Do You Know What?

by Andrew Flintoff

  Once you start losing in Australia, that’s when you need some of that mysterious team spirit most. But when the shit hit the fan on that tour, that’s when the back-stabbing started, people started forming their own little splinter groups and looking after number one. I couldn’t be doing with that. That was exactly when the coach and the players needed to show their togetherness, muck in and take it on the chin together. Instead, people preferred to cover their own backs, hanging one or two people out to dry.

  Poor old Harmy got hammered for bowling that first ball of the series, the one that was so wide I took it at second slip. Ashley Giles got hammered for dropping Ricky Ponting on the boundary. I got hammered for being a bit shit. I could have done more. But I couldn’t help looking round the dressing room and thinking, ‘Oh, right, it’s like that is it? You scored a few runs or took a couple of wickets and you’re not worried about anybody else. Well done.’ Actually, the few players who were in form should have been helping those who weren’t.

  I suppose the Aussies saw that series as payback for 2005, but it wasn’t even a contest because we weren’t in any kind of condition to take them on. In the first game, we got beaten by the Prime Minister’s XI by 160-odd runs in a one-day match, so forget about Ponting, Warne, McGrath and the rest. The worst part is, cricket is not like football, where it only goes on for 90 minutes, and even if you’re 3–0 down you’ve still got an outside chance. With cricket, you usually know from miles out that you’re going to lose, so by the time you finally get beaten, you’re already feeling numb. That tour was 25 days of feeling crushed. Actually, probably about 18 days, because most Tests ended early.

  When the final Test was over, I had to give a speech after the presentation ceremony. We’d just had our pants pulled down, been hammered 5–0, what was I supposed to say? I obviously thanked everyone, but I don’t know what I was thanking them for. I wanted to point at my team and say, ‘You lot, useless’, before pointing to the Aussies and saying, ‘You lot, great. Now I’m going home…’ But before I could go home, I had to deal with the England supporters, people shouting things like ‘You were a disgrace’ or ‘We saved up all our lives for this!’ What did they want me to do? I felt bad, but I also felt powerless. Part of me felt like saying, ‘Look, sorry, but you’re in Australia, it’s a wonderful place, just take a holiday and enjoy the beaches.’

  It’s hard for people to understand, but something like that can take a huge personal toll on a sportsperson. I’d lost any sense of perspective, convinced myself that the defeat would define me as a person, that it was the only thing that mattered. I struggled to look people in the eye after that series, didn’t want to be around anyone. Me and my missus went to America, where we were staying in a lovely reserve on a golf course, and I said to her, ‘Tell you what, why don’t we just cash in and open a cafe?’ I actually started looking at houses in brochures. But as soon as I started training again, I thought, ‘Not a chance. If they’re all back at home saying I’m finished, I have to prove them wrong.’

  CHAPTER 23

  NOT BY A LONG CHALK

  What happens next?

  I don’t understand bucket lists. People say, ‘I want to get to 40 and do this’, but why wait until you’re 40? Just go and do it. My bucket list consisted of playing cricket for Lancashire and England; everything else has been a bonus.

  If I’m being brutally honest, I still feel like a part of me is missing. I’ve done some incredible things since I retired, but I still desperately want to be a cricketer, walking down the steps at Lord’s with that feeling in my tummy, so nervous because it means so much. Nothing will ever replace that feeling. But I’m lucky. A lot of people retire from cricket and don’t know what to do with their lives. When they perhaps should have been preparing for a post-cricket career, they were too busy drinking shots of Tabasco in the dressing room. One day they were enjoying a life they thought would never end, the next day it had all stopped. More should have been done to help, people should have been employed to explain all the wonderful things that were out there beyond cricket.

  I spend a lot of time thinking about how weird my life is. I’ll be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and my mind will be like Moss Side on a Saturday night – you wouldn’t want to go there on your own. My mind can go anywhere, to wondering if we’re living in a matrix, to whether aliens exist or if we’ve got milk in the fridge. I might be coming up with a new job idea or whacky business venture. I’m not really in control of it, so I just run with it.

