Lloyd - Last in the tin bath - the autobiography

Last in the Tin Bath

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015

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Copyright 2015 by David Lloyd Promotions Limited

This book is copyright under the Berne convention.

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Hardback: 978-1-4711-5044-9

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To all my family

Contents

Introduction

I have probably qualified for the gold watch when it comes to cricket. Aside from the briefest of diversions in the early 1980s, it has provided me with my livelihood since being signed on at Old Trafford as an inky-fingered fifth former back in 1963. This year represents the fiftieth anniversary since my first full season as a professional with Lancashire. Not that I am after any kind of long-service award.

You see, the pleasure has been all mine. Yes, it has been some journey, and like all of substantial length it has contained its highs and its lows, catching the praise and dodging the brickbats, although I am pleased to report it has never become as disconcerting as the one experienced by mate Craig Donkey Daniels in the 2015 Wilmslow half-marathon when, having bet against half our local pub that he would finish in semi-professional time, he was overtaken by a man pushing a wheelbarrow, a full-sized Paddington Bear and a pantomime horse in quick succession. By that stage, a few miles in, dripping with sweat, he anticipated being a good few pounds lighter by the finish line. Around 500, as I recall.

It was hellishly tough breaking into that Lancashire dressing room as a meek sixteen-year-old, but as I reflect on it from my privileged seat in the commentary box for Sky Sports, there is a recognition that it was the making of me. The testosterone-fuelled mickey-taking, the hard graft for little reward, the harsh lessons of failure coupled with the joy of victory and personal achievement held me in good stead. Life as a county cricketer was the garden of my life, but it was not always sunshine and roses, even though I yearned for the funny side of all events.

Thankfully, where there were tears, laughter was never far behind. Most notably, when Bob Knocker White, who went on to become a bloody good umpire, was batting for Nottinghamshire at Old Trafford in the late 1960s, when, with a half-century to his name, he suffered a twinge in his back. Visiting teams did not have physios travel with them in those days and so our man Bill Ridding ran on. Knocker, bent double, had some Fiery Jack ointment rubbed into the area to relieve the pain and reduce the stiffness. It worked a treat, although Fiery Jack was a product that really lived up to the name on the tin. After resuming batting, Knocker began moving more freely and even got a sweat on, which was the cause of his retiring hurt soon afterwards, as the stuff began running down his arse cheeks. After numerous gulps and groans, his face turning redder and redder, eyes watering, he departed to place his derriere in the bath, leaving several other men on the opposition crying for a different reason.

Cricket is a sport that acts as a magnet for characters and I am grateful to have met many across all the roles I have held in the game from young shaver at Lancashire, to England player, coach from grassroots to international arena, first-class umpire and latterly commentator. They have all helped fill the games progress with fun. And how different it was back in the sixties when Bert Flack, the groundsman at Old Trafford, declared Pakistans innings against Lancashire in a touring match by entering the field with the roller and telling the batsmen: Its our turn now. Can you imagine that these days? There would be an ICC inquiry.

It is with a heavy heart that a cricketer gives up the comradeship of the dressing room and it might explain why I refused to pack in altogether when I came out of the county game in 1983, and even went back for another spell with my beloved Accrington Cricket Club not long before I turned pensionable age. Every April I long for the whiff of Ralgex in the nostrils and recall the hundreds of blokes I am proud to have called team-mates. There is even a thought or two for those I am not. Cricket, mirroring life, occasionally pitches you together with work colleagues you might not otherwise pass the time of day with.

While I have always cared deeply about the fortunes of the England team, and still do never more so than when I had the privilege of coaching it for three years neither have I forgotten where it all began, or where I passed through to get there. It is why, in recent years, I have put my name to the Lancashire League and Professional Cricketers Association, serving as president of both organisations. The sport has given me plenty and this has represented a chance to give something back.

To be frank, if you put me in a darkened room and shone a bright light in my eyes under questioning, I would tell you that my natural devotion lies elsewhere. Its always been like that for me, really. Football has been my first love. My business has been cricket. It means I have come to like both of them equally. One of them is a real passion, something to keep me occupied on a social level, and yet it is the other one that has allowed me to make a living through expertise.

Sport in general makes me happy. I dont really know either of the rugby codes, never found the time to get into them, but as the years tick by and I speak to pals who do, I find myself wishing I had. Other lads that I played with and coached at Lancashire were into rugby league, but I wasnt born in that same M62 corridor heartland. And the red-trouser brigade who follow rugby union certainly never stopped off at Accrington. Thats far too posh and anyone that knows anything of the area knows we dont do posh. But the bottom line is that competitive action tends to get me hooked. I can get lost watching the darts; I love watching snooker; the Do Not Disturb signs go up on our lounge door if I decide to sit down and watch a televised racing meeting. You probably know lots of folk like me. Just call me Mr Bloke.

Through the toughest times the back end of my playing days with Lancashire, a personal crusade against entrenched English habits while coach of the national team I hope that bloke was still recognisable. If he went missing temporarily, I always tried to get him back. Those whose careers took me in as both coach and co-commentator such as Michael Atherton and Nasser Hussain have been best placed to judge, I guess, but I retain confidence that all the friendships and loyalties developed during the late 1990s still remain intact as I sit back and put my lifetime in the sport to paper.