on safe ground here, this will be a doddle. There’s even a chance he might know me.’

  He didn’t, and he didn’t seem to be that into cricket either, although Piers wasn’t winding me up, he did have a stake in the Barbados Tridents.

  I asked him a few cricket questions, but was getting nothing back, so I started asking him about his internet preferences and how often he deletes his history. After about two minutes of blankness, I said, ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? About you? About Ted 2?’

  He just looked at me as if to say, ‘Be gone, fool’, as if he was a king dismissing a jester from his throne room. I got up to shake his hand, and the girl stepped in and said, ‘You’ve still got a minute and a half.’ I looked at her and said, ‘What’s the point?’

  I also interviewed Harrison Ford in Sydney when the new Star Wars film came out in Australia. I walked into the room, he was sat there, with the Harbour Bridge as a backdrop, and I was thinking, ‘This is Harrison Ford, Han Solo, Indiana Jones, this is fucking brilliant!’ I’d heard he could be a bit prickly, but I’d seen him on The Graham Norton Show with Jack Whitehall, and he seemed pretty relaxed on that. I mentioned Jack and Harrison broke into a smile and said, ‘I love that guy, he’s so funny.’ I’d cracked him. So I started freestyling, asking him a load of daft questions about Star Wars.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’ve aged a bit, but Chewbacca still looks the same. How old is Chewie? And how long do Wookies live for?’

  When I got back to Melbourne, they called me into the office and I thought I was in trouble for messing about.

  The boss said, ‘What did you say to Harrison Ford?’

  ‘What do you mean? We had a great time, he loved it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, we’ve had an email from his office saying he’s refusing to launch Star Wars tonight unless you ask the questions.’

  ‘I can’t go back to Sydney, I’ve just arrived in Melbourne.’

  ‘Can you write your notes down then?’

  ‘I didn’t make any notes! If you want, I can write down on a piece of paper, “How old’s a Wookie?”’

  Harrison Ford had obviously been so bored out of his mind answering the same old questions that I’d struck a chord with him. It made me realise that coming at things from a different perspective and going off script can reap rewards, and that being seen as an interloper isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  CHAPTER 6

  A BIT OF BUMBLE

  Notes on David Lloyd

  I loved David Lloyd so much when I played cricket, and still do. He was just a brilliant man-manager. ‘Bumble’ signed me for Lancashire when I was 16. He came round to my mum and dad’s, sat in the front room, drank from the best teapot, helped himself to the custard creams fanned out on a plate, and painted a picture of how it was going to be: ‘We want Andrew to sign on a three-year contract and we’ll start him off on £2,500 a year. It’s onwards and upwards from there.’ Bumble went on to explain the wage structure in some detail, said that Michael Atherton, who was England captain at the time, was being paid £28 grand a year by the county, and I was sat there thinking, ‘Fucking hell, this is amazing. Pass me that pen!’ The last words Bumble said to my mum and dad that day were, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after him…’

  When I turned up at Old Trafford for my first day of training, Bumble wandered up to me and said, ‘Forget all that shit I told yer mum and dad about me looking after yer, I’m gonna absolutely hammer yer.’

  Bumble did hammer me, but he also looked after me, like he looked after everyone. He took us on an England Under-19s tour to the West Indies, and if anyone had a go at us – be it the other team, the press, the crowd – he’d be the first to wade in and fight for you. He was in the crowd in Guyana, and there were about ten local fans shou
ting and screaming at us, so he whipped out his teeth and offered all the fans out. Another game, he marched on the pitch because the umpire had made a few bad decisions. When the chairman tried to shoo him off, Bumble turned round and said, ‘Who the fuck are you? You can have some as well!’ To be fair to Bumble, he didn’t know it was the chairman, but he still got kicked out.

  As a coach, Bumble wasn’t brilliant at the technical side of the game, but our relationship was more than player and coach. He genuinely cared for me, so I would have done anything for him and never wanted to let him down. One day, I was playing for the second team against Yorkshire, got out, punched the wall and had to have my hand pinned for eight weeks. Bumble wasn’t even the head coach, he’d moved on to England, but was still around Old Trafford a lot. When he saw my hand in a cast he said, ‘Andrew’ – he always called me Andrew, and still does – ‘what have you done?’ I told him I’d punched a wall after getting out, and all he said was, ‘That was stupid, weren’t it?’ and walked off. That was far worse than any bollocking he could have given me.

  So often in life you work with people who have their own agenda. We all do to some degree, because everyone wants to be successful in their own right. But I genuinely believe that my success meant as much to Bumble as it did to me. Bumble would tell me exactly what he thought of me, and that’s the type of person I respond to best and try to emulate. Bob Simpson, the great Australian who also played for Lancashire, was the same. Early in my career, he sat me down in the dressing room at Old Trafford and unleashed on me. He told me I wasn’t working hard enough, was underachieving, not fulfilling my potential. But I thought that was brilliant, because he was bang on the money and at least I now knew what I had to do. Another time it was my teammate Neil Fairbrother who gave me the mother of all bollockings. After that, we put a plan together to get back playing for England, and it worked. I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t prefer that to getting no feedback at all.