  I also ask myself, ‘What’s the point?’ all the time. We’re here for such a short space of time, but why are we here? How do I make the most of my time on earth? Am I meant to do something special? Surely everyone has a purpose? What is it? I can’t have been put here to hit and throw a ball about? Or maybe I was?

  I look back at my cricket career and think, ‘What was that all about?’ When you’re playing, scoring a few runs against India or trying to get Wasim Jaffer out seems like the most important thing in the world. I’d get out for a duck and it would be like my world was caving in. But I just missed a ball. That’s fine. And let’s be honest, not many people are that bothered about cricket anyway. And why should they be? Most of the time, cricket is a load of blokes standing around in a field. While you’re playing professional sport, you get trapped inside this little, all-consuming bubble, but after you’ve packed it in, you have a chuckle and think, ‘What a knob.’

  Even before I retired, having kids changed my outlook. All of a sudden, cricket was no longer the most important thing in my life. If I had a bad day, although I’d still beat myself up about it, I knew that my family still loved me, I’d get a cuddle off the kids when I got home and the sun would come up tomorrow. Now I’m working in the entertainment industry, I am very aware of its triviality. Musical theatre – it’s brilliant, and I love it, but how is it even a thing? You pay 100 quid to watch adults dress up and play for a couple of hours. And I’ve ended up doing it.

  It’s not like I’m some pop star who suddenly turns around and says, ‘I want to be taken seriously!’ But I can understand the sentiment. When I’m dressed as a woman in New York about to perform drag, or speedskating in Streatham, or standing in the street with a cardboard cut-out of a man called Lewis, I do find myself thinking, ‘Why? What? How?’ It’s a job, and it’s all good fun, but I’d like to do stuff that’s a bit more worthy, a bit more meaningful, something I’m really proud of and really means something to people. It’s about finding something that is worthy of your time, something that is going to satisfy you.

  Comedy would be the obvious route, given my stint on A League of Their Own and some of the other stuff I’ve done so far. I did a Sky Comedy Short a couple of years back called Pacino & Bert. I play this shy bloke walking his dog on the beach in Southport. One day, I pass this girl, who I like the look of. After a few days, I pluck up the courage to speak to her, but I keep messing it up. Finally, I resolve to ask her out, put my best gear on, and just as I’m approaching her, this beach patrol bloke – played by Mick Johnson from Brookside – comes running over and tells us we can’t walk our dogs on the beach during summer. We both get sent on our separate ways and never see her again. It was quite tragic. A fella called Dan Maier wrote it, and it’s about missed opportunities and regrets, a subject very close to my heart.

  I’ve started writing a couple of sitcoms, one about a gym and another about cycling. They’re both about my experiences, the characters that pop up from day to day, and the challenge is trying to write exaggerated versions of them. I’d love to write something and for people to say, ‘Wow, that’s brilliant, how’s he done that?’ I’d also like to do stand-up. I did some dates a few years ago, but it was more telling stories than stand-up. So next time I’d like to do it properly, a 30- or 40-date tour. I’ve started writing stuff about sex, trying to get a girlfriend when I was a kid, mental illness, and I’d like to do some sets at some smaller comedy clubs and build it from there. I know some people
in the game – Jack Whitehall, Jimmy Carr, Micky Flanagan – and while I don’t want them to swing gigs for me, they can give me some guidance.

  Sometimes you’re a bit reticent to speak to comedians about it, in case they think it’s ridiculous, but when I mentioned it to Lee Mack, he just said, ‘Why not? Have a go.’ A man after my own heart. You often hear people say that doing stand-up must be the most terrifying thing in the world. But walking out onstage at the Apollo Theatre means nothing compared to walking out to bat at Lord’s. So why not swing the bat and see what happens?

