It reminds me of the time me and Darren Gough were trying to get into a nightclub in London. The big Polish lads on the door wouldn’t let us in, and as we were trying to persuade them, the Atomic Kittens walked past. Goughie shouted, ‘Hey, Kittens, I’ve been on This Is Your Life, I’ll go home and get my red book if you like!’
I love Goughie to bits, but I find the whole concept of This Is Your Life bonkers. Imagine being sat there in the studio with Michael Aspel and his big red book, and Aspel saying, ‘And now, Andrew, it’s the two people who brought you into this world and raised you, your mum and dad!’ I’d be thinking, ‘I was round their house yesterday, having Sunday lunch…’
‘And now, Andrew, your best friend Paddy!’
‘Oh yeah, I remember Paddy, I was out with him last Friday…’
If there are people I want to see, I’ll seem them, I don’t need Aspel to track them down for me and reunite us on the telly.
I’ve got a lot of stories about Goughie and nightclubs, mostly toe-curling. Another time, me and him were walking out the front door, all these cameras started flashing, I ducked out of the way and Goughie started walking towards the paparazzi with his arms outstretched. Turned out they had no idea who we were, they were actually taking pictures of Craig off of Big Brother.
People in the entertainment world think they’re so important. Why is that? I just don’t get it. I was doing a charity fashion show for Naomi Campbell, standing in the wings listening to three very well-known celebrities, and they were talking about a list that had been published in one of the papers, about the UK’s most influential celebrities. Robbie Williams was something like 32nd, and they were having this in-depth discussion about what number he should have been. I was standing there thinking, ‘This is really strange.’ Then they started talking about meeting up for dinner. One of them turned round to me and said, ‘Obviously not you, Fred.’ I think it was a joke, although obviously he didn’t want me there.
I just thought, ‘You know what? I couldn’t do it anyway. What would we talk about? Whether you were all as high on the influential celebrity list as you thought you should be?’ I’d hate to get to that point, would be so disappointed in myself. The things celebrities get hung up on is just bizarre. The way some of them talk, they seem to think they’re curing the world of all evils, one laugh at a time. When I’m abseiling down some building or other, or dressed in drag, performing cabaret in Paris, the thought that I might be making someone’s day a little bit better is the only real crumb of comfort I can cling on to.
It was a real eye-opener working in TV for the first time, it’s just the weirdest environment ever. Suddenly all these people are brown-nosing you and you can’t do anything wrong. It’s the strangest feeling. After one of the first episodes of A League of Their Own, I came off set and people were saying, ‘Fred! Brilliant show!’
‘But I didn’t say owt.’
‘But what you did say was amazing!’
‘No, but seriously, I didn’t do anything…’
People were running around all over the place, pandering to my every need, fetching us cups of tea and cans of Coke, and I was thinking, ‘I can make a cup of tea myself. The kettle’s just over there. Why don’t I make it myself?’ And because runners will do anything for you, treat you like little tin gods just because you happen to be appearing on a TV show, some of the little tin gods will take advantage, treat the runners like servants.
People believing their own hype really bothers me, because the real talent is the people who come up with the ideas and put the shows together. Cameramen, producers, the people doing the technical jobs, they’re doing the nitty-gritty, the little tin gods just turn up, read autocues and talk nonsense.
You’ll be on set and there’ll be more food than in a supermarket, just in case you fancy three bags of Haribo or a whole lemon drizzle cake between filming. I did one acting job, was standing around waiting to do my thing, and it started to rain a bit. Bang, all of a sudden there was a girl standing next to me, holding a brolly over my head. I said to her, ‘It’s fine, give me the brolly, I can do it.’ And she replied, ‘No, I’ve got to do it, it’s part of my job.’ Being a runner is having a foot on the ladder, so they’re entitled to take their job seriously. But I also understand why famous people turn into such pricks and lose all sense of perspective because absolutely everything is done for them.
