‘HE HIT ME FOR 24 OFF THE FIRST FOUR BALLS. I CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT.’
Chris Tarrant was born in Reading, Berkshire, on 10 October 1946. He has featured prominently on both radio and television since the early 1970s and has hosted the ITV quiz show Who Wants to be a Millionaire? since 1998. Early in his career he co-hosted the children’s programme Tiswas and then fronted Capital Radio’s highly successful Breakfast Show from 1987 to 2004. He is heavily committed to a number of charities, including Centrepoint, Milly’s Fund and the Lord’s Taverners, for which he was awarded the OBE in 2004.
Chris has invited me to meet him at the Club at the Ivy in London’s Covent Garden. To gain access, I go up in the giant, glass-sided lift that almost engulfs the ground floor entrance lobby. When I emerge, I find him deep in conversation with a previous guest but he breaks off to make introductions and order me a drink. Quite soon afterwards, his business chat is over and it is time to talk cricket.
‘I remember, when I was about five, having the most strange cut-down bat, which my dad had made for me. It was an adult bat and although he had the blade and the handle shortened, it was still a massive thing. We used to play in the garden and that was the bat I used for years. Dad used to bowl at me with one of those balls that had holes in it. You could bowl it quite fast but it had almost stopped when it got to you, and you could hit it quite hard without it going too far.
‘I went to this very strange school, called the Number Nine School – basically because it was number nine in the road – in one of those big, tall Edwardian buildings which they used to turn into little posh private schools. They had a very good maths master who taught me to bowl line and length, how to bowl the perfect ball, absolutely on the spot. So I did quite well at that and I just loved it. I was playing for the school at that time where I became captain. Then I went to the big bad school in Worcester [The King’s School], where I was suddenly a little oik again, among all the 18-year-olds. I was in the school team for rugby and for hockey but my main thing was definitely cricket. It was what I was best at and it was also what I loved.
‘When I wasn’t playing cricket, I would listen whenever I could to Test matches on the BBC. I was at a boarding school where you were certainly not allowed to have your radio on in the middle of the night but I would be under the bed covers, listening to commentary coming from Australia. They had weird, old school commentators in those days, including Peter West, who was a very strange man – a very nice man, but he was very sort of BBC. He must be the only person who covered rugby and dancing, which I always thought was quite bizarre. West would do his summing up at close of play and Jim Swanton would then come on and tell you what England had done wrong and what they had done right. Often when I came home from school and there was a Test match being played, the black-and-white television would be switched on and dad would say, “Homework can wait. See the end of play at 6. 30 and then you can do it. ”’
Chris’s first encounter with the Lord’s Taverners was a little unusual, to say the least. ‘I worked in the Midlands and Fred Rumsey – a young, slim, athletic man in those days – rang me up and asked, “Is there any way you could get a Tiswas cricket team together? We can get Trent Bridge on a Sunday.” Tiswas, the children’s programme on ATV, was huge in the Midlands, and he said, “We’ll get a big crowd and you’ll be playing against this load of actors and TV presenters called the Lord’s Taverners.” So I got Sally James, Lenny Henry and a few other people who had been in Tiswas, plus one or two pop stars, and we produced a team. We didn’t really know who we were playing against, or anything about them, and in those days none of us cared very much.
‘On the Taverners side there was John Alderton, Robert Powell, I am pretty sure Nicholas Parsons, the late, splendid Leslie Crowther and, I think, Kenneth Wolstenholme, and various much-respected actors. They were all really looking forward to a lovely Sunday, with a chance to play on the main pitch at Trent Bridge in their immaculate whites, against some other bunch of cricketers. They did not expect to be blown up or covered in soot or green gunge. Because we did what we were best at, which was basically throwing custard pies, buckets of water and soot bombs, and exploding stumps. When I think about it now, I go bloody pale. But the crowd loved it. I remember the stumps going; they just burst into flames. It was fantastic. In terms of commercial success, it made a fortune. It was really packed, with 20, 000 people. So the Taverners, bless them, grinned and smiled, but clearly they were not happy. I think the dry-cleaning bill cost Fred Rumsey half the national debt. When I think about it now I think, “My God, I can’t believe we did that.” We had no idea.
