Is it all over for Bob Willis, Sky Sports’ Pope of Mope? Er, no…

There will be amongst our number, I dare say, those who regard the Taliban’s strict ban – at pain of death – on public singing and musical instruments as somehow an inappropriately aggressive piece of law-making. But they may not, I suggest, be the same people as those who have a ticket for this year’s PCA end-of-season dinner dance (entertainment for 10th year in a row: Mark Butcher Band salutes the magic of Ocean Colour Scene, with encores). I don’t know for sure. I haven’t done the research.
But I digress. You know, readers, sometimes I ask myself: what kind of nation are we? (Not aloud; I just do it in my brain, while sitting on the bus with the other high-achievers. And weren’t the buses better when they had professional drivers?)
Are we a nation of Stuart Broads, gambolling fresh-faced and carefree in Gap jeans into a sunny future, filled with effortless success and the prospect of dates with former beauty queens and lucrative sponsorship deals with in-sole manufacturers, which dream package we can describe publicly as “pleasing”, just like the media training says?
Or a nation of Big Bob Willises, a land of recrimination and angst, of three-day weeks and coal strikes and half-day closing on Wednesday, our national spirit a mix of righteous, voice-cracking anger and weary resignation, of plain-speaking, of calling a spade a frankly inadequate spade, Charles.
Or is there, maybe, a third way? As the celebrations went on around him at the Brit Oval, Tinker Harmison – so-monikered because of his collection of Lovejoy DVDs. Keep up, new readers – gave an interview to Sky Sports that was about the most articulate thing I’d heard since Dominic Littlewood’s recent investigation into funny-shaped vegetables on the One Show. Among the madness – ticker-tape, drunks, very loud music – that surrounded him, Harmy became focused and passionate in talking about his pal Andrew Flintoff.
Usually interviewed when on the back foot, and looking understandably nervous with a raging Nasser Hussain beating him round the head with the microphone, this Harmy, relaxed and flushed with success shortly after wrapping up the Aussie tail, was a different proposition entirely.
He said what a great fella Freddie was, what a great mate, what a great player. And then he turned his attention to the gantry. “Certain former England players on the highlights in the evenings have been saying some bad things about Andrew’s record,” said Tinker.
Saying bad things?
Who could he mean?
Not Big Bob, surely?
As Tinker toyed publicly with the notion of retirement from international cricket, he conceded that, yes, if he had picked up his hat-trick to win the Ashes by bowling Ben Hilfenhaus 15 minutes previously, he might well have called it a day there and then.
Let’s step inside Harmy’s brain for a moment. He doesn’t rate the highlights package. He’s gunning for Big Bob. He’s possibly looking for a new gig. Hmmm.
Poor old Big Bob. There he was later that evening, raising a glass of champers in the gantry with Charlie Colvile. Had Broad’s wonder half-hour made him, suddenly, yesterday’s man? Did England need a Chief Critic anymore? All his best material consigned to the dumper by one thoughtless burst from Goldilocks.
I could hear the old catchphrases echoing eerily round the highlights studio all through the long years of English success stretching out, inevitably, before us.
“I’m afraid, Charles, that he’s
GOT TO GO.”
“I’m afraid it’s just NOT GOOD ENOUGH, Charles.”
“Matt Prior’s not even IN THE TOP 15 WICKET-KEEPERS IN THE COUNTRY.”
“Yes, Charles, I’m afraid it’s the SAME OLD STORY.”
And my own personal favourite:
“He’s batting LIKE A BLIND MAN!”
Was it really all over for Big Bob? Could Harmison bring a more avuncular ex-fast bowling voice into the highlights? Would they let him present it from his house, in his slippers, by his hearth, with his bairns? “The lads are trying their best,’ he could say in the event of any slip-ups.
Then I thought: there’s nine limited overs games with Australia and a mini-World Cup to come. Long before the end of that little lot, Willis will surely have downed the champagne flute and gleefully donned the executioners mask again.
And then we’ll all know where we
stand, again.