Phil Edmonds famously bowled spin with the mentality of a fast bowler. He bounced the batsman. He gave poor fielding the double teapot. He sledged – but probably in Greek. He had a lovely lilting run up and action, and bowled fuller and with more air than most. But, in truth, his aggressive left arm spin is not why he makes it as my England player of the decade.
He’s here not because of how he played, but because of who he was. Philippe Henri Edmonds (note those undistinguished forenames transformed by the distinctive spelling a la francaise) was one of the most interesting characters ever to pull on an England sweater. It is inconceivable that a man of his ilk could prosper in the world of professional cricket these days. That’s nothing to do with lack of talent: he had it in abundance. It’s all to do with attitude. Can you imagine Henri submitting to the video analysis, dietary regimen or visualisation chicanery of the England back room boys? He’d be rolling his eyeballs, drumming his fingers and whistling a little light Puccini before they’d even unzipped the laptop.
Edmonds was one of the last – no, THE last – of the great amateur England cricketers in the professional era. Unless he was bowling, preferably when one of the world’s greatest was batting, or standing absurdly close at silly point (ditto) there were clearly plenty of other things he’d rather be doing. Playing Test match cricket for England was merely a pleasant little diversion along the golden highway of his life. Not for Phil a bathetic dotage, reliving his every Test match with chuckling chums in the Sky box (though I bet he would have made a fantastic commentator). No, as soon as the cricket was done, he was off. Millions to make, deals to strike, danger to court.
Vic Marks commented, during the 84 tour of India which revitalised Henri’s England career, that you could always tell who was the most important dignitary at an England drinks function, because Edmonds would be talking to him. He certainly had hauteur, and I suspect that only colleagues who understood the meaning of the word would have gained his – fleeting – interest. (Gower, perhaps? Marks himself?) He was not, by all accounts, the greatest team man.
His patrician bearing was thrown into sharper relief by the suburban nature of his Middlesex and England “spin twin”, John Emburey. Odd couple indeed: where Edmonds was profligate, Emburey was niggardly. Emburey stifled the runs; Edmonds bought the wickets. They were a beguiling double act when bowling in tandem: the lord of the manor and the fitter’s mate.
He only played 50-odd tests – another one of the maverick talents English cricket occasionally produces, but seldom endures. He left behind a series of indelible images: making a first class hundred with a hunk of untreated willow; rolling and tumbling to take a phenomenal catch on the boundary in the 85 Ashes which umpire Whitehead then disallowed; showing off his patchwork of bruises (courtesy of Patterson and co) on a Caribbean beach…
They don’t make ‘em like that any more.
Philippe Henri Edmonds – we salute you.