I’ve seen tantrums, people storming off set. Some people in the entertainment industry are so precious that they think the normal rules of civility don’t apply to them. There will be hissy fits left, right and centre, because someone has contradicted them or given an opinion that doesn’t tally exactly with theirs. Because they’re in front of camera and ‘the talent’, they’re right and therefore everybody else must be wrong. In any other world it wouldn’t be tolerated, but in TV it is. You’ll be filming in the street, somebody will walk into shot and they’ll get shouted at as if they’re the worst human being ever. People are just going about their everyday business, walking to the shops or off to catch a bus, we’re the ones doing something weird.
Then you get the people who say, ‘Be nice to the runners on your way up, because they might be your boss one day.’ And I’ll think, ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Are you suggesting that if you get the impression a runner is never going to work in TV again you can treat them like shit?’ Just be nice to them, say please and thank you, because it’s the right thing to do, not because there might be something in it for you a few years down the line.
What I also don’t like about TV is the fact it’s so subjective. In sport (unless it’s something like dressage – there’s no way dancing horses should be in the Olympics), if you play well you keep getting picked, if you play badly you get dropped. But in TV, one commissioner might like you, another might not. I hate the fact you’re powerless and it’s all so random. Every now and again, I’ll apply for a gig in TV and know I’m the best person for the job, but some woman or bloke will like someone else. That really annoys me. I can’t deal with subjectivity; with everything in life there’s a right and a wrong way.
I’ll watch a show and think, ‘Why have they not got rid of him?’ Or I’ll watch Homes Under the Hammer and think, ‘Why is Dion Dublin on it?’ I used to like Homes Under the Hammer, but he’s ruined it. When I watched Homes Under the Hammer, I never once thought, ‘You know what this programme needs? An ex-professional footballer who’s got absolutely no interest in a two-up, two-down in Colchester.’ Martin and Lucy were doing perfectly well without Dion Dublin. When Dion’s walking around some house that’s just been bought for £80 grand at auction, and he’s telling me it needs a downstairs toilet, I can tell he doesn’t really care. But people probably watch me on programmes and think, ‘Why is Fred Flintoff on this? Get rid of him!’
A lot of the trappings of celebrity are wasted on me. I only ever wanted to be a cricketer, and everything that’s come since is a bonus. When I played in Soccer Aid, I didn’t have any nerves, even though we were playing in front of almost 80,000 people. I never had any aspirations to be a footballer, so why would I be nervous? Playing at Old Trafford was a privilege, but it was a charity match, not a full international! That’s where people get it wrong. It didn’t matter if Usain Bolt skinned me and scored (he did skin me once, but never again…) When it came to the penalties, I was fine with it. I just placed it, bottom corner. No idea who the goalkeeper was. Someone from Westlife?
I don’t really get star-struck, unless it’s cricketers. I was star-struck when I played against Sachin Tendulkar for the first time and when I met Viv Richards, who is the coolest man on the planet. The Queen was very nice. She said to me, ‘I see you have a racehorse running at Carlisle tomorrow. Has it a chance?’ I said, ‘Yes, it’s worth a couple of quid, Your Majesty.’ I had dinner with Archbishop Desmond Tutu, when we got lifetime memberships at Lord’s on the same day. Funnily enough, he reminded me of the fella from the sitcom Desmond’s, he had the same infectious
laugh and was the life and soul of the party. I went to a David Beckham World Cup party, and as he was coming around the table with his mate, I was thinking, ‘I know that fella from somewhere.’ Then I twigged it was Puff Daddy. When he got to me, I said, ‘All right, Puff?’, and I could see Beckham wincing. Puff replied, ‘My name is Sean’.
But you know what they say about meeting your heroes. When I was 19, I went to a dinner with Ian Botham, who was a big hero of mine when I was growing up. I loved the way he went about things, made things happen, wanted to be involved in the big moments in the game. It was a boozy night, during which we drank copious amounts of wine and listened to Botham hold court. Afterwards, me and Botham were walking down the street arm in arm, and I was thinking, ‘This is unbelievable, I’m walking down the street arm in arm with Ian Botham – Sir Ian Botham! – someone pinch me.’
