In 1980, Ian Botham became the England captain in succession to Mike Brearley

Brian Close, who was one of the selectors at the time, implacably opposed to giving me the captaincy, not because he thought that I would never be capable of it but because, at the age of 24, I was not mature and experienced enough to cope with it. Needless to say, I did not agree, but when Brian realised that he was going to be outvoted by the other selectors, he tried to persuade me not to take the job.

He bought me a pint and sat me down in a quiet corner and said: “Listen, Ian, the England selectors are going to offer you the captaincy. Turn it down.” He held up his hand as I started to protest. “Just hear me out first. You can’t do everything. You’re taking wickets, you’re getting bloody runs, you’re taking catches. If you took your performances out of the England side, there’d not be much left. You can’t do all that and also take on a job where you’re responsible for everyone else’s performances as well.

“You’ve just been hammered in Australia and the next three series are the West Indies home and away, followed by Australia again. With all their fast bowlers, the West Indies are a great side at the moment. Mike Brearley hasn’t improved anybody in that England team while he’s been captain and the side is nowhere near good enough to have a prayer against the West Indies. So nobody in their right mind would want to take the England captaincy on now because they’ll be on a hiding to nothing.”

He studied me for a moment and I think he knew that he had been wasting his breath, but he tried once more. “You can’t do it all and make others play at the same time. Let them give the captaincy to a more experienced player now. It’ll come your way in time anyway and you’ll be a better captain then for being a bit older and a bit wiser. You’ll make a great captain in four or five years, but if you take the job now it’ll be the worst bloody year of your life.”

There is no greater honour than to lead your country and, whatever Closey might have said, if I was offered the chance I wasn’t going to say: “Thanks, but can you come back in three or four years’ time?” I was going to snap their hands off.

Botham’s captaincy ended in tears at Lord’s after the second Test against Australia in 1981

As I walked through the Grace Gates on the first morning of that Lord’s Test, the first thing I saw was a newspaper hoarding: “Botham must go”. For once the tabloids and I were in full agreement.

I promoted myself in the search for quick runs that might give us a chance of a result. However, it might have been wiser not to have tried to sweep the first ball I received, from Ray Bright. I missed and suffered the ignominy of being bowled behind my legs for a golden duck. Even worse, it was my second duck of the match.

It was not the greatest shot I had played, but as I made the slow walk back I might have expected a modicum of sympathy from the ranks of bacon-and-egg ties lining the pavilion. Fat chance. Some suddenly became fascinated by the headlines in their afternoon newspapers, or the contents of their bags. Others, with even more charm, ostentatiously turned their backs as I passed them on my way up the steps.

It was a frigid reception that I never forgot. My declaration set Australia 232 to win. At 17 for three they were reeling, but Graeme Wood batted for more than three hours for 62 not out to steer them to the safety of a draw.

If I had had any doubts beforehand about giving up the England captaincy, the attitude of the MCC members had crystallised my thoughts. I could either continue, limping from game to game until the selectors pulled the plug on me, or I could go out with dignity on my terms. It was a no-brainer and I told my teammates in the dressing-room at once. “Boys, I’m resigning. It’s a ridiculous situation, it’s no good for you, it’s no good for me. So I’ve decided to put an end to it.”

I had already written my resignation letter before I got to the ground that morning, so all I had to do was hand it in.

As I walked away from the office, I felt that I was at the lowest point of my life. I could not imagine that things could get worse, but within 15 minutes I had been proved wrong. As soon as he received my resignation, Alec Bedser, the chairman of selectors, summoned the cricket writers to a press conference. As soon as they were seated he told them the news of my resignation and added: “But we were going to sack him anyway.”

As I packed up my kit in the deserted dressing-room, I thought back to what Brian Close had said. Not for the first time, he had been spot on.

Then came Brearley’s return and the miracle of Headingley

As I walked out to the wicket, I took in the familiar scene: the sightscreen and tiered seating at one end, all painted duck-egg blue, with the heads of the spectators just visible above the high backs of the rows in front; the stand separating the cricket and rugby league grounds and the low, raked terracing to either side, with trees, red-brick houses and the spire of St Michael’s Church visible beyond them. Given those low, almost open sides and the spaciousness of the ground, it was amazing how much atmosphere the passionate Yorkshire fans could generate, but on this morning Headingley had the atmosphere of a funeral - appropriately enough, because the small crowd gathered there had come to watch the last rites of this match and the inevitable Australia victory.

