Piers Morgan: How I (and Gordon Brown, his son John and General Dannatt) helped Ashes hero Freddie celebrate

By Piers Morgan Event for The Mail on Sunday
Updated: 05:49 EDT, 27 July 2009

Wednesday, July 15

Freddie Flintoff has sensationally retired from Test cricket. Coming on the eve of the crucial second Ashes encounter of the summer at Lord’s, this news has swept through Britain like a cricket tsunami. But I’m not entirely surprised.

During a dinner in Barbados earlier this year, he’d hinted to me this moment might come. ‘My body’s talking to me,’ Freddie laughed that night, ‘and not in a positive way!’

He was on sick leave again at the time, the latest in a series of injuries that have bedevilled the big man since his heroics in the 2005 Ashes triumph turned him into a national hero.

A special night out: Test hero Andrew Flintoff and his wife leave The Punch Bowl after dinner with Piers Morgan

The early media obituaries tonight are depressingly predictable – most of them of the ‘what might have been’ variety. ‘Flintoff was no Botham’, ‘he never took enough five-wicket hauls’, ‘his batting is shot to pieces’, and so on. And my personal favourite for sheer stupidity: ‘We do better without him, anyway.’

What a load of absolute poppycock. He’s been one of the greatest sporting stars, and personalities, that we’ve ever produced.

‘Show them what they’re going to miss,’ I urged in a text message late tonight. ‘I’ll do my best,’ came the reply.

Thursday, July 16

To Lord's for the first day’s play.

I sat in the Mound Stand and enjoyed a splendid first session, sipping pints of beer and watching our opening batsmen Strauss and Cook smack it all over the ground.

At lunch, courtesy of Mr Flintoff, I sat down with my friends at a table in the private England players’ lounge with his parents Colin and Susan and instantly realised the potential for some serious mischief-making at his expense.

‘Tell me some shocking secrets from his childhood,’ I instructed.

‘Well, there was the time he broke his brother’s nose with a cricket bat,’ said Colin, chuckling.

I texted this straight to Freddie under the headline ‘BREAKING NEWS’.

‘Oh yes,’ giggled his mum, ‘and then there was the day when...’

I kept the revelations flowing to his phone for the next hour, knowing he wouldn’t see them until play finished (players aren’t allowed their phones during the game, even in the pavilion).

The final one said simply: ‘Your dad’s just outed you.’

A response arrived at 7pm.

‘Morgan, you are a t***.’

Friday, July 17

A stunning day for England in the match, as Freddie and Jimmy Anderson rip into the Australians and leave them teetering at 156-8.

We haven’t beaten them at Lord’s since 1934. History is in the making.

Saturday, July 18

Another brilliant day for England, as they skittle Australia out and rack up big runs all afternoon.

Freddie bounded in for the last hour and started belting it all over the place with a freedom we haven’t seen in his batting for quite a while.

I hadn’t seen Lord’s buzzing like this since Ian Botham used to empty the Tavern stand.

‘Loving your work,’ I texted Freddie after play finished.

‘Thanks. Enjoyed it. You coming tomorrow?’

‘Sadly not,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got lunch with the Prime Minister at Chequers.’ Which, on a scale of good excuses, was right up there with ‘I’m afraid I’ll be in bed with Scarlett Johansson.’

‘You name-dropper! Fancy dinner Monday night?’

‘Definitely. How about Guy Ritchie’s pub The Punch Bowl? My brother Rupert’s the manager.’

‘Perfect!’

Freddie and Rupert have a bit of previous when it comes to the Ashes. On the night we won them back in 2005, they were photographed sharing an armchair at 5am, beers and fags in hand.

I, meanwhile, had been forced to dash from The Oval to Birmingham to address a Borders management conference on my latest book. Thus missing the greatest cricket party in history, a fact which remains my biggest regret in life.

Sunday, July 19

My mobile phone vibrated as I walked into lunch at Chequers. Decorum dictated that I should not read the text message.

Particularly as, at that precise moment, Gordon Brown was animatedly talking to General Richard Dannatt about Afghanistan just two yards away.

