Tuffers ashes heroes, p.1
Tuffers’ Ashes Heroes, page 1
Copyright
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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2025
FIRST EDITION
© Phil Tufnell 2025
Cover design by Claire Ward/HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Cover photographs © David Wickes/Alamy Stock Photo (Ian Botham), Action Plus Sports Images/Alamy Stock Photon (James Anderson), Mark Pain/Alamy Stock Photo (Andrew Flintoff), Asanka Brendon Ratnayake/Associated Press/Alamy Stock Photo (Ben Stokes), PA Images/Alamny Stock Photo (Bob Willis, Steve Waugh), Allstar Picture Library/Alamy Stock Photo (Ricky Ponting, Merv Hughes, Mitchell Johnson, Shane Warne). Author photographs © Jay Brooks
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Source ISBN: 9780008753887
Ebook Edition © October 2025 ISBN: 9780008753894
Version 2025-09-04
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008753887
Dedication
To Dawn – always at my side – and all the
Ashes cricketers, present and departed,
I played with and against.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Introduction
1.David Gower
2.Glenn Mcgrath
3.Phillip DeFreitas
4.Steve Waugh
5.Graham Gooch
6.Alex Carey
7.Sir Alastair Cook
8.The Umps
9.Derek Randall
10.Dennis Lillee
11.Mike Atherton
12.Shane Warne
13.Michael Vaughan
14.Ricky Ponting
15.Alan Mullally
16.Rodney Marsh
17.Bob Willis
18.Aussie Crowds
19.Angus Fraser
20.Ashton Agar
21.Steve Harmison
22.Justin Langer
23.Devon Malcolm
24.Allan Border
25.Andrew Flintoff
26.Nathan Lyon
27.Mark Butcher
28.Peter Taylor
29.Sir Ian Botham
30.Mitchell Johnson
31.Jonathan Agnew
32.Steve Smith
33.Stuart Broad
34.Mark Waugh
35.Graham Thorpe
36.Adam Gilchrist
37.Nasser Hussain
38.Pat Cummins
39.Ben Stokes
40.Terry Alderman
41.Darren Gough
42.David Boon
43.Mike Gatting
44.Jeff Thomson
45.Sir Jimmy Anderson
46.Ian Chappell
47.Robin Smith
48.Matthew Hayden
49.Kevin Pietersen
50.Merv Hughes
And Me?
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
Introduction
I was just thinking about the launch point for this book when I looked up at the TV and saw an image of perhaps England’s greatest Ashes hero – or at least his midriff. Sir Ian Botham, a newsreader revealed, had plunged from a fishing boat into the shark and crocodile infested waters of the Moyle River near Darwin, in northern Australia. Who had rescued him from this unenviable situation? None other than the human moustache, Merv Hughes. The former Aussie paceman reached out a hairy arm and pulled his old Pommie foe from an imminent onslaught of snapping teeth – once word had got round the shark community that there was someone called Beefy in the water the only natural outcome was a scene reminiscent of Jaws. Big Merv saw to it that Sir Beef, a few bruised ribs apart, lived to fight another day, although considering his previous exploits Down Under you wouldn’t have bet against Beefy taking on a marauding gang of bloodthirsty reptiles and emerging victorious from the water, going on to regain his title as BBC Sports Personality of the Year.
Naturally, I was delighted that Beefy had escaped unscathed. The all-conquering all-rounder was a hero of mine as a kid and even more so when, to my astonishment, I found myself playing alongside him for England. I did wonder why, though, anyone would want to have a day out anywhere infested with sharks and crocodiles. The clue there is the word ‘infested’. There’s a reason why such breaks don’t pop up in many holiday brochures.
As you’ll see in this book, I love Australia, but there are things you need to be careful of when travelling out there, most of them beginning with ‘s’. Spiders, snakes, sharks and Steve Smith to name but a few. On one tour, for some inexplicable reason, several of us were taken on a trip to a saltwater crocodile sanctuary where we were introduced to a vast beast by the name of Mabel. As I watched it launch itself, mouth agape, to consume a dead chicken dangled on a fishing rod, I couldn’t help but think that, as leisure activities go, swimming with jellyfish would have been a slightly better choice.
Safe to say then that you would never have found me on that boat with Beefy and Big Merv. At the same time, however, I was warmed that Beefy, nudging his seventies, was still living his best life, and doing so alongside those with whom he’d shared some pretty serious on-field battles. Beefy’s the perfect example of how, while the Ashes is one of the biggest rivalries in world sport, an undercurrent of respect between the two sides has led to countless lasting friendships. For example, having on regular occasions seen Merv’s facial accoutrement, sprouting, walrus-esque, beneath snorting nostrils as he snarled at me on his follow-through, I still send him a bauble to hang on it every Christmas.
