Ned Boulting marvels at colleague Phil Liggett
Ned marvels at the dedication of commentator Phil Liggett as he approaches 50 Tours de France
“They’d put the mics down, walk away and still be yacking on; gently narrating their passage through life”
It’s been just under a year now since we all got the sudden and very sad news that Paul Sherwen had died. Until this point, I’ve been reluctant to commit any particular thoughts to paper, preferring to leave that to others who knew him far better than I did. After all, despite the fact that I have been a fully-fledged member of the Tour de France family now for approaching 20 summers, I am still fairly new on the scene compared to the long service that Paul had put in. Or, for that matter, Phil Liggett.
Recently, while in Harrogate for the World Championships, David Millar and I hosted an evening of cycling chat at the Royal Hall. We invited various guests onto the stage with us, one of whom was Phil.
It was a very good of Phil to come along. And I hope, and believe, that he understood what it meant to the 800 people inside the venue that he’d joined them. They rose to their feet and cheered him on stage, then listened in delight and wonder as he spoke for half an hour, before cheering him off stage again. I could see how much their warmth meant to Phil – I could see he was close to tears.
Losing Paul has been devastating to him. Until something is taken suddenly away from you, you sometimes don’t understand how much you have come to rely on it being there. For Phil, that something was Paul. Much has been spoken and written, quite rightly, of Paul’s humour, playfulness and generosity; his spirit. But here, I want to address my words to the man he left behind.
It is ghastly for Phil, that when he turns to his side, Paul is no longer there. They shared everything. They were soulmates. Their deep friendship went way beyond their ‘on air’ personas. Indeed, after a certain number of years (decades, actually) working side by side and talking for hours on end, they freely admitted to me that they’d forgotten how to not commentate. They’d put the mics down, walk from the finish toward the car, and still they’d be yacking on; gently narrating their passage through life.
Phil recalled a film that Australian TV once made about a day in their lives. When they reviewed the footage it was startling, and not a little amusing, to see how they synchronised everything they did. Unwittingly, they had started to pass through the physical and temporal world entirely locked together, as if in some intuitive, unconscious dance. Like Eric and Ernie in the kitchen.
There was a day quite early on at the Tour de France this summer, when David Millar and I, the successors on ITV to Phil and Paul, found ourselves doing something similar. At least, on air. Calling home a bunch sprint, we realised that we had fallen into a rhythm of words that interlocked and interlaced with each other’s so seamlessly that we didn’t even have to think about it. At the end of the day’s broadcast, we both said the same thing: “That was a bit Phil and Paul”. For us, this was something of a revelation. For them, it was their everyday.
To see and hear Phil alone, is to see only half of the picture. But he is still Phil Liggett; he still has that voice, sparkle and warmth. And still he is drawn to the race; working with a different co-commentator now for the American networks. He has covered 47 Tours consecutively and, remarkably, hasn’t missed a single day of any of them.
Over breakfast the following morning, I asked Phil if was committed to another Tour next year.
“Oh yes,” he said, “but then I’ll probably quit.” “Rubbish,” I replied. The very notion that Phil would get to 48 and then not notch up the half century is absurd.
“You never know, though, Ned.” He looked intently at me. “I may not be around. Look at Paul.”
He’ll be there, though. You just know it. Phil is still on the Tour, and though Paul can no longer hear him, his voice is still the same.