  Straight acting is something I’m talking about doing at the moment. I’ve been to some castings, there’s some stuff going on with Kay Mellor, one of whose dramas I’ve already appeared in, and I’ve also had talks with Lynda La Plante. She sent me a script about a dog, which was actually quite dark. Let’s just say it had a bit more gravitas than talking to puppets with Gary Lineker, which is one of the gigs I’ve had.

  I don’t want a walk-on part on Corrie, or a two-minute spot in a drama. If I’m going to act, I want to do it fully. I sometimes think my ambition outweighs my talent, but then I tell myself I just need to graft and learn the craft, just as I did with cricket. I’d like to play a lead role, and something dark, gritty and meaty, like a baddie in one of those Scandinavian-style dramas. But while I would like to act, if I don’t, I’ll be all right, because it’s all a bonus anyway. Would I say no if Hollywood came knocking? It’s a long shot, but who knows what might happen. And if Jack Whitehall can carve out a career over there, there might just be hope for me and Jamie Redknapp.

  I’m also involved in property. Manchester is the obvious place to build because it’s booming, but I wanted to build stuff in Preston because it’s my home town and there are more challenges in the smaller Lancashire towns and cities. I played for Lancashire, want to see my region thriving, but a lot of those old industrial towns are in need of regeneration. The town centres are desolate, and you need things in the centre of towns for people to visit. It would have been gratifying to drive through Preston and think, ‘We built that.’ It’s not like I want a pat on the back or anything, or plan to run bus tours or put a big sign on it saying, ‘Fred Flintoff built this.’ I want to play a role in improving places that are dear to me, making them better for everyone.

  I’ve spent a lot of time in Manchester over the past couple of years and the homelessness is terrible. My youngest is horrified by it – ‘Dad, why are all these people on the street?’ It’s not one or two, it’s hundreds. I was at a property conference and everyone was showing videos of these massive skyscrapers, 50 storeys high, worth hundreds of millions of pounds, but part of me was thinking, ‘We’re trying to build these things up, but look what’s happening on the ground.’

  I buy food and take it round to give to homeless people, but that’s not even scratching the surface. We’d like to get involved with the mayor, Andy Burnham, because what’s the point in having all these shiny buildings for people to live in and when they walk out the front door there are homeless people everywhere, unable to clothe or feed themselves? We hear all these speeches from people saying we need to improve our cities, and Burnham is having a crack, but that should start on the ground, literally.

  Prevention is often better than cure, and it’s about understanding why these people become homeless in the first place. People who are homeless don’t just need a house, they need emotional and practical help. They need someone to give them a chance, someone to reach down and help them back to their feet. Like any social care, preventative care is expensive. As with mental illness or addiction, which often go hand in hand with homelessness, the initial outlay for preventative care might seem huge, but in the long run it will be far cheaper than spending hundreds of millions on temporary shelter.

  I’ve had issues with mental illness and addiction, so I know how it feels when you can see no way out. Social inequality and injustice make me angry, and you’ve got to challenge things at the root rather than wait until it’s overgrown and out of control. It’s another thing that makes me wonder whether the world is real. This isn’t the slums of India, this is right outside people’s front doors in Manchester. It’s everywhere, and it makes me pinch myself.

  We had our own charity until a few years back, and now we raise money for others. Famous or wealthy people should give back, otherwise you’re just taking all the time. It’s not just the free bikes and clothes, it’s also that as a celebrity, you expect everyone to buy into whatever it is you’re doing, whether it’s a gameshow a musical or something you’re trying to flog. I’ll be doing an advert for a shaver, thinking, ‘Is this shaver such a good deal that I’m helping anyone’s life?’ It’s not that I’m embarrassed about trying to flog a shaver, it’s just that trying to flog anything seems so futile at times. I think anyone in a privileged position should see the bigger picture and contribute to society.

