Behind every great sportsman is a great sportswriter and I’ve been lucky enough to have a fair few over the years. Whether it was my partner in crime, Chris Lander, who joined me on the first ever charity walk, or ‘Machine Gun’ Mike Walters (for his rat-a-tat speech), I’ve had a blast with them all. And there is no change with my current ‘ghost’, Dean Wilson, who has kept my words in tiptop shape. As a bona fide member of the press pack, he’s heard plenty of dressing-room stories down the years, and by jogging my memory he’s helped bring many of them to life within these pages. There might be a frustrated cricketer in there somewhere, striving to get out, but the journalist in him is flourishing just fine.
For any budding young cricketer the dream is to make it as a professional and then ultimately play for England. Failing that, the next best thing is to write about it and follow the England team around the world.
In my case, as with so many others, being a useful schoolboy cricketer with a penchant for striking fours and sixes wasn’t quite enough to sustain a playing career, so after university a proper job beckoned. Thankfully, that proper job has turned out to be the chance to travel up and down the UK, and around the world, following the fortunes of the England cricket team. It is not quite as glamorous as people think, but yes, I know, I’m a lucky boy to be doing it.
As you might hope and expect, there was a bit of studying to be done to get here, working my way through school and university. But along the way there was plenty of cricket played as well, and watching former team-mates and opponents go on to make it as professionals has been great to see. During my first year at Birmingham University, current Warwickshire captain, Jim Troughton, was an undergraduate and played in the team that made it as far as the semi-finals of the British Universities tournament. His left-arm spin had worked a treat for us in restricting Cambridge University in the quarter-final at Fenner’s, but the rain got in the way and we had to replay the game.
Another washout meant that the only option was to have a bowl-out on the morning of the semi-final, with the winner staying on at The Parks to play the University of the West of England, and the loser going home. It was a pretty high standard of bowling, with five bowlers given two chances each per team. After the very best that the two sides had to offer had each sent down their pair of deliveries, Birmingham had triumphed by the Barry Davies scoreline of 1–0.
We went on to play the semi-final immediately and happened to be fielding first. On our return to the dressing room at the end of the innings we discovered that something was amiss. Bags had been opened and at first there was a real fear that valuables had been taken. As it happened, nothing had been stolen, but all our towels were hanging up on the pegs. Not only that, but they were also wet and dirty. A parting gift from the Cambridge side, who clearly didn’t take too kindly to being beaten by their redbrick opponents . . . A Cambridge team that contained current England assistant coach, Richard Halsall.
It was a pretty harmless prank, to be honest, and everyone reacted well. But by far and away the best reaction I’ve ever seen to misfortune was Dougie Brown’s. The Warwickshire and England all-rounder was invited to be guest speaker at our university cricket club dinner. He was brilliant. Interacting well with all the students beforehand, delivering a great speech and then taking a few questions afterwards. The players had lined up a party to crack on to – your typical student club night at the guild, laced with pints of snakebite. So, as the function drew to a close, imagine my surprise when Dougie not only asked where we were headed, but whether he was invited, too. Of course he was!
Ready to jump into a cab, he just had to pop something into the car he’d parked at the function room, only to discover that someone had tried to break into it. There was a crack in the back windscreen, scratches along the door panel, and the lock had been fiddled with and was dented. The car looked a bit of a mess. The police were called and statements were taken. Clearly upset by the incident, Dougie sorted things out with the security guard at the venue, and asked for a cab to be called, presumably to take him home. Not a chance of it. Ten minutes later, he was on the dance floor, drink in hand, as if nothing had happened. If ever someone could put a golden duck out of their minds, it had to be him.
Sportsmen and their cars are just one of those relationships that seem to be doomed from the start. The heady combination of youth, money and adrenaline is a potent, often dangerous, mix, but that is all part of growing up. For the more serene members of the press corps, driving is more of a function than a status symbol, and it is often the best way to get about when on tour. A particular favourite is New Zealand, where you can drive to any venue very easily, even taking the Picton ferry if you want to get between the islands.
Back in 2008 this was the transport of choice for most of us and we split up, two to a car, as we made our way around one of the world’s most beautiful countries. My co-driver for the tour was Angus Fraser, the former England bowler, who could occasionally be a little grumpy with the world but who was an interesting and chatty enough travel companion.
He also played a couple of winters for a club in Wellington, so he knew the country very well indeed. Everything had worked pretty well throughout the trip, picking up and dropping off the cars as and when, until we collected our car for the last, long journey from Wellington to Napier for the final Test match.
Gus was unhappy because the car hire company had given us a compact Ford Focus when he’d specifically requested something bigger. This was because his family were flying out to join him for the end of the tour, after which they would be going on a bit of a driving holiday for a couple of weeks and he was keeping the car for that. There was nothing available at Wellington, so arrangements were made for an alternative car to be ready for us in a day or two in Napier – no problem.
We set off out of town, looking to pick up State Highway 2, which would take us all the way. It is not a particularly taxing drive, with large sections being just a very straight road. The speed limit is 100 kmph. Despite driving a fairly small-engine car, Gus was determined to get the pedal to the metal and, with the strains of T-Rex on the stereo, he managed to get us well over that mark on the speedometer.
As for what happened next, you can probably guess. We were clocked by a police car going the other way and were asked to pull over. This was the conversation that ensued.
Officer: ‘Excuse me, sir, do you know how fast you were driving?’
Fraser: ‘Oh, not sure, about ninety-five?’
Officer: ‘No, sir, you were not. It was a hundred and forty-four.’
Fraser: ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, this car’s not capable of going that fast.’
Officer: ‘I’m afraid it is, sir, and since you were doing more than forty over the limit I’m going to have to ask you for your licence.’
Fraser: ‘This is bloody stupid, I was never going that fast. You need to check your equipment. Haven’t you got anything better to do.’
Officer: ‘The licence please, sir.’
Fraser: ‘For f**k’s sake, can’t we come to some arrangement?’
Officer: ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting or accusing me of, sir, but please hand over your licence and step out of the car.’
Fifteen minutes later, the officer had taken Gus’s licence, given him a breathalyser test (he hadn’t been drinking) and written out a ticket that forbade him from driving in New Zealand and required him to apply for the return of his licence once he was back home.
To call him grumpy for the rest of the journey would be an understatement.
Fraser: ‘Come on, grandad, put your foot down, will you? I’d like to get to Napier before dark.’
Me: ‘I think we’ve lost enough driving licences for one day, don’t you? By the way, I guess your wife is going to be really happy to drive around the wine region of New Zealand for the next two weeks . . .’
Fraser: ‘Oh f**k!’