I’ll be honest, it took me a little while to work out how the competitive rivalry of the Ashes worked. I made my debut in the landmark Boxing Day Test at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, better known simply as the MCG, a bearpit of an atmosphere on and off the pitch. Nowadays, I’m sure no England player would be thrown into that colosseum without some kind of mental preparation or consultation. They’d be sat down and spoken to, their ability to withstand and manage the occasion assessed. Back in 1990, however, I had to learn to fight and had to do it quickly – because the Aussies were fighting me. When I came on to bowl they weren’t holding back. ‘I ain’t gonna give you my wicket. You’re gonna be a one-Test wonder. “Phil Tufnell – never got a Test wicket”. That’s what it’ll say on your gravestone.’ I’d be stood there thinking, What on Earth is going on here? Surely they’ve got it the wrong way round. Isn’t it the bowler who sledges the batsman?
To find your place amid that degree of hostility isn’t easy. It really does take a little bit of doing. I was combative when I was picked for England – there were plenty of batsmen, and umpires, on the county circuit who’d verify that I wasn’t averse to giving someone a bit of lip – but there’s a big difference between giving a few verbals to Glamorgan’s number 11 at Sofia Gardens in front of half a dozen spectators and telling Allan Border and Dean Jones to f*** off in front of 70,000 baying Aussies at the MCG. These weren’t friendly people. Aussie skipper Allan Border had decreed that the days of being chummy with the Poms were over when he brought them to England a year earlier. His bonhomie ban had contributed to a steely and single-minded 4–0 thrashing, and so no way was he going to reverse it on home soil. The Aussies sledged as a group, a pack mentality, like wolves bearing down on prey. I actually believe some of them were ordered to shout at me, and I think they quite enjoyed giving it to the new kid on the block.
While, not altogether surprisingly, I went wicketless in that Test, I got five in the second innings of the next encounter at Sydney. At that point I felt that I belonged a little. I was contributing, doing my job. While the Aussies were still coming for me during that game I felt empowered to give a bit back, to show them that they couldn’t just take the piss and keep calling me a useless Pommie **** all the ti me. But that’s not to say the first couple of times it doesn’t knock you back a little. It’s a level of ferocity you’re just not used to. At that point you can go one of two ways. You can either buckle under the pressure or use the animosity to build yourself up a bit. In my case, it wasn’t long before the sledging I experienced just made me laugh. While at first it felt very real, after a while it seemed more like pantomime. I mean, when you think about it, none of it actually matters. Let’s face it, no-one’s going to dish out a right-hander on a cricket field. There’s never going to be a mass brawl. It’s not ice hockey. Once the shock of those first few games was out of the way, I’d look at a player, some bloke in his 60th Test match, trying to impose themselves on me, someone just starting out, and just give it them back. ‘What was that, you sweaty old ****? Go on! F*** off back down your own end so I can get you out.’ I was quite happy if they wanted to sledge. A bit of argy-bargy kept the proceedings interesting and me fired up. I’m not going to let you bastards intimidate me or put me off my game. I’m going to try my very best to win this match for England.
Despite the occasional spot of antagonism, every England player will tell you that Australia is the best tour. The weather, the wine, the restaurants, the bars – it’s a very hard place not to have a good time. I mean, come on, it’s Australia! You’re young, you’re playing for England and you’re in one of the most incredible countries on Earth. When you’ve grown up in the drizzle and murk of Britain it’s hard to comprehend how dazzlingly different Australia is, quite literally. The light’s amazing, the colours so bright – it’s as if the world and everything in it has suddenly come to life. Then there’s the beaches. Jump in the sea here and you’re a block of ice within a minute. Not for nothing did we give the world the woollen swimsuit. Jump in the sea there and it’s all lovely and warm. Everywhere you look there’s people frolicking in the waves. Get out and the sand is warm and fine under your feet. People are sat on towels tucking into the most sumptuous seafood. Nowhere do you see someone picking seaweed out of a sausage roll behind a windbreak. Before I get any letters, I do of course love the British seaside. After a refreshing dip in the briny, there’s nowhere better to get dressed back into five thick layers, under a towel, in fog. I don’t know where the flip-flop was invented but I’d put a few quid on it not being Blackpool.
There’s just so little not to like about Australia. OK, as England cricketers we’d get a bit of gyp when we were out and about but it always came from the right place, from people who were genuinely pleased to see us, happy that we were there. We heard it all the time. ‘G’day mate, how are ya? Great to have you here. Good luck.’ Two-second pause. ‘Ya bloody idiot.’
Personally, I was fortunate that quite early on the Aussies realised that, rather than the sort of stiff upper lip Pom who traditionally got their backs up, I was a larrikin by nature. The Aussies are partial to a bit of the old larrikin – such a great word and one which should possibly have been the job description on my passport – and because they could see a little bit of me in themselves the reception I received tended to be fun and good-humoured. I don’t think it’s going too far to say they slightly took me to their hearts. As I did to them. Thing is, when the England team comes over for the Ashes, there’s always that sense of them being the posh boys representing the establishment. In the minds of Aussies, cemented over generations, there’s an element of the English believing they’re superior. It goes a long way to explaining how the rivalry started, and leads to a belief that to win the Ashes is to get one over on the ruling classes, or ‘those Pommie bastards’ as they’re otherwise known.