‘Despite that, they must have eventually forgiven me, because about three months later whoever was then in charge of the Taverners wrote to me and said, “Dear Chris, would you think of joining the Lord’s Taverners?” And I remember writing back saying, “Are you really sure you want me, because I think there was a lot of bad blood at Trent Bridge?” “No, no,” came the reply from the Taverners, “it was just a bit of a misunderstanding.”
‘My fondest memories after I joined were playing with the likes of Willy Rushton, bless him, and Ted Moult. Ted was certainly our most successful bowler and probably took more wickets per season than anybody else – by bowling utter rubbish! We had John Price, when he was young, pretty and athletic, and had only just finished playing for Middlesex, and Butch White, who was bloody quick. He would put his pipe out on the sightscreen and then come in and bowl at 90 miles an hour. Fred Rumsey and John Snow were also still very quick, and sometimes Derek Underwood would play. These guys were still pretty damn good and would come on and bowl about four overs each and maybe take a couple of wickets. Then we would bring on Ted, who would bowl absolute drivel and get wickets! He would bowl donkey drops, then huge deliveries that bounced about eight times, appallingly short balls, wide balls, and he would get wicket after wicket. I remember him once getting a hat trick with three of the worst balls I have ever seen bowled anywhere on an English cricket field. I mean, they were appalling.
‘Ever since I first began playing for the Taverners, with and against first-class cricketers, I remember thinking, “God, fancy being that good.” You actually see the gap between the people we think are reasonable cricketers and the professionals, like Allan Donald, Andy Caddick, Mike Gatting, Gordon Greenidge, Mike Denness and loads more. The gap is massive. For example, we play this team of dentists every year at Lord’s. A very nice guy called James Hull, who is a keen cricket nut, generously sponsors the match and brings a team called The Drillers. This is, supposedly, a collection of dentists but one year we are looking at their team sheet and one of the names is B Lara. I say to my son Toby, “It wouldn’t be, would it?” He shook his head. “No, it will just be some dentist called Barry Lara.” We are in the field and I am about to bowl, just as a wicket falls at the other end. And the PA commentator says, “Coming in to bat at number seven is B Lara” and out comes, unmistakeably, one of the greatest batsmen in the history of cricket, Brian Lara. So I bowled him one of my Tarrant trundlers, full of guile and cunning! He played a classic block and said, “No, wait there.” And did so for the rest of the over. So I was very proud that I had bowled to the man who scored 400 in a Test innings – I bowled a maiden to Brian Lara! He clearly couldn’t read me.
‘So I am thinking, “Blimey, that’s a bit good.” Toby is fielding at mid-on and as he hands me the ball, he says, “He doesn’t know how crap you are.” And I say, “I know, and let’s not tell him, shall we?” Then I bowl to Lara again what I think are pretty much the same deliveries as I had done in the unplayable first over! He’d obviously had time to think about it and the first ball he hit so hard, it is probably still going up now. He hit me for 24 off the first four balls. I can’t remember what happened after that; I prefer not to. Toby sidled up to me at the end of the over. “He sussed you!”
‘Such is the gap in class. I remember, many years ago, when he was in his absolute prime, Ken Barrington came to Reading Cricket Club. It was just a fun game, just an afternoon on a Sunday, rather like we do now. Somebody interviewed him on the PA – somebody like you, JD – and asked, “Well, Ken, what are you going to do this afternoon? What can we expect?” He replied, “In the first over I am going to hit one of the balls straight into the press box up there.” It was a very long way and obviously very difficult to hit from any angle. Sure enough, the third ball he faced, Ken hit straight into the press box, and there were beer glasses and typewriters flying all over the place. The professionals are different class.’
For many years, the Taverners played at Penn Street in Buckinghamshire, in a match organised by Ian Jones, a headhunter and president of the village cricket club. The ground is flanked on two sides by woodland. On one memorable occasion, Chris was fielding on the boundary. ‘One of the batsmen hit a four, which disappeared into the trees. I went scuttling after it and ran into the woods, and there was a man with bare buttocks. I swear this is true. And underneath the bare buttocks were the spread-eagled legs of a woman. She turned her head round in the throes of passion and said, “Oooh, it’s Chris Tarrant.” And I said politely, “I’m terribly sorry, I’m looking for my ball.” I went bright red, still managed to find the ball and scampered back onto the field. I just couldn’t believe it!’