At 135 for seven, 92 runs short of making the Aussies bat again, with three hours’ play left before stumps and a full day to come, we were goners. The ground was emptying fast and the bookmakers were so desperate for business that they were offering England at 500-1 to win. Even at those unprecedented odds few punters were willing to take them on. When I saw the odds chalked up on a board, I did think to myself: “Bloody hell, that’s got to be worth a punt.” But I didn’t have time to do anything about it. Unlike Dennis Lillee, who reportedly tried to get his team-mates to put £50 of their team fund on us and when they howled him down, he slipped the team bus driver a tenner to put on for him.

When I had gone out to bat, as far as I was concerned the match was over. I was not even particularly aware of the score – it did not seem relevant. “Brears” had showered, changed and packed his bags ready for a quick getaway after the last rites, although he had put on a clean cricket shirt so that anyone, spectators or TV cameras, looking at the dressing-room would see no visible sign of the English surrender.

Graham Dilley, the new batsman, was fresh to the Test scene and in a reasonably comfortable position; no one regarded him as anything more than an out-and-out tailender, so he reckoned that he had nothing to lose by swinging the bat. He connected a few times, but the Aussies were not overly concerned at first. I was quite enjoying the show but not reading anything more into it than that, but as Graham kept clouting fours, some off the middle and some off the edge, I decided that I had better come to the party as well.

It came as a shock when I glanced at the scoreboard and realised that we were within striking distance of making the Aussies bat again. The runs kept coming and when we passed 227 we had our noses in front. Our score still had no more than nuisance value, but we had at least got up the Aussies’ noses a bit and staunched the haemorrhage of supporters from the stands.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the mood of the teams changed. Graham and I were having the time of our lives, smiling and laughing as we chatted in the middle of the wicket between overs, but, from their expressions, the Australians were not getting the joke. They were deadly serious, but we were still carting them all over the ground. From the time we passed their total, I cannot remember playing a single defensive stroke. I hooked, pulled, cut and drove and if I flashed, I flashed hard. The sight of a few edges whistling through or over the slip cordon did us a power of good and wreaked further havoc with the Aussies’ morale.

It was not exactly the noble art of batsmanship – Mike Brearley described it as “pure village green stuff” – but it did the job. I glanced up to the balcony at one point, expecting to see him urging restraint, but instead he was miming even wilder and more extravagant strokes.

For the first time I told Graham Dilley to keep it going as long as he could. That was probably a mistake for, having reminded him of his responsibilities, he was out soon afterwards for 56, his first Test fifty and one he would never forget. We had added 117 for the eighth wicket in only 80 minutes of mayhem. At that stage we were 252 for eight, still in effect only 25-for, but at least we had ensured that Australia would have to bat again.

Chris Old was next man in. He scored 29 and helped me to add a further 67 for the ninth wicket. Along the way I passed my century. I had scored it from 87 balls, with the second fifty taking only 30 balls. The atmosphere was now explosive. Spectators were streaming back in. Every run was cheered to the echo and the Aussies had suddenly gone very quiet. Even their sledging seemed half-hearted. “What’s up, boys?” I said at one point. “Are you not enjoying this as much as me?”

Bob Willis, the last man, was content to give me the strike whenever possible and I kept smashing the bowling all over the ground. We had added a further 31 runs when the umpires brought play to a close for the day with England on 351 for nine, 124 runs ahead.

I was left not out 145 overnight, my highest Test score to date; I had regained my batting form. The atmosphere in the dressing-room had been transformed. People were cracking jokes, laughing and shouting, while from the Aussie dressing-room we could hear only a brooding silence, punctuated by the occasional angry curse. I flopped down, lit a cigar and struggled to make sense of what had happened; all I knew for sure was that the “Botham Boy’s Own Story” was firmly back on track.

Extracts taken from Head On: The Autobiography (Ebury, £18.99)