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The Thorn between Two Roses

It was right at the start of my Lancashire career that I witnessed Brian Statham and Fred Trueman on opposite sides doing battle. But what a partnership they formed when thrust together, though. Statham was like a greyhound: smooth, graceful, lean and hungry. At the other end was this big Yorkshireman who possessed a classical action, an extrovert character, an admirable competitive streak and that commonly-recurring fast-bowling feature: a huge backside.

Brian was my first captain at Old Trafford, although it was partly his injury that led to my first XI debut at home to Middlesex in 1965. It would be a fair summary to suggest that he was a cricketer who got himself bowling fit by doing exactly that – bowling. There was no pre-season fitness regime to adhere to. No hill runs or swim sessions down the local baths. It was just a case of rocking up ready to play.

If Brian came back from an England winter tour, the first we tended to see of him was on the eve of the first match of the season, and when I say eve I mean eve. If we opened up on a Saturday, he would stroll into Old Trafford on the Friday, reacquaint himself with us all, chew the fat in the dressing room for an hour or so before pinning the team for the following day up on the board.

But like the rest of us he was a product of the age. There was no expectation of scoring 12 in a bleep test back then. A test of one’s fitness was whether you had the stamina to be able to send down 25 overs in a day. He would take off his sweater in late April and answer that with unerring displays of high quality seam bowling. Brian was a very special bowler, who mastered a consistent line and length, and controlled the movement of the ball like it was on a string.

These days the late, great Brian has an end named after him at Old Trafford. It was fitting tribute to his efforts on behalf of the club and his impact as a Test bowler with England.

It was all a show with Fred. He played up to his own caricature with real skill. So much so that the fable of how good he was began years before he packed up. The trick for him was to make you think he was even better than he was, and his record meant he was intimidating enough before he opened his mouth.

One classic story comes from the 1952 Test series between England and India when one of the Indian batsmen was being rather meticulous over the positioning of the sightscreen. The umpire, getting a little agitated by the delay, inquired: ‘Where do you want it?’

‘Between me and Mr Trueman,’ came the clever reply.

Wireless Wonders

My first memories of Ashes cricket were not from watching but from listening on the wireless to the efforts of Jim Laker in 1956. Of course, we all know of that famous match when he took 19 wickets, and subsequently I have studied the fields that were set. It was quite an extraordinary way that Australia played, and you are talking about uncovered pitches in those days, obviously.

Without doubt England exploited the dampness superbly, yet it is extraordinary that one chap in any era could get 19 wickets. Tony Lock, the left-arm spinner, would have been apoplectic that he ended up with just one in those conditions. They were a fine spin double act Laker and Lock even if they weren’t necessarily bosom buddies away from cricket.

To see how Laker tried to get his wickets was quite an eye-opener. Alan Oakman was stood like a predator at leg slip, a position which has really gone out of the modern game, and the spin that Laker got combined with the accuracy made it a really attacking position from which to snare batsmen.

I came to know Jim because he was a commentator on the BBC’s television coverage of the Sunday League alongside Peter Walker. Frank Bough was also around at that time, and they were a nice little commentary team. Jim also happened to be a really good friend of Jack Simmons. They were both off-spinners of course and Jack was one of the most gregarious fellows you could meet. The pair of them used to talk about the art of off-spin and other things for hours.

But it was actually Ray Illingworth, of the players I played with and against, that reminded me of most of Jim in that when he bowled he stood nice and tall in delivery. Accuracy was your main ally in the days of uncovered wickets because if you kept things tight the natural variation in a pitch would sometimes reward you by allowing the ball to spit this way or that.

I never tire of watching the cine reel of that 1956 performance at Old Trafford. It looks pretty clear to me that the Australians had no real idea of how to play that type of gripping off-spin where the ball does something off the pitch, off a decent length.

Fielders were stood all around, circling for their chance of an inside edge or a false defensive shot. One of the things that makes me chuckle from watching that back, though, is that a wicket did not encourage French kisses or gropes of each other’s backsides; it was just a simple pat on the back or a nod of approval with your head. Sometimes if players got really carried away they might give each other a handshake.

But there was certainly no going down on your hands and knees kissing the turf, beating the badge on your chest or tonguing short-leg’s helmet. There were no advertising logos to point towards the cameras either. The only name on any of your clothing might have been the nametag sewn into your shirt by your wife or mother. The most extravagant Laker seemed to get was to smile, and hitch up his pants in that 1950s fashion, as if to say he was ready for business.