As he comes to the end of a committed and strenuous stint as president of the Lord’s Taverners, Chris continues to do an enormous amount for a wide range of charities, as do many others, such as Michael Parkinson. ‘Parky’s annual cricket matches were really good fun. The crowds were huge, he always got some sort of sponsor and we raised a lot of money for charity. People like George Best, Billy Connolly, Rolf Harris, Gary Lineker and Jimmy Tarbuck used to turn out, and Parky himself, obviously. He used to get a sponsor – all sorts of people put money in to pay for the marquee, the wine, the food and everything else, and we were all well looked after. So one year I saw him on about a Wednesday and he said [Chris adopts a Parky voice], “Are you still playing Sunday?” and I said, “Yes I’m playing, but have you got a sponsor?” I knew that he was struggling to get one with only a few days to go. But he just said, “It’ll be alright. Don’t worry, we’ll have a sponsor. The game is going ahead; it’s all advertised now. We’ll have a sponsor on Sunday.” Sponsors provide the kit and want to have their logos on display. Now, you can imagine. Michael is a real old Yorkshire cricket traditionalist who believes in cream flannels, the five-day game, red balls and no floodlights. So we all arrive and he says, “Hello lads, come and have drink. The kit’s upstairs in the dressing room and yes, we’ve got a sponsor.” So we went up and we all said, “Bloody hell!” There is our kit: royal blue outfits with Potterton’s Boilers written across the front!’
At this stage, the club pianist starts his evening stint and I suggest to Chris that not many interviews get set to music. ‘Well, my plan was to find a nice quiet place, which this is at about four o’clock in the afternoon, but round about six it gets loud. I hadn’t thought about that.’ And as the pianist warms to his task, he pumps up the volume – a rousing version of ‘Downtown’!
Chris is an enthusiastic fisherman and I suggest to him that it is a rather strange pursuit for someone like him, and a million miles away from a game like cricket. ‘They are incredibly different and because what I do for a living involves me being very up front and talking a lot, and being very outgoing and loud and extrovert and larger than life, you would never associate me with cricket or fishing. For so many people they seem the dullest ways of spending a day off. And also the quietest – that’s why I fish, often entirely on my own. I don’t want to think about anything to do with television or radio, I just want to fish.’
I mention that there are a number of cricketers and performers who are keen anglers, such as John Barclay, who has the apt middle name of Troutbeck. ‘Yes, I know. Which is a bit of a clue, I think! But the most unlikely people go fishing – guys such as Jim Davidson. Can you imagine anyone louder than Jim? He is an obsessive and loves to fish. I’ve fished with Billy Connolly – he is a very keen fisherman. Frank Carson is a fisherman, but still a very loud man. And, of course, Ian Botham. I had a weekend with Beefy, fishing on the Tyne.’
In what little remains of his free time Chris is a keen cricket spectator, either at a match or in front of a television. He particularly relished the One Day International between South Africa and Australia in Johannesburg in 2006, when Australia amassed 434 for 4. South Africa, astonishingly, won the match with one ball remaining. ‘They call it the greatest escape ever. Australia, for the first time ever, scored over 400 in their 50 overs, when even now 250 is not a bad score and 300 is pretty damn good. Four hundred! That’s never been done before. You think, “What did Graeme Smith say to his team between innings to somehow motivate them? To get them to come out and then not only give the Aussies a game, but to beat them?” It was almost unbelievable, the most fantastic game of cricket. I was watching it, glued to the chair, and the phone kept ringing, and I kept screaming, “Not now! Not now!” I couldn’t miss a ball.’