But I sneaked a quick look at who it was from and saw the name FLINTOFF.

The message had been sent first thing this morning, but only just pinged in due to the poor signal around the PM’s country home.

‘Good luck with your Brown-nosing!’ it read, simply, and with distressing accuracy.

I burst out laughing, as did Sarah Brown when I told her why.

‘Is there any way of...’

She interrupted me. ‘Finding out the score? Yes, it is on the TV in the boys’ playroom.’

Out on the town: Piers Morgan enjoyed the celebrations

A few minutes later, I slipped away for a ‘loo break’ and found young John and Fraser Brown playing with their toys in front of a big TV screen showing the cricket.

‘Right, John, what I want you to do is come in and tell us every time there is a wicket. Reckon you can do that?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

His little brother was more succinct.

‘I don’t like you,’ he declared. For some inexplicable reason the little tinker says this to me every single time he sees me.

‘You’re getting off lightly,’ explained Gordon later. ‘His new thing is to call everyone and everything stupid.’

I returned to lunch and 15 minutes later John came racing into the dining room.

‘Somebody’s out!’ he yelled.

The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to the beaming five-year-old boy.

‘Who is?’ I asked.

‘Erm...’

We all willed John to remember.

‘Erm...’

Come on, you can do it.

‘It was PONTING!’

The Australian captain, and their best player, was gone.

Short of him sprinting in to announce Iran had just declared war on America, it’s hard to think of a more historic statement.

‘Who did he say?’ asked General Dannatt, a keen cricket fan.

‘Ponting, General,’ I replied.

‘Excellent!’

Unfortunately, John’s wicket visits were curtailed to just one more after that, as Australia’s batsmen Clarke and Haddin dug in for a major stand.

By close of play, they were so entrenched that the impossibility of an Australian victory suddenly seemed slightly less impossible.

Monday, July 20

‘Right,’ I texted Freddie at 8am, ‘Here’s the deal. Get Clarke out and I’ll buy you the best bottle of wine my brother’s got in stock tonight.

‘Get Haddin, and you get the second best bottle. And if you get Hilfenhaus [one of the world’s worst Test match batsmen] you get a bonus bottle of Blue Nun.’

‘Sounds like a good incentive!’ came the reply.

It took him precisely four balls to start ordering his wine, Haddin snicking one to Collingwood in the slips.

Freddie stood, arms aloft, legs spread, head imperiously rocked back, milking the tumultuous acclaim from the packed crowd.

For the next hour-and-a-half, he charged in like a man possessed, eyes glaring, nostrils flaring, pure venom seeping from every pore of his massive frame, terrorising the Aussies in a way they hadn’t experienced since Gallipoli.

With his final, fifth wicket (remember, this was supposedly the washed-up old has-been who doesn’t take enough five-wicket hauls?), exhausted Freddie sank to one knee as he was engulfed by gleeful colleagues.

He resembled the great British military commanders returning from triumphant battle centuries ago – bloodied, exhausted, prostrating themselves for their delighted Monarch in front of their troops. When the match was won, Freddie embraced every one of his team-mates in the middle of the pitch, and then led them off, turning to clap the crowd.

The Sky cameras panned to his wife Rachael in the stands but my eye was drawn to his dad Colin standing next to her. He was in floods of tears.

‘You still on for tonight?’ I texted Freddie later, imagining he may have been lured into a rather bigger team party somewhere.

‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘looking forward to it. Tell your brother I will have some very special dietary requirements!’

At 8.30pm, Freddie and Rachael arrived at The Punch Bowl in a London taxi (not for them the unnecessary celebrity luxuries of chauffeur-driven limos).

He wore the biggest grin I’ve seen since Cherie Blair heard Gordon Brown’s poll ratings had plummeted to record lows.

‘Good day at the office, Mr Flintoff?’ I enquired.

‘Not bad thank you, Mr Morgan,’ he chortled. ‘In fact, very satisfactory indeed!’

‘Drink?’

‘A pint of Guinness, please.’

