Alamanc (Cricket) Humour: Viv on his Ten Pound Pom origins

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Viv Tufnell is a Tasmanian Shield cricketer in an alternate universe. He lies, makes excuses and plods at a 28.3 strike rate, while all the while busying himself in the art of being an a@#*hole.)

 

You know, I get a lotta sh*t about being an Aussie cricketer with a pommie b@#*^s surname. “Viv Tufnell?” people will scoff. “Why don’t you have a proper name like Warwick Todd?” I don’t have a proper name like Warwick Todd because a) I’m not a 3rd rate imitation (I know, I know, just about everyone would argue otherwise!) and b) I’m the grandson of a Ten Pound Pom (I know, I know, you’re thinking, ‘That explains everything!’)

Though I like to make out that being the grandson of a Ten Pound Pom has warped me, I don’t really have a hang up about it. In fact, instead of it being a drawback, it’s something I’ve often had a bit of fun with it. My Granddad, Reg Tufnell, emigrated out here round the same time as a lotta famous Ten Pounders, and when I was a kid, I’d say he was on the same boat as Angus Young. “Wow,” my schoolmates would marvel, “so he co-wrote Hells Bells?” “Uh-huh,” I’d confirm. “Thunderstruck too!” This lie, however, began to bite me on the bum when he’d turn up to my school’s sports days. “Angus who? AC what?” he’d splutter as my schoolmates buzzed around him. Reg would then point out that the only famous people on his boat were the two sisters who sang in Cheetah. “You know,” he’d elaborate, looking to turn around their blank expressions: “the lassies with the big hair and the big … .” My gran would let rip with an elbow into his ribcage at this juncture, which was just as well, because not only did it save a bunch of 10 year olds from receiving a premature sex education, it also saved the pronunciation of ‘jugs’ from being mangled into ‘joogs’ (or however you’d spell that when trying to capture the Geordie accent).

My grandparents were already married before coming out to Australia and though my gran acknowledges that the sisters from Cheetah were on their boat, she doesn’t like Reg carrying on about it. Gran disapproves of name-dropping and the only time I’ve heard her do so was when I was telling her a bit of trivia about current English batting sensation Harry Brook. According to the Sky Sports commentary team on England’s recent tour of Pakistan, Harry revealed that his mum once flirted with David Gower at a bar when they were both young and single (I know, I know, boy are they struggling for anecdotes in Old Blighty.) When I told my gran about this, she shared an occasion when she also flirted with a famous person. “Kenneth Willams,” she swooned. “Oh, he was ever so handsome, Viv – I would have married him there and then if he’d asked.” Kenneth Williams? I thought frazzled. From the ‘Carry On’ team??? Gran, I laughed to myself, I think you were barking up the wrong the tree there.

Both my grandparents weren’t into cricket before I made it big, and when I was a kid, I’d have to suffer whole arvos’ watching darts and snooker on the TV at their house whenever my parents and I visited. My dad wasn’t much into cricket himself and also only took a real interest when I started showing promise as a junior. Like Reg, dad prefers sedentary activities (to bona-fide sports), but where Reg is into darts, my dad is nuts for Pong, the primitive computer game by Atari (I know, I know, how lame!)

Nowadays it’s just a pastime for him, but when he was a teen, he was seriously good and competed in many tournaments, coming third in the ‘Clearasil Open’ in ‘78 (I know, I know, a pimple cream. Sheesh! But considering the geeky demographic, the sponsor could have been worse: it could have been a manufacturer of ‘you know what’ enlargement kits!)

My computer nerd dad was born here, so he’s 100% Australian, but he never quite felt so. Part of the reason was that he was christened with the pommie-centric Alfie, but more so because he’s a 66’ World Cup baby. That’s right, my dad was born exactly 9 months after England’s World Cup win. “Your granddad had a twinkle in his eye that night,” my gran likes to muse. Gran, I now think, at least you read that one right, but heaven knows what you were interpreting when you got lost in Kenneth Williams eyes?

So with a name like Alfie Tufnell and England’s World Cup win as the inspiration for his spawning, my dad was always gonna have identity problems over his his nationality. “And it didn’t help that Reg decorated my room in Union Jacks and posters of the 66’ World Cup heroes,” dad laments about his childhood. “I didn’t stand a chance of cheering on Lillee and Thommo after that,” he will add.

I, myself, have always felt 100% like an Aussie, but, of course, it’s no thanks to my dad’s side of the family. I have my mum’s side of the family to thank for that. Mum’s family tree has branches which extend right back to when Australia was a penal colony. “But we’re not from convict stock,” she’ll insist. “Our forebears were jailors, shackle makers and town criers.” Yeah right, I’ll muse. The lady doth protest too much, methinks! Backing up my suspicions that she has something to hide is that her brother, my uncle Mark, has a conviction. Uncle Mark cooked the books for a bakery chain, which is pretty ironic. considering that our ancestors could have been transported out here for stealing loaves of bread. “Join the dots on that, mum,” I’ll laugh. “He’s proof it’s in our blood!”

Just as I have mum’s side of the family to thank for purging the ten pound pom out of me, I’m also indebted to them for my talents as a cricketer. Both sides of Mum’s tribe are sporty, and over the generations, they’ve spawned plenty of recreational footballers, cricketers and netballers. Mum, herself, is particularly athletic, and even at age 60, she still plays a mean round of golf. Over the years, she’s competed in a number of sports, but where she really excelled was in Shot Put. “Yeah, Viv,” dad will reminisce, “your mum was real good … competed in the National Championships as a teen, you know … even got close to a podium finish … and you know where she got it?” he’ll then tease. “From them convict forbears of hers. Yep, handling all them ball and chains would have strengthened their wrists. Must of got in her DNA!” Dad will usually have to duck for cover after teasing like this, as Mum will not be amused and Shot Put a tea towel his way … sometimes even a rolling pin. Ah, the joys of family, eh?

One last thing I have to thank my mum for is my Christian name. Dad wanted to name me Reg jnr or Digby, after Reg’s dad, but mum was having none of that. Mum doesn’t think much of Reg and likens him to Eddie Booth from Love Thy Neighbour. She even toyed with the idea of naming me after Eddie’s neighbour, Bill, to spite him. But that was until Viv Richards caught her eye. “I’d leave your dad in a heartbeat,” she answers when I ask who she’d choose between them. And so with my mum all smitten with the West Indian great, I was launched into this world with cricket’s funkiest Christian name attached to cricket’s most beleaguered surname. “Bit like putting lipstick on a pig,” a journo once wrote. “A Tufnell is a Tufnell, no matter how you dress it up,” he added. Yeah, but with a name like Viv, boy can that pig fly! is my comeback. *Even* when weighed down by every miss-field, dropped catch and king pair by my namesake, Phil. Or worse still, my granddad’s Geordie accent.

 

To read more from Punxsutawney Pete and the Viv Tufnell stories, click HERE 

 

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