It was really peculiar to England that the regulations meant you would play on uncovered pitches. Teams would come over and find it extremely difficult whereas an English player would develop a technique on these uncovered surfaces. Through the middle of the 20th century there was a fashion for fast-medium bowlers who were deadly accurate and hit the seam. Now, as a batsman that meant you had to play at most deliveries and if you weren’t used to it jagging this way and that you were in danger of being dismissed.

But it all came about from England losing the first Test at Lord’s, a match that the Australian fast bowler Keith Miller dominated. England’s response was telling. Out went their own attack spearhead Frank Tyson, as attention turned to spin. With Lock and Laker together it was an obvious tactic. Some of the Australian party believed it was a tactic that was tantamount to cheating. But I don’t see how preparing pitches to suit your own purpose can be called that. With the bilateral nature of Test cricket it seems eminently sensible to make use of any home advantage going.

We have reflected on Bradman’s freakish numbers but two Laker statistics from ’56 will stand the test of time, I am sure. To claim 19 wickets in one game, and 46 in an Ashes series is astonishing. It is fair to say that numerically at least Laker contributed more than any other Englishman to victory over Australia. Yet, in losing down under two-and-a-half years later, the urn was relinquished once more and stayed in the land of the didgeridoo for the entire 1960s.

It might have been different, according to good old Fiery Fred. I’ll let two classic pieces of sledgehammer wit tell the story. England led the 1962–63 series, you see, courtesy of Trueman’s eight wickets at the MCG. But two crucial slip catches went down. The first, by the Rev David Shepherd, was greeted by Trueman exclaiming: ‘Kid yourself it’s a Sunday, Rev, and put your hands together.’ The next, by Colin Cowdrey, came with an apology to the bowler: ‘Sorry, Fred, I should have kept my legs together.’ To which, the great man replied: ‘No, but your mother should have.’

Under Ted Dexter’s captaincy, England drew more than Rolf Harris at his marker-pen doodling best, but in 1964 their most significant result was a defeat at Headingley that put Australia ahead. Disagreement on the best tactical policy in the field led to Australia’s Peter Burge swashbuckling his team home with a big hundred.

The match I remember most clearly, though, is the fourth Test at Old Trafford that followed. Australia captain Bobby Simpson scored his maiden Test hundred, a whopping 311 to be exact, and the stand-out aspect from an England perspective was the fact that they opted to leave Trueman out on a featherbed, despite trailing with two matches remaining. It was a result of the Dexter–Trueman bust-up in Leeds, and meant they gave debuts to Fred Rumsey and Tom Cartwright.

As Simpson just batted and batted it was bleedingly obvious that they had come up with the wrong team. I guess the Simpson innings stuck in my mind both because it was at Old Trafford and also because he was the professional at my club Accrington.

What a fabulous cricketer Simpson was: a more than handy leg-spinner and one of the best slip catchers not just in Ashes tussles but that the world has ever seen. However, his main forte was as an opening batsman.

Later in life he became such an influence as a coach. He followed me in the role at Lancashire although he didn’t stick around very long. He had a lengthy association with the area, from the time that he played in the leagues and coached us youngsters, and we had exchanged views on a few things when he had been over in the past as coach of Australia. It was an unbelievable job he did from 1986 to 1996. When he took over, Australia had not won a Test series for three years, and by the time he had finished they were celebrating four consecutive Ashes victories and a place in the final of the 1996 World Cup.

It was during the 1991 season that he got in touch to inquire about another Australian who also played for our dear Accrington. One Shane Warne.

‘How’s young Warne going?’ he asked.

‘He’s not doing great, if I’m honest,’ I told him.

‘I thought he must be pissin’ ’em out,’ Bob said.

‘Well, no he’s not.’

‘Right, get him to ring me. I’ll tell him where to bowl.’

These days it is a privilege to sit in a commentary box next to Warne. Earlier connections in my career, meanwhile, take me right back to the 1930s through Gubby Allen, one of the central figures in the Bodyline fiasco, and a man who ran English cricket for a long time. He was Gubby to his very best friends but to most people he was most definitely Mr Allen. You can probably tell which camp I was in as an aspiring international player.

Having been called up in 1974 against India, my debut was at Lord’s, and so I got in early the day before the match, and was wearing my pride and joy. Get this: the pride and joy of which I speak was a snazzy yellow leather jacket. I thought I was a right bobby dazzler as I turned up in this clobber, and displaying typical keenness of the new boy I was first in. I put my bag down and there was this chap sat on the table. I had no idea who he was. ‘Alright,’ I greeted him. ‘How do?’

