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the way. After all, sport is there to be enjoyed first and foremost, and conveying that always came naturally enough to me. As it happened, the next stage of my life, as a full-time coach, was only just around the corner, but the stints on television and radio whetted the appetite.

      Upon leaving the commentary box to don the tracksuit, I left the door ajar for a return. That much became clear when my time as England coach concluded in the summer of 1999. The truth is, I knew it was time for me to step aside, but I had no idea what I was going to do after handing in my resignation to my bosses at Lord’s. Deep down I thought I would get back into coaching with a county club, but there was no obvious opening for me. There was nothing at Lancashire, which was understandably my first choice, because they already had Dav Whatmore in position. I had enjoyed a really good spell at Old Trafford as coach previously, but someone else was in that job on their own merits, which meant spending some time studying the county circuit to weigh up where an opportunity might present itself. Not many days had passed, however, when I received the phone call that was to change my life once more. I had always loved being involved in broadcasting, I had done loads over the years, but the voice at the other end was offering me something a bit different: the chance of a permanent appointment.

      The Australian accent greeting me at 8.50 a.m. on the morning of my England resignation press conference belonged to John Gayleard, then head of Sky’s cricket team. ‘Come and work for us,’ he said. ‘Our offer is on its way through to you. Oh, and by the way, we want your answer within ten minutes.’ It was the age of the fax – seems so long ago now, doesn’t it? – and this contract offer that landed on my desk needed signing and returning before the paper it was written on had cooled down. Sky wanted an immediate response because, spotting the opportunity for some publicity, they had decided to jump on the back of my departure from the national job. Their cameras were all set up down the road at Old Trafford to cover the announcement, which was just one and a half hours away, and they wanted to follow it with one of their own: ‘By the way, he now works for us.’ Of course, I accepted. So one minute I was sitting there in my England blazer, doing my thank you and goodbye with Ian MacLaurin, and the next I was taking up the microphone and jumping fence. Almost literally.

      During our hurried conversation that morning I asked John for a break, for a period of time specifically for some kind of reflection. Just to weigh up what had happened and where I was. ‘You’re in from next week’ was the terse reply. ‘You start straight away.’ So that was that. Like most Australians, Gayleard was forthright. He told me how it was going to be, and I was in no real position to argue. I later reflected that his instructions were not for his benefit at all but for mine, and I appreciated that. I think he could tell I was hurting in the aftermath of my England exit but guessed that any licking of wounds would be better done while my mind was fully engaged in a new environment, working for a new team.

      I immediately knew he was right when I first strolled into the commentary box. There was not a lot of time for me to prepare, and they were hardly ready for my arrival either – the first jacket I wore was one that Ian Botham had rejected, so you can imagine the size of this darn thing. I was tasked with hauling around the equivalent of a Karrimor tent on my shoulders until I eventually got my own.

      I work for Sky between 150 and 170 days a year, depending on what is on, and do lots of other stuff, within the media primarily, as a spin-off from that. In fact, some of the time when you may think I’m on Sky duty, I am technically working for other companies. When I am away commentating on an International Cricket Council event, for example, I am actually on duty for ESPN. And although the assignments stem from my profile with Sky, I can be working for all manner of different stations, people and directors: Ten Sports, Zee, Nimbus and TWI among them. It means being adaptable, and for any number of reasons. You have to slot in as seamlessly as possible and, believe me, you get to see exactly how good Sky are when you are working for rival television networks. Some of them fly by the seat of their pants in comparison and, without being too parochial about it, are left trailing in our wake. Few would be able to argue against that assessment, although I have to say that Australia’s Channel 9 are right up there as well in the slickness of their production.

      All in all, I have not looked back since I squiggled my signature and thrust that offer of employment back through my old fax machine. I simply love what I do. In broadcasting, your enthusiasm has to be unleashed, and that is not a problem as far as I am concerned because my enthusiasm for the game has rarely waned. I never see a day’s work as a chore. People are depending on you to entertain them. Sure, parts of matches can be a bit dull and sometimes you have to let a couple of turgid hours of cricket speak for themselves. Less can be more occasionally, and you have to get the balance of allowing games to drift along at some stages and forcing the pace at others. There are always going to be those periods that lend themselves to Johnny making a brew or Hilda feeding the budgie, but there are obviously other times when the action has to be revved up – more often than not when a wicket falls to alter the balance of the contest or in against-the-clock situations when teams are chasing victory. Thankfully getting excitable comes as second nature to me and I have always heeded the advice of the great broadcasters I have worked with. Their common opinion has been that you have to get the viewer feeling that they are with you, and part of the excitement, part of the drama.

      The other advice I always bear in mind while on commentary duty came from my dad. As a child, I received a strict church upbringing. In our household, my dad, who was a lay preacher, was very quiet. It was my mother who was the dominant one, the disciplinarian; she used to hit me with a frying pan, belts, anything she could get her hands on. Whereas I cannot remember my dad ever laying a finger on me. He just pointed me in the right direction. The one thing I always remembered was his instruction to ‘Be yourself. Always be yourself. You might not always be right – there is nothing wrong with being wrong – but be yourself.’ David senior was 90-odd when he died but, whatever the situation that confronted me, I always turned back to that same, long-standing guidance.

      On air I have tried to keep to those guidelines. I have never been afraid of sailing close to the wind when it comes to innuendo, and I have always believed that you instinctively know where to draw the line between fun and bad taste. When I was England coach, dealing with players with families, mortgages and other responsibilities, the one thing I always said to them – we all know what blokes are like, we are all the same when we get together, whether we be sportsmen, press men, whatever; we want a lot of fun, occasionally act a bit over the top, or be a bit laddish – was never to do anything that would prevent your mother and father standing up and proudly declaring to all and sundry: ‘That’s my lad.’ It was as simple as that. As parents, you want to be able to say: ‘Yep, that’s our George … the one with his arse hanging out.’ I am all for being outrageous on occasion, but you have to keep it affectionate.

      For example, I hope I don’t behave differently on camera from how I act off it. My view is that I am the same man and that I am pretty natural at what I do. Talking about cricket has always come pretty easily, put it that way, but neither am I afraid to say things out loud that come into my head. It is not always pre-planned but I never regret what I say, even though it can be close to the bone occasionally. During the Ashes in 2009, one of the cameras panned to a young lass, who had the biggest chest you’ve ever seen, walking in front of the stand with a couple of pints in hand. ‘Oooh, I wouldn’t mind two of those,’ I said. To me, genuinely funny innuendo is born of innocence.

      When we are working, we will normally get a nudge from our crew to warn us that they are about to pan around the crowd. But when you are abroad, and therefore taking another company’s pictures, you haven’t a clue what is around the corner. Such was the case in the Durban Test of 2009–10 as SABC went into a random surf of the stands. The camera focused on a young lady, who at that very second produced an enormous sausage from a picnic tray concealed between her legs. Instead of panning away to something else, they kept on this 12-inch pork truncheon. What on earth does a bloke say when confronted by that image? You’re in a no-win situation. ‘Well, sorry, I have lost my train of thought,’ I declared, as this thing wobbled this way and that. Sometimes you get into giddy schoolboy mode and this was one such occasion. The double entendre continued later when, sat alongside Michael Atherton, they zoomed in on a couple of blokes who had carved out a watermelon and plonked the outer casings on their

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