Few characters in sport, or life for that matter, find themselves in such fierce possession of opinions which are at incontrovertible odds with virtually every other sane being on the planet. He has a higher regard for the England cricket team, for example, than anyone else on earth including, one suspects, every member of the England cricket team. He is a short-fused, high-energy enthusiast, an incorrigible Tigger, frequently finding himself - aghast and bemused - in terrible, accidental trouble.
He is just emerging from the latest bout. ``I've just about coom out me bunker this week. Oooh, gosh,'' he said, over his broccoli and cheese something (which was dead, if not flash), yelling rather to be heard above Kate Bush's Wuthering Heights on the juke box.
``I've had two slight misdemeanours.'' You could say that. He has, in fact, had two socking great public roastings. One, for saying ``we murdered 'em'' of the Zimbabwean opposition (whom England had just failed to beat) in Bulawayo, 1996. Two, for questioning the bowling action of Muttiah Muralitharan of Sri Lanka (to whom England had just lost) in the latest one-off Test match.
But how you square this seething, tempestuous, Heathcliffian reputation with the evidently sweet, tousled-haired, twinkle-eyed figure sitting across the table is anyone's guess. Especially when you are talking about, believe me, Long Drop Tippling Toilets.
``Ah, the Long Drop Tippler,'' he was saying, as we discussed the days of his rather eccentric formation in Accrington 51 years ago. ``We lived in a terraced 'ouse. I remember like it were yesterday. It 'ad an outside toilet and it wasn't an automatic either. You 'ad to wait until enough water 'ad coom through to floosh it. You did. But me uncle and auntie - they lived up on a farm - and they just 'ad a dustbin. The council emptied it every week. Oh god!
``So, I were 'ell bent on saying, 'right, I'm going to better meself'.''
His chosen route was sport. Or rather, it chose him. ``At football, I were David Beckham without the trimmin's.'' At cricket, he showed such promise as a slow left-arm bowler/opening-middle order batsman, and was signed by Lancashire at 15. There would not have been many backward glances at his old technical college. ``I did art, metalwork, woodwork, geometrical drawing - which I were absolutely useless at. I was frightened to death. I didn't want all that messing about in fires and furnaces, and banging about with chisels and that. I always had the thought that if I 'urt me 'ands, I couldn't play cricket.''
So, after 19,269 first-class runs, 237 wickets and 334 catches for Lancashire, nine England Tests (1974-5), a spell as an umpire, the acquisition of the hugely suitable nickname 'Bumble', the coaching job at Lancashire, promotion to England, several Big Bang controversies, regular convulsions of mirth and innumerable bad golf shots, he only messes about with metaphorical fires and furnaces.
``I were desperate not to say anything that would offend anybody,'' he said of the latest seismic upheaval over Muralitharan, who will, ironically, play a few games for Lancashire next season. ``But I 'ad a belief . . . `` A short demonstration is mounted of arms straight, arms bent at the elbow, arms partially bent at the elbow, etc. Not surprisingly, the waitress came over and said: ``Is everything all right?'' It is now. After his reprimand by the England and Wales Cricket Board, apology and genuine contrition, Lloyd rightly remains in his post where he is genuinely prized by the players.
The phone rang incessantly during his recent dark hour. Michael Atherton: ``Just ringing. You all right?'' Angus Fraser: ``You silly old sod!'' And so it went on. ``Fraser just killed 'imself laffing. Nass phoned. Stewie . . . ``
The affection is understandable. ``I'm a passionate believer in England,'' he said, meaning the country in a patriotic capacity as well as the team he is paid to inspire. ``I don't see anything wrong in that.'' In the dressing room before matches, he used to play tapes that mixed Land of Hope and Glory, with Laurence Olivier's Henry V, Jerusalem, and eight minutes' worth of Winston Churchill. ``We will never surrender, never surrender, never surrender, never surrender,'' said the tape to a team who sometimes went out and surrendered. Lloyd's gaskets probably blew on such occasions.
But his loyalty is profound and paramount. The players know that, none more so than Atherton. ``I think Athers is an 'ero,'' said Lloyd. ``I've got great admiration for 'im and what 'e's done. Anyone that knows 'im would pick 'is star qualities as resilience, strength, bloodymindedness, cussedness, determination, class and 'e's one of the best players in the world. 'E's often in pain from 'is back but you'd never know it. 'E reminds me of Brian Close. I once saw Brian 'it in the mouth and all 'is teeth were broken. Aaargh, 'e was a hell of a mess but 'e carried on batting and the next day one of 'is team couldn't take the field because he 'ad toothache! Athers is brave like that. 'E'll never show it.