‘Hullo,’ came the rather authoritative reply.

‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ I resumed, trying to break an uncomfortable silence, my tactic being to work out who the heck this bloke was, and what he was doing in the England dressing room, if I kept talking. ‘See you decided to get here nice and early too.’

There was not much coming back from him at all, and what went through my mind was that this bloke had somehow wandered in uninvited. So I plucked up a bit of courage and warned: ‘Listen, pal. I don’t know if you realise this but you are sat in the England dressing room and they will all be coming up in a minute or two.’

‘You’ve no idea who I am, have you?’ he responded.

‘No, can’t say I have, sorry.’

‘My name is Gubby. It’s Gubby Allen.’

‘How do you do?’ I said, with a smile, which masked the fact that I remained none the wiser.

It took my more established team-mates to put me in the picture, and thankfully, he took my ignorance brilliantly. At night after play we would all be invited into the MCC committee room for a drink.

‘I believe you have been told who I am now,’ he said.

‘Er, yes,’ I answered rather sheepishly.

I was always careful to mind my manners around Gubby. He had that effect on you, which is quite a contrast to how one behaved around Alec Bedser, who was chairman of selectors at the time. Clocking me in my yellow jacket that week, he put me at ease with the blunt inquiry: ‘What the f***’s that you’ve got on?’

I just couldn’t see past this yellow fashion accessory being the dog’s doodahs. It had been purchased from a bespoke gents’ outfitters in Rawtenstall called Nobbutlads. Well, that’s how it was hyphenated in local speak, as it stood for Nowt But Lads.

There was no girls’ stuff on sale there, although being shiny yellow with these massive lapels I am sure a lass could get away with wearing something similar in 2013. Looking back it was quite hideous. But at the time I thought it was the business.

These days if you get picked for England, you turn up in the full suit for a Test match. Back then you were only kitted out afterwards, hence my turning up looking like a roadie for the Bay City Rollers. I was yet to receive my England jacket or indeed my MCC piping blazer that I would be sporting that following winter.

The 1970–71 Ashes series, the one which preceded my one and only tour as an England player, was a feisty affair and not just between the two teams. There was plenty of other niggle about too, and Ray Illingworth’s men had broken relationships with a member of officialdom as well as some of the people that populated the stands.

All hell almost literally broke loose when a John Snow bouncer collided into Terry Jenner and knocked him senseless. The treatment given to one of their tail-enders incensed the Sydney crowd, who seemed keen on exacting their own retribution by rioting.

The umpire Lou Rowan certainly took exception to the short-pitched stuff sent down by Snow, whose staple argument on the matter during that series was that his deliveries were aimed at the armpit of the batsman and not at the head, and were therefore not technically bouncers at all. On one occasion when the subject matter came up, Rowan is said to have argued: ‘Well, somebody’s bowling them from this end and it’s not me.’

Snow saw it his job to rough up opposing batsman. For him, it went with the territory as England’s new-ball enforcer, and getting struck was just an occupational hazard for top-order batsmen. His intention was to spread uncertainty and apprehension in the Australian ranks and a haul of 31 wickets that series suggests he succeeded.

But his aggressive approach got this Mr Rowan interested throughout a niggly series and particularly when Jenner was peppered with rib-ticklers after coming in with Australia seven wickets down in the final Test at the SCG. When Jenner tried to wriggle out of the flight path of the third his misjudgement on length cost him dear and witnessed the ball being ‘headed’ into the covers.

It was not until a bloody Jenner had been escorted from the field, and Snow was preparing to send down his next delivery, that Rowan told him: ‘That’s a first warning.’

Such decisions are pretty arbitrary ones and you have to rely on the umpire’s discretion. However, Snow was not the kind of man to take anything lying down and from what I knew of him was unlikely to merely accept a judgement without prior discussion. His argument as things got a little heated with the local official was that the delivery in question had been the first genuine bouncer he had sent down that over.

Unsurprisingly, Ray Illingworth, his captain, immediately offered his support. He was a very fine leader, Ray, and his teams would always know they had his full backing. As they stood arguing the toss, the first beer cans were lugged onto the field at the other end of the ground. And by the time the over was completed, it looked like the world’s biggest New Year’s Eve party had been going on at fine-leg.