He drank it as I imagine Guy the Gorilla used to drink his morning supply of milk at London Zoo, very fast and without seeming to touch the sides.

‘Another?’

‘Seems rude not to!’

Much is made of Freddie’s liking for a drink or two. But all the great cricketers were of similar persuasion. Sir Ian Botham was known to have the occasional tot or ten during his fantastic playing career. Sir Gary Sobers often partied until the early hours during big games.

And I once saw Brian Lara in Harbour Lights nightclub in Barbados, a blonde on each arm and a beer in each hand, at 3.30am the night before a one-day international against Australia. The next morning he smashed the bowling all over the place.

Anyway, Freddie is far more abstemious than people might think.

He went six months without a drop of alcohol after the infamous pedalo incident, and never drinks during a match.

‘What are you having to eat?’ I asked. Freddie perused the menu quickly. Would it be the macrobiotically enhancing rocket and fennel salad, perhaps, or a protein-reviving piece of plain grilled chicken and brown rice?

‘Fish and chips, please!’

I ordered the second best bottle of wine in the pub (he didn’t get Clarke out...), a splendid French claret.

‘That was incredible today,’ I sighed, admiringly.

‘I bowled all right, didn’t I?’ Freddie laughed. ‘Just don’t know what

all that kneeling was about.’

‘You were obviously trying to hint to the Queen that it’s time for another trip to the Palace...’

‘I must have looked a right idiot,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just seemed the right thing to do at the time.’

‘Must be satisfying sticking one up all your critics?’

‘I don’t care about all that,’ he said. ‘People are entitled to their opinion.

I just wanted to win the game. Nothing’s more important than the Ashes.’

During the meal, a few people came up for autographs or photos. Freddie was unfailingly polite and friendly to them all.

I’ve never seen him be any different. He is, truly, a man of the people.

‘Dessert?’ I asked, expecting the answer: ‘Piers, I am a finely tuned athlete, puddings are a poison.’

‘I’ll have the chocolate ice cream,’ he demanded.

Pause.

‘It’s good for the cholesterol.’

Rachael laughed out loud.

‘Andrew loves his ice cream.’

(Only four people call him Andrew – his mum, dad, grandmother and wife.)

They say that behind every great man is an even greater woman and I’m sure Freddie would agree with that. Rachael’s the Southern belle to the Northern beast, the organiser to the most disorganised man in Britain, the yin to his yang.

‘How did you two meet?’ I asked.

‘She was running her own company, and seemed very bright and very driven. And I was very laid back, so we complemented each other well. Rachael has been very good for me. She’s sensible and more focused than me on stuff. She gets things done.’

They are a terrifically loyal, generous and amusing couple who have never forgotten their roots, never adopted the ludicrous airs and graces of so many of their sporting contemporaries and shun all normal circus activities that come with modern-day celebrity status.

‘We did an interview for Hello! magazine once,’ Freddie admitted, wincing at the memory. ‘And we ended up rowing about it. I hated every minute of it. I was sat there in somebody else’s house, wearing somebody else’s clothes, thinking, “Why am I doing this?’’

‘The reason was that everybody wanted us to do something after 2005 and we thought it was a way of getting one piece out there and that would be it. But it made no difference. If anything it increased the attention. There were even more photographers outside our real house afterwards. It was horrendous.’

‘Are you a good husband?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Do you cook?’

‘I can, but Rachael doesn’t let me because I make so much mess!’

‘Do you change nappies?’

‘Occasionally, though Rachael does more than me.’

‘Ever clean the house?’

‘I put my clothes away, when I’m told. And I make the bed...ha ha.’

At midnight, Freddie disappeared to the bar and returned with another pint of Guinness for himself and a large Amaretto on the rocks for me (my favourite after-dinner tipple).

‘Where are the rest of the team tonight?’

‘Off clubbing somewhere,’ he laughed. ‘I’m too old for all that and my body wouldn’t let me do it even if I wanted to. I spent most of 2005 celebrating with the lads and decided that this time I’d celebrate quietly with my wife. The job’s not done yet anyway.’

