Freddie Flintoff: Living with Bulimia, review: hard-hitting look at the cricketer's struggles

Fifteen summers ago, Andrew “Freddie” Flintoff ascended to national hero status. During the halcyon 2005 Ashes - the last to be broadcast on free-to-air TV - this cricketing colossus bowled, fielded and batted England to their first series win over Australia in 16 years. Cue a tiny urn held aloft, open-top bus parades, a Sports Personality of the Year award and a place forever in our hearts.

What nobody knew was that in the midst of his epic deeds, Flintoff was deliberately making himself throw up after every meal. He’s now a 42-year-old father-of-four and, for half his life, he’s been secretly binge-eating, then violently purging. He even showed us the toilets at Lord’s where it would happen during Test matches, ruefully explaining they were “good ones for it”, with their full-length doors and easy proximity to the dressing room.

Freddie Flintoff: Living with Bulimia (BBC One) was an unflinchingly personal documentary which found Flintoff examining his eating disorder for the first time. He’d never sought treatment nor even met another bulimic. He often seemed uncomfortable talking about it at all. The fact that he was doing so on national TV was to be hugely admired.

Flintoff traced his troubles back to 2000. When he first broke into the national team, he was 19st and came under fire from the media for his weight. He answered his critics with a Man of the Match performance at his home ground Old Trafford and told a TV interviewer afterwards: “I played alright for a fat lad.”

Beneath the self-deprecating jokes, though, he was hurting. He became convinced that everyone was looking at him and judging him critically, so started making himself sick. He’d soon lost 3st and was in the cricketing form of his life. “Everyone told me how well I was playing,” he recalled. “So I thought, well, it’s working, let’s crack on with it.”

We were told that at least 1.5m Britons have an eating disorder such as bulimia, with a quarter of those male. Yet such illnesses are still stereotyped as being suffered mainly by teenage girls. As a result, men usually live in silence. As Flintoff acknowledged, bulimia doesn’t suit “a 6ft 4in lad from Preston”.

He met doctors and bulimic young men from all over the UK. A warm, endearingly guileless interviewer, Flintoff was blindsided by how closely their stories paralleled his own. “I’m welling up here,” he said. “I never cry.”

The most affecting meeting was with Pam Nugent from Belfast, whose son Laurence had developed bulimia and depression in his late teens. He died of a heart attack aged 24. “One minute my son was standing in front of me, the next minute he was a memory,” said Nugent. “A decade later, I still find it hard to get past.”

This courageous woman ended up counselling Flintoff, gently telling him: “It’s OK to have a mental health issue. Just make sure it doesn’t become a fatal one, like Laurence’s.”

Long retired from cricket due to dodgy knees - he seemed shocked at the suggestion that bulimia could have contributed to his injury troubles - Flintoff is now a fondly regarded TV presenter. He’s known for his wry humour and have-a-go pluck on Top Gear, A League of Their Own and other series which call for his brand of Lancastrian everybloke charm.

Yet he remains in a constant battle with his weight, candidly confessing that he thinks about it every 20 minutes. He keeps his demons at bay with a routine of punishing gym workouts and skipped meals. He hadn’t thrown up in months but regularly had the urge. “It’s constantly on my mind,” he sighed. “It’s exhausting.”

It gradually became clear that, despite his apparent honesty, Flintoff was in denial about his problem. He insisted he was “managing it my own way” but still displayed considerable anxiety around food and body image.

His workouts grew increasingly manic. By the time we saw him punishing himself on a Peloton spin bike, sweat splashing onto the floor and admitting he hadn’t eaten all day, it was heartbreaking. “It’s not right,” he admitted. “I know it’s not.”

Ultimately, Flintoff had to decide whether he needed professional treatment to tackle his eating disorder once and for all. Experts said he should. Recovering bulimics agreed. I was yelling at the screen, too. Yet despite all his soul-searching, he remained hesitant. “My intention is to get help,” he concluded. “I want to say I will but I don’t want to lie.”

This was important, stigma-busting TV, giving a powerful public voice to a much-misunderstood condition. The fact that there were no easy answers nor happy endings somehow felt apt. I wish him well.