It was in Chittagong, during a series against Bangladesh in 2006, that John Buchanan, the coach, told the Australia players that their build-up to the Ashes campaign would begin with a get-together with a difference. The phrase “boot camp” was immediately used and there was a great deal of scepticism among the players, but Buchanan deliberately did not give away much detail.

As the day of departure neared we received group emails on what to bring. It was a bare minimum: T-shirts, a rain jacket, joggers. The camp would clearly involve heavy physical activity, but Buck had reassured everyone that “we won’t break your legs”.

We met in Brisbane at 6pm on a Sunday and stayed in a hotel on Kangaroo Point. All 25 contracted players were there plus ten support staff. By now, 90 per cent of us were really excited. Every season it was like this when we got together after a break. For the first hour the room is electric as your mates turn up, with news to share and a genuine happiness to see each other.

Nevertheless, there was already the odd smart-arse comment. “What’s Buck’s big idea?” “Are they going to kill us?” The two main ones were Warnie (of course) and MacGill. It was said over the years that Warnie and MacGill didn’t really have any time for each other, and their rivalry and different personalities did stand in the way of them forging a natural friendship. But when they needed to combine, on or off the field, they sure could do it. From the first meeting they were shooting each other sceptical looks.

At 6.30 the next morning a bus picked us up. It was the crack of dawn, but fortunately this was Queensland and the winter was mild. As we got on the bus, we were told we’d be handing in our phones. Players were moaning about this, as it hadn’t been clear whether we’d be able to contact our families or not.

As it happened, Annie would be turning 2 on the Wednesday, halfway through the camp. I was in a bit of a flap, thinking, “I can’t miss that.” It was still only 4.30 at home, so I couldn’t call Mel. I tried to text her, but my phone was out of service. In the end I dutifully handed it in.

As the bus pulled out we were joking nervously about what lay ahead. The bus took us to an industrial depot on the outskirts of Brisbane. As we pulled up, one of the staff from the company running the camp climbed on board. The company’s name was BLP, and they were ex-Armed Services.

He started barking, military-style, from the word go. “Listen to me, I’m so-and-so, co-ordinator of this camp, and I’ll read out your name and give you a number. When I’ve given you a number, file off the bus and hand me your watch and your phone.”

They lined us up behind our bags inside a warehouse and divided us into five groups of six and one group of five, each led by a “DS”. They didn’t have names – they were just “our DS”. For about an hour we had to stand absolutely silent. We got it easy for most of our lives, and this was already launching us out of our comfort zones. We were given a backpack, a sleeping bag and a hootchie.

The tension was broken by moments of humour, such as when the co-ordinator said: “Strip down to your underwear and put one spare pair on your backpack.” About three weeks earlier, Warnie had been in trouble again with the British tabloids. This time a hidden camera had sprung him fooling around with a couple of half-naked women. The most memorable feature of the film was that Warnie had been wearing undies with the Playboy logo. So what spare underpants do you think Warnie had brought to the camp? He was holding them out with great ostentation. Everyone started cacking themselves — except the instructors.

For all his grizzling, Warnie had the ability to bring this kind of tension-busting laughter into the team. His joking wasn’t over. The co-ordinator said: “Anyone with any dependent medication, step forward with it.”

Mike Hussey stepped forward and placed his asthma inhaler on his backpack. Warnie stepped forward and placed five packets of Benson & Hedges on his. The place erupted again. I heard later that Warnie’s management had placed one stipulation on his going on the camp: that he wasn’t forced to give up his cigarettes. They were his “dependent medication”.