We got back to the hotel and he invited me up to his suite for a nightcap. By that point I’d have done pretty much anything Botham had asked me to do. One drink turned into two turned into three until we were really quite battered. But the night came to an abrupt and undignified end when Botham leant down to get some more drinks, got a bit of a heavy head and fell through the TV. I made my excuses – ‘Night, Ian, I’ll leave you to it’ – while he was still precariously balanced on top of the mini-bar.
The kids went to school in Alderley Edge in Cheshire for a while, and the yard would be full of footballers every day. Wayne Rooney, Robin van Persie, Vincent Kompany. But because I’m not into football, I wasn’t bothered. One day I was waiting for the kids, Les Dennis came walking past, and I was like, ‘Les Dennis! It’s Les Dennis!’ I used to watch him on the telly when I was a kid, when he was absolutely cracking it. If I met Michael Palin, I’d be the same, because I watched all his shows when he was travelling all over the world. I save my adulation for people who do stuff that means something to me and do it well.
And if someone famous annoys me, I won’t give them the time of day. I got invited to go on Parkinson and said no, because I didn’t fancy it. Actually, there’s a bit more to it than that. When we were playing against South Africa in 2003, we had Parky’s radio show on in the dressing room one lunchtime, and he hammered all of us. Then when I started doing well, he wanted me on his show. Oh no, Parky, it doesn’t work like that. I’ve got a stubbornness about me, once I’d got it into my head that I’d never go on his show, that was the end of it.
I’m impressed by anyone who works hard to excel at their job. When I was doing the musical, I’d watch Jodie Prenger sing and dance and act, and be absolutely blown away. I could tell she’d done everything she possibly could to perform to the best of her ability, poured all her passion into that production, and that’s what gave her the edge.
I was also in awe of Mike Tyson, who came and watched a sparring session before I had my boxing match. He got off his tour bus with his entourage and I thought, ‘This is gonna be a flying visit, they’ll get him on camera arriving and then he’ll be off’, but he spent about an hour in the gym. When he walked in, the atmosphere completely changed. When he started speaking, everyone was hanging on his every word. I know about the bad things he’s done, but he spoke with passion about boxing and life and I didn’t want him to leave. I love that he made something of himself, despite his awful upbringing, and there was this strange insecurity, innocence and vulnerability about him. I gravitate towards flawed people, because there’s an authenticity about them. Listening to Tyson made me think, ‘You know what, I could do something great as well.’
But someone doesn’t have to be famous to impress me. It might be someone who can build a house, fix my car when it’s gone wrong or teach kids with learning disabilities. Or my dad, who can fit windows or help build an extension. I’m disappointed by famous people I meet all the time. You’ll get celebrities or sportspeople trying to lecture you or trying to be profound. But because they’re trying so hard to be profound, it has the opposite effect. People will tell you how humble they are, but other people are supposed to tell them that. Chances are, if you’re having to tell people you’re humble, you’re not.
CHAPTER 13
CHIPS, BEANS AND LAMBORGHINIS
The simple things
I like to think I still have working-class values, but I can’t really claim to be working-class if I’ve got a Ferrari out the front and a Lamborghini in the garage. And when you’re not born into privilege, there is a guilt attached to having money. I get embarrassed turning up to certain places in the Ferrari, especially if I go back to Preston to see some old mates. Or I’ll worry about old mates coming round my house. But I’m not really sure what I’m meant to do. It’s strange, because half of me worries that people will think I’m flash, but the other half of me likes driving a nice car and living in a nice house. It confuses me a little bit. Even writing this is difficult. I don’t want to come across as one of those dicks always going on about how humble they are. At the same time, I don’t want to come across as enjoying my wealth too much. I feel like I can’t win.
I’m happy in my own little world, with people I feel at home with. And I’m at my most comfortable with the lads I used to go drinking with at the social club. To them, I’m not a cricketer or a person off the telly, I’m just a lad they knew as a kid who’s done all right. Apart from Robbie Savage, who I speak to almost every day, I don’t knock around with anybody from the entertainment world, because I haven’t really got anything in common with them. I’ve got my mates in Preston, Paddy, Steve – who drives me up and down the country and who I spend a ridiculous amount of time with. I’ve got Keysey and Harmy from the cricket, but I don’t have a bank of cricketing pals from around the world.
