IT WAS a misty-moisty morning at New Road, and Dickie was in a right old flap. In his element, in other words. It was bad enough that rain, comfortably his least favourite thing, should have delayed the start of the match between Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. Compounding his woes, though, was the latest bulletin from Lord's. A quick moan with some members about the hopelessness of it all and The People's Hero is back in the bowels of the stand, in the cubby-hole that passes for his dressing-room.

`We've got a problem,' he blurts. Throw in a `Houston' and he could have been auditioning for the Tom Hanks role in Apollo 13. ` Hick and Russell have got to go to Lord's for the Test. Stewie's ill, Butcher's out.' Even if he and Peter Willey decided play was possible, mightn't they be better off taking an early lunch so replacements could be contacted and ferried in? What was a boy to do?

 ONLY IN ENGLAND, one suspects, could the subject of the best-selling sports title in the entire history of hard covers be an umpire. It's probably something to do with that native thirst for the wild and the wacky, for those who have the balls not to be reserved, to be themselves. Chuck in a sizable helping of pottiness and hey presto, a national institution-cum-sacred cow is born.

For those of a certain age, Dickie Bird is a cross between Frank Spencer and Captain Mainwaring. Above all, he reminds us of our frailties. Mothers adore him. Grandmothers adore him. The cameras adore him. People who can't tell their leggies from their offies adore him. Nor is it mere coincidence that he has bloomed as British cricket has withered. By supplying light relief, he has stopped us taking it too seriously. We may not have the best players in the world, but dammit, nobody can beat us for eccentrics.

`There is for all his Yorkshire common sense a surreal streak in Dickie which makes him irreplaceable,' opined his good friend and fellow Barnsleyite Michael Parkinson, in the foreword to My Autobiography (the book, as opposed to the two-hour cassette version as read by the lad himself). `When you think about it, only Shakespeare could have invented a character so full of life's rich juices… Cricket's genius has been to accommodate his foibles and celebrate his humour.'

There are those, nevertheless, who are adamant that Dickie is never himself. That he's always acting, putting on a show, drawing attention to himself (or at least the bits of himself we are permitted to glimpse). That the photo adorning the cover of My Autobiography– immaculately combed hair, puggish nose, whimsical half-smile and leprechaun's glint – captures the blighter in all his calculated glory.

Prior to meeting him, your correspondent belonged firmly in that camp. Those theatrical tugs of the sleeves, the insistence on perching the bowler's sunhat atop that inimitable flat cap, the inordinate fussiness: they got on my nerves something rotten. That the acknowledgements in My Autobiography embrace the ECB and the TCCB, while omitting so much as a single one of his fellow white-jackets, would appear to reinforce such a callous overview.

Not that I have anything against showmen. Anything but. The bottom line, however, was that the showmanship had long been undermining the show. The last straw was a one-day international at The Oval in 1995. Curtly Ambrose hoofed the ball into the stumps with Sheareresque efficiency and Neil Fairbrother well short: Dickie refused even to consult the third umpire. In the next match, as if chastened, he tried to atone, requesting assistance for a verdict that might conceivably have made Stevie Wonder think twice.

At the time, I was working at the Sunday Times, as an (exceedingly temporary) deputy sports editor. The following day, one sub-editor embarked on a lengthy diatribe about how ludicrous it was that one man's oversized ego was being allowed to `ruin the game'. So I asked him to put his passion on paper. The gist of his thrust was that it was time for Dickie to give himself the finger. The following week, the editor received a letter from an aggrieved Dickie. No ranting, no raving, no threats of legal action, merely a correction. He'd been criticised for having done something in a match that he never stood in (we'd got the venues of the B&H semi-finals the wrong way round). Knuckles were rapped, mine included. And rightly so.

The point, nonetheless, remained valid. As a member of the ICC international panel, here, supposedly, was one of the foremost pebble-counters in the business. Talk to reporters who have seen the end-of-season marks given by the country captains for most of this decade and the alternative view gathers credence. Listen to Dickie's fellow officials and it solidifies.