And when Snow clasped his hat and sauntered off to the boundary along from that famous Sydney mound, the blood of the locals had not cooled. As I say, John was not a man to dodge confrontation, although it would take a far braver man than me to give it a touch of the Liam Gallaghers at that point. His ‘come on, then’ gestures were taken up by one have-a-go-zero who leapt the fence and grabbed him by the collar. Snow’s remonstrations with this drunken chap amounted to him asking quite matter-of-factly what the hell he was doing. But it was the signal for the boozers behind him to unleash their tinnies and bottles once more.

Illingworth, again as befitted his position as leader, was first on the scene and ushered Snow away, and the rest of the England team off the field. Others might have questioned his actions – ‘the game must go on’ and all that – but he was a man of principle, so the players were all holed up in the away dressing room when Rowan entered to inquire: ‘What’s going on, Mr Illingworth? Is this team coming back onto the field or have you chosen to forfeit the match?’

With the Ashes in England’s possession all bar the shouting it was a bit Hobson’s Choice, really, wasn’t it? Get back out there or hand Australia a drawn series. Illingworth insisted that a few minutes were given for things to calm down and so, with the ground swept of its debris, it was on with the show.

England left with smiles on their faces in relation to the series result but with scowls for Rowan, who did not give a single lbw against Australia in the series, a statistic that enraged the visiting players, including Illy.

This Rowan episode would have been one of the many instances that combined to move us towards neutral umpires in international cricket. Sure, the process of two home umpires officiating went on for another 20-odd years but in the end something had to give. Too often around the world touring teams would feel that they were playing against 13. For example, there was the popular theory that Javed Miandad had never been given out lbw in Pakistan. Now, as statistics go, that’s quite extraordinary, and not strictly true. The facts were that it was not until the 10th year of him playing home Tests that he was first given out in that manner.

History suggests that Rowan was taken aback by Illy’s attitude but if you are dealing with Raymond Illingworth you would simply not get the stiff upper lip that an Australian official might expect from an England captain. Indeed, Mr David Clark, the tour manager on that trip, expected the same thing – to be British about it and get on in the face of provocation. Earlier in the trip Clark had expressed his dislike of drawn matches and offered the suggestion that he would prefer to witness a 3–1 Australia victory than to see it end in stalemate.

It is fair to say that Clark’s views and mine are diametrically opposed. Ray was exactly the same as me in his attitude and I am pretty sure I would have replicated every single one of his actions had I found myself in his position. In my time as England coach I would never do that stiff upper lip thing either, preferring to stick up for those under my charge, and remained desperately keen to win. During my England tenure, my attitude was always: ‘You should never have appointed me if that was what you wanted.’ I am just not that sort of bloke. If someone wronged me I would come back hard at them; it’s the way I have always been, and not just on the cricket field.

Without doubt, that is how Illy has always been too. He will play hard and fair but if he is crossed then watch out because he will take matters into his own hands. There were distinct parallels to be drawn between Illingworth and Jardine, actually, as captains, and I would argue that there is a correlation that they were seen to be sticking up for their team out in the middle, taking the flak on behalf of the group, and that their teams were successful out there.

It needs strong leadership and a single-mindedness to win an away series in such a demanding and hostile environment, and neither bloke would take a backward step. These guys revelled in being in charge and weren’t about to let anyone else boss their teams around. In acting in this way they were showing their own individual characters, and neither would have found it easy to hide that in any case. The one thing that neither would accept was being pushed around. They had to be seen to be leading their players, not just the bloke who had an asterisk by his name in the score book.

For years there was always a suspicion that whatever country you were in the appointed officials would favour the home team. Neutral umpires were necessary for the good of the global game but I believe we have now come full circle. I sit on the ICC panel that selects the officials for the elite level of the game and because of the way they are monitored centrally I am of the opinion that we can go back to home umpires standing in Test matches. Umpires across the globe are simply miles better and are more accountable for their decisions because of the presence of so much media coverage. Any mistakes are highlighted all around the world, and any real howlers would be struck down by the Decision Review System in most instances.

In the 1974–75 series there was a lovely chap called Tom Brooks umpiring. Jeff Thomson was a big no-ball merchant. He sent down loads of them, not that many of them were called as such, so when stood at the non-striker’s end while batting we would monitor where he was landing. Of course, he was regularly landing over the line with his front foot but seldom was he called.

This situation had been the subject of debate in our dressing room and we decided that it should be a duty when out batting to emphasise his landing position to the man in the white coat. It entailed us drawing the line with our boots, making it highly visible, or running our bats down the crease to encourage attention being drawn to the area. The odd word didn’t go amiss, either. ‘Oh, he’s close, really close, don’t you think?’