``On the other side, 'e's a lad who cultivates this scruffy image. D'you know 'e's still got the same shoes 'e 'ad at Cambridge University.'' And, Lloyd might add, shocking taste in racehorse flesh. For reasons that surpass all understanding, Atherton, Lloyd and Lloyd's son, Graham, who plays for Lancashire, are united in some kind of Bumble syndicate that owns a fetlock under training with Venetia Williams. Has it won? ``It 'asn't run yet,'' he said, revealing such depths of ignorance of the scheme that the jockey could probably drag a tin of Kennomeat round Cheltenham and convince Lloyd this was his horse. ``It's just an 'arebrained idea,'' he said proudly. ``All I know is, it's grey.''
Unlike his life. Mischief and mirth are never far away. ``I loove Test Match Special and I am the phantom fax sender.'' ``Y'what?'' I said, struggling hard with the notion that this is cricket's equivalent of Glenn Hoddle the International Introvert, whose sense of humour is as zipped up as his tracksuit.
Yes, Lloyd gains vast gleeful pleasure sending faxes to be read out on the air from cricket-mad, fictitious characters with dubious-sounding names. He sent one during the recent triangular tournament between England, Sri Lanka and South Africa demanding that national anthems be sung, signed ``Gerupta Singh'' of the Gurkhas Regimental Band.
In the West Indies last winter, the sonorous voice of the public address announcer innocently declared: ``Would Mr Branston Pickle on tour with Gullibles Travels kindly report to the car park where his vehicle is sandwiched in.'' We have only had half a bottle of Chardonnay each, but now we're both giggling helplessly. Any minute now that waitress will be back saying ``everything all right?'' with the slight chill timbre of Joyce Grenfell in her voice.
``It's joost fun,'' said Lloyd, mindful he could be accused of frivolity. Far from it, this is light relief in a dark business. ``It's deadly serious but it's good fun.''
Fortunately, he is sufficiently well-adjusted to have a life beyond cricket, where the buffets of his outrageous (and often self-inflicted) misfortune can glance past his wiry frame harmlessly. ``The focal point of me social life is Bramhall Golf Club where we've formed ourselves, about a dozen of us, into a regiment. I'm the Commander and we've got a Brigadier, an Air Vice Marshal, Major 'Shadow' Davidson - because we never know what he's up to - a Rear Admiral and Squadron Leader E J Pimlott - 'e's the local butcher. It's like a little society of men be'avin' badly.
``I'm not saying I'm cocooned but I rarely move out of me circle when I'm not with the cricket. I mean, nobody ever, ever recognises me in the street. But, I must say, with all the proceedings of the last couple of weeks people have been slappin' me on the back. I'm only the coach but it were gratifying. They're saying things like, 'you've got a really good team there, keep it going'.''
Whether England can keep it going, or even start it up for that matter, in Australia this winter is a point worth mulling with the coach. He, as you might expect, is game. ``I want Shane Warne to play,'' he said of the Aussies' large, potent, bean- eating spinner. ``I 'ate the Australians the way they 'ate us,'' he said. ``It's a love-'ate relationship. Our game is terrific for forging friendships all around the world.
``I've no illusions that they're the best team in the world by a long way. We are complete underdogs and we will brace ourselves for the usual 'this is the worst England team ever' stories once we arrive. But never underestimate us. We're 'arder, tougher, more ruthless than we ever were. This team doesn't lie down.''
Lloyd rates Alec Stewart's captaincy as similar to Atherton's. ``Brilliant,'' he said. `` 'E's got the same openness, the same honesty. The only perceivable difference is that Alec will always, always state the bleeding obvious. It's 'is way of making sure. A double insurance.
`` 'E's done very well. We 'ad to wean 'im off opening but it was important for the team. It allowed Butcher to coom in as the opener and you've seen the growth in the rest of 'em. We keep saying to Ramprakash, 'yer in the team, yer in, yer in', and there's lots more to coom from 'im.''
Whether there is lots more to come from Lloyd, gaffe-wise, you would have seriously to doubt. One more and he is out. Had he not thought of consulting with the team's psychologist, Stephen Bull, to find a means of dispersing his famous red mist. ``No, but I will, because it detracts from the team. If I'm in the papers for the wrong reasons, it detracts from the team.''
He said this with such gentle contrition and consideration for the lads he regards as friends, only the hardest heart would pursue his banishment from the England set-up. He'd be all right: golf, fishing, faxes but one can imagine how much exile from the game he so loves would hurt him.
On the other hand, the golf does need some work. ``I've got a set of them Callaway clubs. I play off 15. I think I've got potential. I hit the ball a fair way but . . . `` - he looked crestfallen - ``at times I can't find it.''