How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (13 page)

18

Beyond A Joke

Athens, October 2003. A visiting Northern Ireland fan sprints onto the pitch before a European Championship qualifier and blasts a plastic football into the back of the net. The travelling support go crazy. They always had the best sense of humour.

We knew what the gag was. The national football team of Northern Ireland had failed to score a goal in 12 games, a run that stretched back a period of 20 months. The invader wanted to inspire us, but he failed. Greece scored the only goal to qualify for Euro 2004, a competition they would go on to win. Our performance that night was respectable in its own right, but the statistics across the whole campaign made for miserable reading.

Two years without a win. Bottom of the group with a big fat zero in the ‘goals for’ column. Add in friendly failures for a grand total of 1,242 impotent minutes. Or 20 hours, if you like.

We had also lost a key player, Neil Lennon, who retired from international football because of sectarian death threats, an episode which just about summed up a time that was far removed from the happiness of my early days in the green jersey.

Bryan Hamilton was replaced in 1998 by Lawrie McMenemy, a 62-year-old Geordie who had enjoyed great success at Southampton in the late ’70s and early ’80s and later served as assistant to Graham Taylor in his disastrous spell as England manager. He was a shock appointment.

Joe Jordan came in as assistant and a local legend, Pat Jennings, was drafted in as goalkeeping coach. With our dressing room being run by an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman, people wondered what the punchline was going to be. The team ended up being the joke.

I didn’t get to know Lawrie too well. He seemed a nice man but would mostly spend his time ambling around the training pitch chatting on a mobile phone while Jordan did most of the work. Lawrie was from a different generation, and it really showed on his first trip away with the group. We had won a couple of friendly games in Belfast, before an end of season trip to Spain that I missed with my talus bone injury. After a 4-1 defeat, the lads embarked on a customary night out in Santander and were still in good spirits when they boarded the plane the following morning.

Gerry Taggart, who had scored our goal on the night, was always at the heart of the banter. Just after the food was served, Taggs pressed his call button and the air hostess came to his seat. “Is this supposed to be in this sandwich?” he asked. She looked down and Taggs had taken out his cock and placed it between two slices of bread. There was uproar but Lawrie didn’t see the funny side, words were exchanged and he never picked Taggs again.

We missed him. Lawrie’s first competitive game was away to Turkey, which was always a horrible place to visit. The changing rooms in Istanbul were downstairs and you’d have to wait for the riot police to surround the entrance before you could walk up or walk down or else you’d be pelted with objects. George O’Boyle was struck by a coin after the warm-up and was really dazed. I was in the firing line too, but immune to any pain as I’d taken a couple of Voltarol anti-inflammatory tablets for my first game in five months. Turkey ran out comfortable 3-0 winners, and our night got worse when we returned to find that our dressing room had been raided. They even took a pair of my underpants.

Taggs was such a mad-man that he probably would have revelled in that atmosphere. We just lacked a bit of steel in that campaign, the same toughness that had allowed us to pick up good results on our travels under Bryan. Lawrie wasn’t a motivator and rarely showed any anger. I don’t think he really had faith that we could be competitive. Home and away draws with Moldova put us out of the Euro 2000 race early. Germany and Turkey both knocked three past us at Windsor.

There’s no fun getting beaten out of sight. I really have no idea how the boys who play for the likes of San Marino cope with going out trying to avoid a hammering in every match. It must be depressing. The only funny memory of that campaign is Barry Hunter with his trousers down, bunny-hopping through a bar in Dortmund with his cock tucked between his legs while confused locals looked on. I’m not sure if they knew that the bunch of lads in Northern Ireland tracksuits that were rolling around with laughter beside the pool table would actually be playing Germany a couple of days later. We lost 4-0 there, and then 4-1 to Finland in Lawrie’s swansong. I’m glad to say I was absent for that game. It was an appropriate finish to a depressing chapter.

I have always believed that a national team should be managed by someone from that country so I was delighted when Sammy McIlroy landed the job. He was a hero of the ’82 and ’86 World Cups and understood the surroundings and expectations.

Sammy had the respect of the dressing room and made a positive start. He recalled Taggs and blooded young David Healy from Manchester United, a striker who scored twice on his debut in Luxembourg. We clicked on and off the pitch. Our mutual love of cards and gambling made us obvious mates.

We collected four points from the opening pair of World Cup 2002 qualifiers and should have taken a lot more in a campaign where luck abandoned us, especially when we battered a very good Czech Republic team at Windsor but somehow lost 1-0. They were hoofing the ball away at the end and hanging on for dear life. When we found our shooting boots and scored three in Bulgaria, the locals scored four.

Suspension ruled me out of the return with the Czechs. They won 3-1, although the game is remembered for very different reasons. I was bringing my car back from Belfast to Stranraer on the ferry when I flicked on the radio and heard that five of the lads had ended up in cells. They’d gone to a nightclub in Prague and weren’t too happy with the bill. A row kicked off, a plant pot was thrown, and Glenn Ferguson, a real old school forward from the Irish League, kicked one of the bouncers. The reward for all concerned was a night in custody. My selfish, gut reaction was relief. I hung around with Healy, Glenn, and Michael Hughes who were all involved, and I definitely wouldn’t have missed a night out with them. They were part of the group known as the Prague Five, but the gag in the dressing room was that it should have been the Prague Six.