I had a close group of friends at Lancashire, but when you retire from sport, your world just stops, while their lives carry on as before. Someone else takes your place in the team and suddenly he’s getting all the invites to teammates’ weddings and birthday parties. I moved to Dubai, and then to Surrey, because I wanted to escape that life. Everything had been turned upside down, I had no idea what I wanted to do. That meant losing contact with a lot of people. Then when I started doing the TV stuff, some people thought I’d dumped them, and was spending all my time hanging out with celebrities instead. What they didn’t understand was that I stopped being around them or phoning them up because they reminded me of what I still desperately wanted. I felt bad for a while, but then I thought, ‘Hang on a minute, why did nobody phone me? I’m the one who’s retired because of a knackered knee at the age of thirty-one, I need a bit of a hug. And I’ve only stopped playing cricket, I’m not dead.’
I bump into cricket folk and speak to them, but the problem with cricket people is that all they want to talk about is cricket. I’ve fallen back in love with it, I love watching my boys play and I love talking about it, but not all the time. I don’t work in cricket in any capacity, so I don’t really know what’s going on. Plus, I’m not that bothered about knowing the nuts and bolts of the game.
I feel like a fish out of water at parties and functions, because I find the chat that so-called high-flying people come out with boring. I put the barriers up, because I just can’t be arsed with it. Sometimes someone will say to me, ‘I can’t work you out.’ ‘Why are you trying to work me out? Why do you have to know how I work? I’m not trying to work you out because I don’t care. And I’m not even sure I’ve figured myself out yet. What I do know is that I don’t want to be anywhere near this party.’ It’s all about what people have got, the conversations are superficial bullshit. I just want conversation with normal people who talk about normal things, not the boat they just bought, the famous people they’ve been hanging out with, which famous person is seeing which other famous person or who’s said what about who.
When I’m doing telly, I’m putting a face on. Literally. I’ve realised that when you’re on TV – especially now everything’s in HD – you have to at least try to look half-decent, so I’ve upped my game since I stopped playin
g cricket. Robbie Savage gave me some thickening powder for my hair, and I’ve started blow-drying it. I had it cut recently and the woman made a complete hash of it. I got more upset than I thought I would, and it got me thinking, ‘If I went bald, what would I do?’ Maybe I’d have a transplant, like Shane Warne. Then again, look at Russ Abbot, he’s been bald as a coot for years and doesn’t give a shit.
I’m part of the design process with Jacamo. I sit around the table with the proper designers, discussing the ‘mood boards’, they tell me what the new fashions are going to be, I tell them what I’d like to wear, and we meet halfway. I don’t want my range to be high-end fashion, and it’s not like I’ve turned into Karl Lagerfeld, but I’m more aware of what I put on in the morning. Knocking about with Jamie Redknapp hasn’t helped. He makes you think about aspects of fashion you really shouldn’t be thinking about. Jamie knows more about fashion than Giorgio Armani. I went clothes shopping with him once. Never again.
I do sometimes look at myself in the mirror and heave a big sigh, but I do a lot more male grooming now. I did a promo for a grooming company, and I was surrounded by my make-up man Donald, a stylist, my agent, my driver Steve, a security person, and all I could think was, ‘How did I get here? Who am I? What have I become?’ But I’m comfortable with those people, I trust them. I have a good laugh with Donald and Steve, which is important, because when I get on camera, I want to be relaxed.
‘Relaxed’ is not a word that springs to mind when I think about my one and only brush with colonic irrigation. I had to lose weight quick, because weighing day was coming up with England. A mate recommended it, I did some research and it looked like it might do the trick.
There’s a clinic in Hale, and I booked under the name of Trevor Jesty, a former Lancashire player and umpire, because I didn’t want them to know it was me. I’m sat there in the waiting room, surrounded by all these women, and a girl comes out and says, ‘Mr Jesty, we’re ready for you now.’ I don’t move, but because I’m the only bloke in there, all these women are looking at me. The girl says, ‘Mr Jesty, are you ready for your irrigation?’ Now all these women are looking at me knowing I’m about to get a pipe stuck up my clacker.
Do You Know What? Page 11