David Lloyd - Start the Car - The World According to Bumble

Nowhere are people more cricket daft than India, and appropriately it is there that I have experienced some of the daftest shouts. One chap in Rajkot was overjoyed when I agreed to pose with him for a picture at the airport. ‘You are my most good commentator Sky Sport,’ he told me, through clenched teeth, as we grimaced for the first snap. After seven more shots, I made my excuses and left. ‘Thank you, Mr Paul Arlott,’ he said. ‘For being my friend.’

Now they don’t get a great deal of international cricket in Rajkot, I grant you, so the locals tend to get excitable when a game comes to town. After England were trounced there in the winter of 2008–9, I was asked for more photos at the ground. I was only too happy to oblige until the chap pointing the camera said: ‘Excuse me, Mr Duncan Fletcher, look this way please.’ There must have been a particularly virulent strain of this eye infection going around, as later that evening came a knock at my hotel door. Three chaps were standing outside and greeted me with: ‘You are our favourite umpire, Mr Hair.’ And you can imagine the levels of my paranoia when even the hotel staff weighed in. Upon checking out next morning, the receptionist said to me: ‘Thank you for staying with us in Rajkot, Mr Bruce Yardley.’ I was glad to get out.

This was enough to put a chap permanently on edge. In Bangalore, one autograph hunter instructed me: ‘Please sign this, Tony Greig.’ So I did exactly that to get my own back. OK, Greigy was a former England captain, but he is six foot four and speaks with an unmistakable South African accent. I undoubtedly preferred the next error, as I left the ground in Chennai during a pre-Christmas Test match. ‘You are most famous English Mike Brearley,’ I was unequivocally told. I gave myself the once over, confirmed in my own mind I was not, but appreciated being thought of on the same intellectual level. If you are involved in mistaken identity it’s always better if it paints you in a decent light.

And you can also have some fun. Whenever we are in Leeds for a Test match, I make a dash for the Princess of Wales pub and sink a pint or three. A group of us were in there one year when a rather big Yorkshire lass, bedecked with tattoos from head to toe, sauntered up and barked: ‘You’re the commentator, aren’t you?’ She was quite an intimidating sight – supping a pint like a rugby front-rower between sentences – so I meekly replied, ‘Yes, I am.’

‘I just wanted to say I love you on Test Match Special, Jonathan,’ she continued. Jolly nice of her to say so, I thought, as I subtly brought up Agnew’s number on my phone, passed it on to her and suggested she give me a call any time she needed tickets.

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