Take the apprentice ump who had the distinct honour of making his 2nd XI bow with Dickie in residence at the other end. His impressions, certainly, were none too favourable: `He's got the table manners of a pig, the conversational skills of an ox, and on the field I did all the f***ing work.'

Talk to Dickie's peers and more pertinent grievances pile up: that he believes his own publicity; that the bigger the audience, the more he acts up; that he is a man blatantly out of time, career prolonged as much by a reputation as a `not-outer' as by those crowd-pleasing attributes. Sour grapes? To an extent, yes, but not entirely.

Watch the birdie: the umpire's tale, co-starring Imran Khan, Graham Gooch, and Merv Hughes Below The final finger: Russell goes lbw in the 1996 Lord's Test

Auto suggestion: 350,000 people have bought Bird's book

Yet they admire him for his consistency, and appreciate what he has done to raise the profile of their trade, however inadvertently. They also know that he has transcended that trade. That Dickie Bird is loved because he is a `character', not because he can detect the thinnest of nicks. That said, as he approaches the closing furlongs of his 28-year stint on the first-class list, sympathy is in evidence. `He's probably worried,' surmises Barry Dudleston, who stood with him for the last time at Arundel in May. `Some love him, some don't, but cricket has been his whole life.'

Joining the ICC referees' panel, let alone spending five days monitoring a TV screen, seems a definite nonstarter. Far too fidgety. `He's always been nervous and twitchy,' Dudleston says. They go back a long way – both were opening batsmen at Leicestershire, and Bird's last year on the staff was Dudleston's first. `I had to hold him by the wrist to put his gloves on.

`The first time we umpired together was at Trent Bridge. I arrived at 9am. He was already changed, of course. He'd probably been there since seven; he normally is. As I walked in, rather than say Good morning, he spluttered: I never gave you out lbw in your whole career. Well, I said – given that I spent my whole career being given out lbw– either you were wrong or the other 22 buggers who were always giving me out were.'

The advent of TV replays and third umpires, both rivals for the spotlight, haven't helped Dickie. If he'd been sensible he'd have given up not in 1996 but five years earlier, before his frailties could be exposed for mass consumption. `He didn't retire from Test cricket,' points out one colleague, `Test cricket retired him.' And now his memoirs have outsold those of Ian Botham. Watch out Fever Pitch.

` THEY TELL me it's the best-selling sports book in history,' chirps Harold Dennis Bird, breathlessness as acute as ever. `I thought it would go well, but this…' Pause for refuelling. `Top six best-sellers for 36 weeks – 350,000 copies, I'm told. For an umpire to be the subject of a best-sellin' book! And they want another volume. I won't add much for the paperback. It's coming out during my farewell match, y'know. Yorkshire-Warwicks, at Headingley, where it all began 50 years ago, with my first practices for Yorkshire.'

Bird bi-play: with the Sri Lankans at Lord's in 1981, (and below) with Larry Gomes of West Indies at Edgbaston in 1984

The book was commissioned by Roddy Bloomfield of Hodder Headline. Confident as he was that his judgment was sound, he was still been taken aback by its unstoppable march through 22 prints. `Occasionally you have one of those books… it's been marvellous. I certainly thought it'd be a success, which is why the original print run was 60,000. That said, I do think it's strange. The book trade constantly want more. People have been simply knocked over.

`Originally, I went to him. He's very friendly, a naturally gifted speaker, very funny. People have heard him talk, they've heard the stories. They wanted more of him. We arranged signing sessions in every major city in the country and huge numbers turned up. At the last count we'd sold around 40,000 copies in Australia.

`The appeal is certainly very very broad. What brought it home to me was having dinner with him at a restaurant in Dolphin Square [at the smart end of Pimlico]. There were 38 people there – and 17 of them came to our table to shake his hand. And half of those were women. Most of them had seen him on TV, this astonishing figure berating 6ft 10ins West Indian fast bowlers.'

Reaction elsewhere in the publishing world has been one of smacked gobs and deep envy but, ultimately, gratitude. `It restores one's faith in cricket-book publishing,' contends John Pawsey, a literary agent. `Sets publishers' eyes alight. There has to have been a distinct word-of-mouth element. Until it came out, he didn't exactly have a high profile in the media, did he? He's bridged that gap, because of the warmth and affection he attracts. It's like the old dears who watch snooker: elderly ladies want to take him home and mother him.'

