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at the time of his captaincy would now agree that on less medication he is really good fun to be around.

      As captain, he had a terrific talent for mucking in as one of the lads one minute, and then flicking the switch to become more aloof as the situation demanded. He fully understood the split role necessary for him in this position of authority. He would want his team to be as happy, as competitive and as professional as possible. He would let players know when they had messed up – almost always in private – and expect them to address his criticism positively. He wanted everyone within the collective to display total commitment. Athers was not looking for brownie points outside the team environment, and he needed to be firm: his team were not as successful as those led by Nasser Hussain and Michael Vaughan in later years. The comparison is harsh, however, because his team was a struggling one, whereas those that followed were built after England had hit rock bottom and under entirely different off-field circumstances. He never got enough credit for his tenure from the public, but I can say that during my time he carried out his role with a combination of good humour and good grace. Inside the environs of Team England (the next regime officially branded it just that) he had the respect and indeed admiration of those playing under him.

      The same unflustered approach to life which has been a trademark since his emergence as a schoolboy talent at Old Trafford (someone once joked he could ‘block it for England’ as a 16-year-old, which was ironic given his great ten-hour effort against the South Africans to save a Test match in Johannesburg in the winter of 1995–6) remained in his general attitude to the captaincy. It was what allowed him to put the blinkers on when he batted and stop fretting about the rest of the team. Through all of the highs and lows of his international career, his personality remained unaffected. The personal traits which had marked him out since adolescence, notably his stubbornness and scruffiness, were incorporated into Atherton the Captain. Sky do well to hide the sartorial faux pas, but day to day he is no different now.

      Among our set he would win the Captain Shabby award hands down. In the summer of 2007 we all sent him up on Sky over his dress sense. A nice lady called Edith Versace had emailed in, we announced on air, remarking on how smart we all looked that summer. In this fashionista’s opinion, we had all raised our game – even Atherton. She wondered: ‘Have you ever thought of becoming male models?’ Strange she should ask, came the reply, because we had dug up some old Lancashire club shop catalogues from the early 1990s – you know the type: county cricketers fancying themselves as Dolce & Gabbana catwalkers. Don’t know about D&G, Athers looked much more like Man at C&A to me. Not sure what was going on either with the bouffant hair, or the budgie-smuggler shorts. In summary, his look was best described as ‘doubtful’. But the expression on his face suggested he would be buying tickets on himself if it was a raffle.

      Regardless of what he might think, he is beyond redemption when it comes to personal presentation. No matter what he wears. You can put him in the best Armani suit of all time: he will think he looks like the dog’s doo-dahs; truth is, he looks like a dog’s dinner. Nobody can pull off scruffy quite like him, and I guess that is quite an achievement in itself. He plays on that shabby theme all the time; I’ve lost count of the occasions he turns up with his shirt looking like a concertina, collar undone and hair wisping all over the place. When it comes to his attire, I am not sure he has recollected that he ever left Cambridge, because he could still pass for a student. Sometimes he will stand there and seem to be expecting reassurance. ‘I look good today, don’t I?’ he will fish. ‘No, you look like a bag of shit again, Athers.’

      We have fallen out on numerous occasions over the years, but I don’t recall either of us ever holding a grudge against the other. With us two we have always said what we think, agreed to disagree, or even blazed at one another, before moving on to another subject with great haste. We are completely comfortable with each other, so it would take something of seismic proportions to knock us out of kilter.

      When our beloved Bertie, our faithful fox terrier, died in early 2009 I happened to be in contact with a couple of journalists in the press box in St Kitts, via Skype. Suddenly, Atherton’s smiling mush appeared on my computer screen. ‘Eh up, Bumble, how’s things?’ he asked. ‘Not good,’ I replied. ‘Bertie’s passed away. Died a couple of days ago.’ Kidney disease, combined with other complications, were giving him no quality of life and it was heartbreaking to have to make that final decision. He was an absolute trooper, a great companion and well known to cricket followers around the country. It was a sad tale but – perhaps it was the tone of my voice, or the way I looked, which may have been in contrast to the solemn nature of the news I was relaying – something clearly tickled Athers, and once the giggling started he simply could not stop.

      Poor old Bert had been taken from us at the age of 12, we had been down the vets for one final, suitable moment with him, and all that sod Atherton could do was laugh! Diana was so distraught, she had not gone to work for a couple of days, had failed to get out of her pyjamas and dressing gown even, and could not even spare a glance at Tags, our other dog, whose own sense of loss was evident as she traipsed around the house in a forlorn search for her pal. The entire household was absolutely mortified. We were all cut up about it, but Diana had undoubtedly taken it the worst. Yet throughout the relaying of all this information, the chuckling continued. He was pissing himself. I guess it highlighted the fact that really good pals, while caring deep down, often seem to revel in each other’s misfortune. I certainly thought no ill of him, and he felt no malice towards me. But as I sat morosely in chilly Cheshire, he cackled in the Caribbean. Good old Bert’s ashes now sit above the fireplace alongside my dad’s and those of Judy, another of my previous dogs.

      Perhaps Atherton was having the last laugh on this occasion, having come out second best to Bertie in his pomp. Now I can’t actually remember him being done, but whenever Paul Allott used to pop round to our house, Bertie used to line him up for an assault, so it is eminently possible. The points of attack being either behind the ear or behind the ankle. Paul seemed to be the primary target, but a whole host of Lancashire players have been snapped at over the years. When we lived in our old house in Cheadle Hulme, Neil Fairbrother popped around for one reason or another, and as he approached I restrained little Bert by his collar, standing behind the garden gate. ‘Oh, bless him,’ said Neil, getting out of his car and offering a friendly, stroking arm as he wandered up. WHOOSH went Bertie’s jaws, straight into the fleshy part of the hand.

      Tags is also an absolute beauty, having learnt everything she knows from the master. Anyone can come into our house, and she’s fine with it. She’s as pleasant as can be in greeting you – in fact she’ll make a right fuss. ‘You’re most welcome,’ her behaviour tells you as you enter through the front door. There is no territorial angst, anyone can come in and plonk themselves on the sofa. She’ll even come over and either sit on your knee or perch herself next to you, making a fuss of you, as though you’re her long-lost buddy. Oh no, getting in the house is a placid, welcoming experience with Tags. But you bloody well try and get out again!

      She will not hear of it. Our house, to her, is a bit like a secret society: once you’re in, you’re in. Poor Diana goes to work in smart ladies’ suits and the majority of them have now got holes in the back, where Tags has had a go at her. Think about leaving and she’s after you. If we have builders round, it will be all sweetness and light as they come in to assess the job. ‘Isn’t she a lovely thing?’ would be a typical remark. But believe me, they’ve revised their opinion before they’ve got the tools out of the van. She’ll be nipping their arse and clawing their legs all the way.

      In fact, whenever we have someone around, it’s a military operation to get them out the door unscathed; one that usually features a biscuit being strategically placed at the other end of the house, while the visitor escapes. She falls for it every time, bless her, but no sooner have I got the door shut behind us than the little rascal is launching herself through the air, chomping at the handle like Michael Jordan attempting a slam dunk. She learnt all she knows from Bertie, of course. To her this is perfectly normal behaviour. We used to have a plumber who came to the house looking like someone straight out of a Guns N’ Roses tribute band. Although plumbing was his trade, his personal trademark was the builder’s bum. Given a glimpse of a cheek or two, Bertie would be straight on board, indulging his taste for flesh.

      Athers

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