As we left the pub, my brother warned that there were paparazzi outside. ‘Want to go out the back way?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be daft,’ laughed Freddie, ‘We’re not Posh and Becks!’

He and Rachael walked out to dozens of flashbulbs firing off.

Freddie turned back, grinned broadly, and winked at me.

‘Don’t worry mate,’ he cackled, ‘I’m sure they will remember who you are next time.’

Tuesday, July 21

Freddie launched his new charity tonight, the AF Foundation, with a

star-studded party at the prestigious Hurlingham Club, in Fulham.

During this year’s final of Britain’s Got Talent, I revealed to the audience how he’d texted me in the break asking if I could get the hilarious Stavros Flatley to perform tonight for him and they had

readily agreed.

As the father-and-son Greek duo careered around

the stage this evening – cheered on by an audience including Katherine Jenkins, Jimmy Nesbitt, Bruno Tonioli from Strictly Come Dancing, Christine Bleakley, and most of the England cricket team – I saw Freddie convulsed with laughter.

Later, I conducted a hilarious Q&A with him, England cricketers Andrew Strauss and Graeme Swann, Australian cricketing legend Shane Warne and golfer Lee Westwood.

They were all funny but Freddie was the star turn – cracking jokes about everything from pedalos to the Germans, taunting the Aussies, and urging everyone to ‘have a few beers and enjoy yourselves’.

The audience roared after his every comment.

At midnight, Freddie’s dad Colin came over for a chat. ‘You seemed very emotional at Lord’s on that last day,’ I said.

‘I was,’ he agreed. ‘It suddenly dawned on me what Andrew had achieved in his career. I’ve always loved cricket, and to see my son bowling the Aussies out at Lord’s in his last Test there, well, that was very special.

‘As he walked off, someone grabbed my arm to congratulate me and I realised I had tears streaming down my face. Very embarrassing! But I just felt so very proud of him and I couldn’t hold it back.’

It was a stunningly successful night, raising more than £250,000 for the Foundation. One generous bidder paying an astonishing £35,000 at the auction for the ball with which Freddie took his five wickets.

‘You should retire more often,’ I suggested.

‘Too right!’ he laughed.

Wednesday, July 22

I rang Rachael Flintoff around 4pm, to be greeted by what sounded like the wailing gardens of Babylon.

‘God, what’s going on?’ I asked, as sustained screaming sounds bellowed down the line.

‘Ah, well Andrew’s been looking after the children today,’ she laughed, ‘and things have got a little out of hand, so we’ve taken them to Pizza Express to calm the situation.’

In the background, I could hear England’s hero desperately trying to restore order. It sounded like a bigger challenge than the Ashes.

And perhaps the only thing that brings Freddie Flintoff more pleasure.

‘I love being a dad,’ he told me, ‘it’s the best thing ever. I love coming home from a tough day’s cricket, walking through the door, and all you see is their smiles because they’re always so pleased to see you. That’s special.’

How Freddie is helping children in hospital

Freddie and wife Rachael set up the AF Foundation – a charitable fund to raise money to build, develop and improve physiotherapy and rehabilitation units for children around the country – earlier this year.

The Foundation’s first project is to build a new unit at the Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in Liverpool.

‘I’ve spent a lot of time in physio and rehab for my various injuries,’ he says, ‘and I know how depressing they can be sometimes. So I wanted to brighten up the units for kids, so that their experiences are a bit brighter than they might otherwise be.

‘Most UK children’s hospitals have dedicated rehabilitation and physiotherapy units, run by a team of highly skilled and specialist staff. However, they often lack essential funding, despite almost every child passing through the unit on their route to recovery.

‘The AF Foundation was set up to help fund these departments, updating facilities, replacing equipment and ensuring a child-friendly environment for the young patients.

‘Patrons of the fund include Eric Clapton, Sir Tim Rice, Jamie and Louise Redknapp, Johnny Borrell from Razorlight, Steve Harmison and myself.’

You can donate money online now by going to the Foundation’s official website – www.affoundation.co.uk