Finding a suitable ghost writer was never a problem. `There were a good number of cricket writers who wanted to do it, for obvious reasons,' recalls Bloomfield. `But Dickie went to Keith Lodge, the sports editor of the Barnsley Chronicle, who lived next door to him. He caught his voice.'

`We took 14 months to do it.' Dickie recalls, chest puffing. `Keith did a great job. I'd kept cuttings since I were a schoolboy. Right back to when me and Parky put 200 on for Barnsley. The nicest things have been the letters from, old ladies. I've given them so much pleasure in life. Sick people, too. That means all to me. More than the money. See, I've got a lump in my throat.' The moistening eyes bear witness.

 GIVEN the circumstances of our brief encounter – he'd agreed to the interview but the publishers hadn't informed him I'd be turning up that morning – it was hard to know precisely how to take him. There was Mr Nice Guy, eager to please, nothing too much trouble, a real sweetie. Then there was Mr PR, anxious that nothing of import be missed. `I've stood in 160 internationals: 93 one-day internationals, four World Cups, three World Cup finals, 67 Tests. They've got me down as 66, but I did the [ 1987] Bicentenary Test at Lord's.' (A five-day match, but not a Test – Ed.)

Then there was Mr True Brit, the coalminer's son invited on to Newsnight recently to proclaim the undying delights of his homeland, who despised the way his compatriots had lately been laying waste to the bars and burghers of Marseille, `It's the British who've made this book,' he asserted. `The British public have been great supporters. And I'm a Royalist. Being English means so much to me. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding. Incidents like those in Marseille sicken me.'

And then there was The Pensioner. The supporting actor who outdazzled the stars, finally staring the rest of his life in the face. `I just hope I have good health. I've been drawing the pension for seven weeks now, y'know. I haven't got a clue what I'll do. Maybe I'll be some sort of ambassadorial figure. What I want to do is to go all over the world watching the game. It's all I've known.'

Which is why my overwhelming emotion on meeting Dickie Bird was sadness. And why I couldn't help but forgive him everything. And why I had to stop myself going over and giving him a cuddle, and reassuring him that everything would work out fine.

Here, after all, is a man whose one (alleged) relationship with a woman ended three decades ago, and who no-one has ever suggested is anything but heterosexual. A man who has spent 30-odd years in the same job, albeit the same unvarying, seemingly unenticing job. A man genuinely, hopelessly at a loss as to what the hell to do next. More, quite possibly, than any other sport, cricket is littered with men who simply couldn't cope with life after stumps. Whatever your opinion of the man, how could you not be fearful for him, protective of him?

Granted, his literary efforts and after-dinner speaking have probably earned him enough to do virtually anything he wants, but that's hardly the point. `Things have changed,' he says with just a hint of regret. `The third umpire's a good thing, but allowing'em to rule on catches was going too far. But it'll still be a big wrench. I don't think anyone'll miss it as much as me. I'm married to cricket.' More like joined at the hip.

`I'll particularly miss the big occasions. My favourite memory would probably be the first World Cup final, in 1975, because it was the first occasion of its kind, I suppose, but also because it was such a great game. There was also Karachi in 1994, Pakistan– Australia, when Inzamam and Mushie put on – what – 50-odd for the last wicket to win. Incredible.' When I point out that this particular Test also happened to be the subject of the bribes allegations by Messrs Warne, May and Waugh (M), he looks flabbergasted. Hurt, even. Was he aware of any, er, jiggery-pokery? Were his suspicions raised in any way? The very idea.

Besides, why dwell on the bad and ugly when the good's so good? `I've always enjoyed what I do,' he insists, eyes moistening anew. `Once you lose that sense of enjoyment you're done for, but I never did. I turned down tremendous money to join Packer and the rebel tours, but I've always been establishment. I always felt I was representing my country.'

And done it right proud.

`It'll still be a big wrench. I don't think anyone'll miss it as much as me. I'm married to cricket.' More like joined at the hip

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