  I’m not a communist, I don’t think everything should be shared out equally because you get lazy people who will take advantage of that. But people who are less fortunate than others should be looked after properly. There’s no sense in the world. How is it that someone who saves people’s lives in A&E doesn’t get paid as much as someone who kicks a ball about for a living? I understand the economics, but it’s still absurd. How is it that the NHS is struggling? The very fact it’s struggling tells you that there has to be a more sensible way of dividing up the money and that we don’t have our priorities right. Do we really need more submarines?

  Politics is something I might like to have a go at, mainly because the people doing it at the moment don’t seem to be doing a very good job. It’s easy to have a pop at politicians, but at least they’re having a go. At the same time, I see our politicians on the telly and think, ‘Really? Is that the best we’ve got?’ And I can see myself shouting on the Commons backbenches, making all those noises and having a bit of a crack when someone else is trying to speak. I don’t understand how anything gets done, it’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen. If one person says they’re going to do something, another person will say they’re going to do something else. Everybody realises the right thing needs to be done, but they all have to have a row about it instead. You never hear somebody in the House of Commons say, ‘Actually, that’s a fair point’. Or, ‘I disagree, but maybe we can have a nice chat about it and reach a compromise’. Instead, they’re all heckling each other. That can’t possibly be the best way of going about things.

  We’ve got all these parties arguing about this, that and the other, but why don’t we just get the best people from whatever party together and try to sort everything out? If you were running a company, you’d do everything you could to hire the best people so as to run that company in the best possible way. But politics doesn’t work like that. I know different parties have different ideologies, but in times of great crisis – which is what we seem to be in – there has to be a better way than just arguing all the time.

  While I say I might like to have a go at politics, I’m not 100 per cent sure what Brexit is. Is anyone? I know we’re leaving. Or are we? I’ve been watching Newsnight, all these other political programmes, and I’m still none the wiser. It always seems to be two people from opposing parties arguing with each other, and I’m not even sure they know what they’re arguing about. A lot of it seems to be point-scoring, adults behaving like children.

  I question people’s motives. Nigel Farage was just having a laugh. He went on and on about wanting to leave Europe and once we voted for it, he legged it. And now he’s back again, driving around in his bus, with ‘Leave Means Leave’ written all over it. When we are actually out, I assume he’ll be telling everyone we didn’t do it properly. You see Farage on TV and he’s a slippery fella, very tricky to pin down. They chuck it all at him and he’s got an answer for everything. He appeals to people who think eating pizza is a bit suspect. They don’t like what’s going on with the country, are fed up with the status quo and think En
gland should go it alone. But I’m not sure we can. It’s similar to Donald Trump and all this stuff about making America great again and putting America first. People whinge about Trump, but you can see how he got in. He had a go, was different to the traditional choices and is now trying to do what he said he was going to do. It makes me wonder if, one day, we’ll have someone from Love Island running our country.

  I love Preston, I love Lancashire and I’m a proud Englishman. That’s probably where it stops – I don’t have the same pride about being British, and I also don’t see myself as European, which isn’t the same as saying I’m a Brexiteer. Maybe it’s because I played for England and that’s all I ever wanted to do. Saying that, I don’t really know what it is to be English. All I know is that of all the places I’ve been in the world, I love England more than any of them. I go to the Lake District, the Yorkshire Dales or the New Forest and think, ‘Why would you want to be anywhere else?’ I like what I know and I get fed up with people putting England down. It’s got things wrong with it, but where hasn’t?

  But some of the stuff that makes people feel like proud Englishmen just seems slightly iffy to me. I see a Union Jack or George Cross hanging from someone’s house and automatically think they’re a right-wing wrong ’un. I grew up in a multi-cultural society in Preston, playing cricket I was surrounded by West Indians and Asians, and that enriched my childhood and continues to enrich me as an adult. It’s to England’s gain that we’ve got all these people from different parts of the world. Someone might see a person of colour in Manchester and assume they’re Indian or Pakistani, but that person might have a better idea of Englishness than the person making the assumption, because they’ve seen and experienced more of the country and more of the world.