It’s almost as if the Aussies are responding to an innate desire to bring the English down a peg or two, and over the course of the Ashes they’ll emerge, bat and ball in hand, from beach and billabong to do so. Weirdly, it’s like they’re the underdogs, even though for most of England’s Ashes tours it’s been completely the other way round. Because the Aussies recognised that I wasn’t entirely averse to having the odd run-in with the establishment, I seemed to avoid this kind of stereotyping, an element of affection magnified by my appearance. Down the years I’ve had a few people, English and Australian, say to me, ‘I looked at you, Tuffers, and thought “Bloody hell, if he can play for his country, then who’s to say I’m not in with a chance?”’ Yes, it’s a comment that would win Backhanded Compliment of the Year nine times out of ten, but I took it in the way it was intended.
I mean, think about it, most of us have a crack at a bit of sport at one time or another. More than anything, we do so because we love it. We never really think we’re going to make the big time. That’s a rarefied world reserved for only the most committed individuals. And then I came along, with my long hair, shirt hanging off my shoulder, grass stains all over my trousers, bowling at the MCG, without – how shall I put this? – the most meticulous preparation. Forget endless nets, hours in the gym, eating the right foods and going to bed at half past nine; I was more, ‘Right, come on you bastards, I’ll try to get you out, you try to smack me out the ground, let’s see what happens!’ I just didn’t fit that traditional bill. In some ways I was like a little schoolboy who’d somehow achieved his greatest goal. Roy of the Rovers stuff, except Roy always looked immaculate and never called the ref a w*****. Obviously, I’d played well enough to deserve my spot on the plane, but inside it didn’t seem two minutes since I’d been messing about playing cricket with my mates. To continue the football analogy, I was more Jamie Vardy than James Milner. One minute playing non-league, the next at the top table.
That’s not to say dealing with the Aussie crowds was plain sailing all the way (see the chapter I’ve devoted to the subject), but while the treatment they dished out could get a little rough at times it was pretty much always good-natured and never aggressive. As a player, it was part and parcel of touring Australia and for me was 100 per cent something I wanted to experience, in a funny sort of way even more than the cricket. I didn’t want to feel like I’d missed out on anything. No disrespect to the other Test-playing nations, but I knew the Australia tour was the pinnacle, and I was going to be right in there at the deep end. I was never going to be someone sat quietly in the background.
For a few seasons prior to that 1990 tour I’d been playing with internationals at Middlesex. They’d have a bit of something extra about them, a presence that came from playing for their country. I’d look at them and think, OK, that’s 100 per cent where I want to be. Angus Fraser, for instance, had been on England’s tour of the West Indies the previous winter. He’d tell me these fabulous stories about going out on fishing boats catching marlin and playing golf at Sandy Lane, one of the world’s most breathtaking courses, winding through an ancient mahogany grove. Then there was Wayne Daniel, our West Indies quick. Once he took me to one side in the dressing room and, in his hushed Barbadian tone, told me, ‘Hey Tuffers, you know where the real cricket is? The World Series in Australia. That’s where you want to be. That’s the best life you can ever have.’ No two ways about it, international cricketers were having the most wonderful, wonderful time.
It wasn’t only the off-field stuff that appealed. I might hear John Emburey saying, ‘The MCG is incredible – you really do need to experience it.’ But if I’m honest a lot of the chat was about wineries and snorkelling and flying around in helicopters. It seemed pretty obvious to me that touring Oz was about having brilliant times with your pals – with a bit of cricket thrown in here and there. You’d be all over the place, playing state games, up-country matches, Tests, one-dayers, flying here, there, and everywhere for four months.
Playing warm-up games got us into the swing of the tour. It was part and parcel of it. But times have changed. It’s like bats. It wasn’t that long ago that when you got a new bat you had to oil it and knock it in. Nowadays you pull off the wrapper and there it is, ready to go. But for sheer fun value, I loved those longer tours. That’s not the same for everyone – some of the boys found them really tough. But I loved going round the country, seeing all these places. For me, it was part and parcel of playing for England. I get that these days the cricket calendar is a lot more packed, and so tours are shorter by necessity, but modern players miss out on so much. When I was touring, people would disappear into the Blue Mountains for a few days living in their underpants in a hut, or they’d go off on fishing adventures. Between games, you’d go down to breakfast in the hotel and there’d only be a couple of players there. People would have taken themselves away on safari to see some amazing wildlife spectacle, or gone off with an easel to paint a big rock. There’d always be a few who liked sitting round the pool but plenty of others saw playing for England as a chance to live their best life and took every opportunity to do just that. If you weren’t too sure what a place had to offer there were always a couple of tour liaison officers around to fill you in. ‘Well,’ one of them would say, ‘my Aunty Maude keeps water buffalo in her backyard. She puts on a lovely spread too. Do you want me to give her a call?’ And that was it, half an hour later a minibus would arrive and off you’d go to Aunty Maude’s. After ten minutes admiring a few horns, a barbie would be lit, the wine would be flowing and at the end of the night you’d bed down in a lovely little cottage in the grounds.