And the previous year, when England won back the Ashes from Australia, there were many nerve-jangling moments for Chris, not least at Edgbaston, where England beat the visitors by just two runs. ‘There was that amazing last wicket stand between Brett Lee and Mike Kasprowicz, who put on close to 60 together before Steve Harmison won it for England. But the moment that really sticks in my mind came at the end of that match, when the England team were going bananas. Apart from Andrew Flintoff, that is, who put a hand on Lee’s shoulder as he commiserated with him; that was very special indeed.’
So, reflecting on those two games, one a 50-over match, the other a Test lasting a full five days, does Chris favour any one particular format? Not forgetting the ubiquitous Twenty20, of course. ‘I love Tests and hope that they never, ever fall away. I am sure they won’t, because there has always got to be a market for full-on, great Test cricket. The different skills, the changing pace of the game, the stroke play that is required – they are all part of the attraction of Test cricket. Plus there can be great draws. Americans ask, “How can you guys play for five days and then it all ends up as a draw?” Well, yes, you can, and it can be incredibly exciting. Thinking out loud, maybe the 50-over game will disappear, which I am not sure would be the end of the world. If it threatened Test cricket I would be appalled, but I think there is only so much fast cricket, one-day cricket you can play. I think Twenty20 is pretty damn good. It seems to me that, among the fours and sixes, it is a very exact science. I mean, they really are into every ball and how they play it. But in all forms of the game, there have been absolute nail-biters, right down to the last bloody ball.’
One of the few things in cricket that really sticks in Chris’s craw is sledging, which he feels has got almost out of control. ‘Sadly, day-to-day sledging on the pitch has become part of the sport. What I hate is the way you go to almost any school match and all these kids are doing it all the time. The babble is ridiculous and you think the teachers should go, “Kids, just shut up.” It is too much; they are all at it. “Come on, we’ve got him, he’s out, he’s a pansy, he’s no good, he can’t hold his bat for anything.” These are 12-year-olds! What’s the matter with them? We never did that stuff at school and I think it’s deplorable. I think teachers should stamp it out, because it is nothing to do with the game. The kids are aping TV, I’m afraid, as they do in all sports. I go along to my kid’s school and you see 11-year-olds diving in the penalty area and screaming at the referee, and you think, “Oh, come on. It’s pathetic!” But they watch Drogba every week, and I think that is quite sad, and I don’t like to see it in school cricket. It is not part of the game we know and love.’
Nevertheless, Chris talks enthusiastically about some of the big matches he has watched and particularly about several of the players that he admires. ‘Ponting is just a fantastic batsman. If he has to score quickly, he scores quickly. If he has to score slowly and dig in for four hours, he will dig in. That’s the measure of a great cricketer. He is a fantastic cricketer and a great captain, and when he was booed in England in 2009, I thought it was appalling. It was outrageous and I felt quite ashamed to be English. He is a tough guy – a tough Australian captain. Ian Chappell was once asked about Ponting as a captain and he said, “Ponting’s terrific, the best captain ever.” When it was suggested that he lacks a bit of charisma, is a bit surly and is quite aggressive, Chappell argued he was really aggressive and extremely unpleasant to everybody, and that was his job. He said being captain of the Australian cricket team is not a PR contest, and said, “If I have to be really tough on everybody, if I am outrageous with journalists, it is what I need to do.” Steve Waugh wasn’t very nice to people, either. He was another tough captain. Off the pitch he is a lovely guy but when he is out there, that’s what you have got to do. Chappell also said the last thing you need is a nice Etonian guy as the leader of the team. “You show me a nice Etonian captain,” he said, “and I’ll show you a side that is going to lose the Ashes.”
‘I was talking to an old England umpire once, up at Trent Bridge, and I asked him who was the most unpleasant person he had ever been on the field with, and he said Glenn McGrath. He is the most difficult, cantankerous, whingeing cricketer this English umpire had ever had the misfortune to stand with. Every time he bowled, if the umpire gave someone not out, McGrath was so bloody stroppy. Every ball must get a wicket – he used to drive him mad. He used to hate bloody umpiring McGrath, because he was constantly in his ear. Off the field, though, McGrath’s one of the loveliest blokes he had ever met.’
And without being too sycophantic, that is how I, and many others, view the man who has shared his cricketing thoughts and experiences to the accompaniment of a seemingly inexhaustible pianist!