You couldn’t challenge the umpire back then, in contrast to the modern day when you can go right up to them and have a bit of a go. No, in ours it had to be a lot more subtle. Tom was a lovely bloke and he used to say in response: ‘You guys play to this front foot rule so we tend to be a bit stricter with your lot.’ It had always been a back foot rule before that, of course, and it was almost as if we were being punished for the rule change.

Conflict these days is dealt with a lot differently, and situations like Illy’s England found themselves in would get nowhere near the levels of antagonism with the current procedures in place. Any grievances are recorded, and written down or emailed, considered by match referees, and then even higher up the ICC chain of authority if necessary. This diplomatic mechanism was something that those teams could have done with but it was still light years away.

Such was the disharmony that existed between John Snow in particular and the Australian public, that year, though, that one might have presumed he was kept away from the Test squad in 1974–75 for his own safety. There was a certain justification for branding him public enemy number one down under for his part in the victory there four years earlier.

So when our bristly, fiercely competitive villain turned up to do some television commentary during our tour, public enemy number one became a target for his adversaries from the stands once more. During the Test match at Perth, some of the local punters were so incensed by his presence that they literally tried to tear the scaffolding down to get to him. The gestures they made towards him suggested they wanted to shake him warmly – not by the hand, but by the throat. Put it this way, Snowy didn’t look overly eager to clamber down to check out the theory that he was a wanted man.

My personal experience of the crowds down under was that the banter that flew about was mainly of a good-hearted nature. The infamous Bay 13 at the MCG was marvellous, actually, although not necessarily if you were the one posted in front of it on the boundary edge as Deadly Derek Underwood was on one occasion. It didn’t last long, though, as he was soon protesting about his placement. ‘I can’t stand down there any longer,’ he exclaimed. ‘I really can’t.’

Typically of the man, Tony Greig said he would go down there and stand up to it instead. It was a ritual for the Bay 13 lot to start throwing things at the fielders, and they didn’t need a gallon on board to provide them with Dutch courage. Oh no, this lot could be loutish when stone cold sober. They just had to be in the mood for mischief, and if they were, and you were in range, then trouble was on the cards.

The bombardment normally began with lumps of ice. More often than not it went from single ice cubes, to handfuls of ice, finishing with the final assault of the whole esky. Now Greigy was not a man to back away from a challenge or at a point of confrontation, so he naturally started lugging these frozen missiles back with interest.

There was plenty of entertainment on offer aside from the cricket when you stepped into an Australian cricket ground in the 1970s. There was no Barmy Army around back then to amuse you with their songs, but this Australian lot didn’t need any rivals to spar with because they used to find enough enjoyment in fighting amongst themselves. During the 1974–75 tour we got friendly with the stadium control police, whose radio room was adjacent to our dressing rooms.

So during our innings, we used to mill around in there, watch their surveillance, and listen to their officers reporting back on any shenanigans in the stands. It used to kick off regularly throughout a day’s play, not just once or twice, and not just play stuff either. I am talking proper fights. Just for the sake of it, blokes used to throw things at each other, and it only took someone to react and all hell broke loose.

Remember those crowds were 95% Australian, so they weren’t being wound up by Poms. Australians are aggressive people by nature and sometimes they just like to scrap. Watching the surveillance gave us a rare chance at seeing the Aussies lose at something that winter.

On the subject of crowd abuse, I suffered some minor incidents during my career, and tended not to react despite provocation. My general attitude was that they were looking for a rise out of you, and therefore refraining from a reaction would nip their game in the bud. Coming back with a quip only extended an unwanted interaction.

But the one time I did react was when I was struck on the back of the neck by a lump of cheese as I fielded on the boundary. Bending down, I scooped it up and held it between my fingers, looking at it incredulously. ‘That’s not very mature,’ I said.

Sometimes the friction on the boundary edge is not one created by the public but the players with their behaviour. When Colin Croft was our overseas player at Lancashire we received several complaints from those situated in the Lady Subscribers’ Stand of a rather disconcerting habit he had.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really, at least as far as fast bowlers go, but nevertheless something that upset the predominantly female spectators at fine leg. Between bowling overs, Colin would regain his breath in the deep and clear his pipes further by blowing his nose onto the grass without the use of a handkerchief.

Subsequently, as captain of the club, I was asked into a meeting to discuss the problem and find a suitable solution. You won’t believe the one that we came up with – Colin switched from fine leg to third man, where his nasal ritual could be carried out in front of the popular side of the ground!