There was a predictable public outcry, but Sammy knew that banning the nights out after games would have a negative response so he didn’t get carried away in-house. We drew away to Denmark – who were top of the group – and he allowed us to celebrate. I had a few too many and was so smashed in Heathrow the following day that Sammy dragged me into the toilets to deliver a warning. He said the press had noticed my state and that it would become an issue if I didn’t produce the goods against Iceland on the Wednesday. The little pep talk worked. I set up three goals, and the campaign finished on a positive note. We looked forward to the Euro 2004 qualifiers with optimism.

Cyprus came to Belfast for our final warm-up game in August 2002. Sammy confirmed at the start of the week that Neil Lennon would be taking the captain’s armband.

Neil was popular in the group, although he had taken stick from some supporters at Windsor since his move to Celtic. With so many Northern Ireland fans having Rangers loyalties, he was never going to be their favourite person but it descended into something far more sinister than that.

We had our usual nap in the hotel before the game. I popped down to reception after and knew from the looks on people’s faces that something was up. Neil was gone. Death threats had been phoned through via the BBC and, after consulting with police, he would be taking no part in the game. He was so shaken up by the incident that he had quit Northern Ireland completely. Sammy called a meeting to explain the situation and, while we chose to go ahead with the game, I really don’t think anyone was in the mood. It finished 0-0. Fitting, because there were no winners that day.

I’ve already outlined the dressing room attitude to matters of religion. There were plenty of harmless insults for the sake of banter but the bottom line was that nobody cared what side of the community the person sat next to them was from. What happened to Neil was completely wrong, especially at a time when the country seemed to be moving on. Catholics had worn the jersey during the height of the Troubles. Anton Rogan represented Northern Ireland as a Celtic player in darker days, and didn’t receive half as much abuse as Neil did. So it was hard to stomach. He was a good man to have on your side, and I don’t know how anyone who considered themselves a genuine Northern Ireland fan could have been happier without him.

I always enjoyed Neil’s company and I’ve met him since but it’s not something I’ve ever brought up in discussion. I try to steer clear of the political chat. But we understood his decision. Some idiots had also painted sick graffiti on a wall near his home and, when other members of his family were feeling threatened, then you had to respect the path he chose.

On a selfish level, we were short of top players and certainly couldn’t afford to lose one of them. From there, we began the embarrassing journey to Greece. The strain was visible on Sammy as the negative results stacked up. There were some good draws in there – holding Spain at Windsor stands out – but our inability to score became a saga and it reached the stage where the players weren’t thinking about winning games. We just wanted to get a bloody goal.

Healy was still maturing and beyond that Sammy’s striking options were so limited that he even had to use me up front in the Greek game. As much as we were always realistic about what was possible with a small group of players, going through an entire group without scoring was unacceptable. Sammy was in tears in the dressing room in Athens, and decided to pack it in for a job at Stockport.

I still remember Greece fondly, though, for one very simple reason. It was the occasion of my 50th cap and Sammy marked the occasion by awarding me the captaincy.

The other boys chipped together and presented me with some crystal on the night before the game. I was humbled by the gesture and decided that, whatever happened, I would keep hold of the jersey from that night. Some players always hold onto their shirts, but I always gave mine away. This was an exception, and I’ve got it framed in my house.

It’s a proud memory from a grim time.

19

Rover And Out

WITHIN a year, I knew my marriage to Frances was doomed. In all honesty, the writing was probably on the wall inside a couple of weeks.

Even though I had a ring on my finger, the lifestyle remained the same. I wasn’t ready to settle down and become the faithful husband who clocked in at home every night.

The absenteeism might have been less of an issue in Newcastle, where Frances had her own family and friends. But she didn’t have those distractions in Blackburn, and found it difficult to make pals. Instead, she relied on me, spending her days waiting for her husband. I’d come back from training and want to relax when she was desperate to escape the house and go somewhere. And when evening came, I preferred to spend time with the boys.

She did become friendly with Darren’s wife, Simone, and the four of us would often go for a meal together. Yet when I went out on a lads night with Darren and didn’t return, Frances would ring Simone in the early hours to enquire about my whereabouts. When she heard Darren was home already, trouble beckoned. I’d eventually surface, either late that night or the following morning, and plunge headlong into another row.

I remember coming in with Gary Hamilton on a Sunday morning after a boozy Saturday night, getting changed to the sound of Frances’ screams, and then heading straight out again. After we got promoted, I left home on Wednesday, and didn’t get back until Friday. I always had an excuse. I’d met a friend, ended up at a party, and couldn’t escape. Darren tells one about a time I got talking to a bloke in a bar and went back to Morecambe to have a look at his Harley Davidson. A great story, apart from the fact that I’ve never been to Morecambe, and have no interest in motorbikes. But that tale made it back somehow.

There were plenty of stories spun. Generally, I’d end up in the doghouse, and we’d continue as strangers in our own home, sitting watching TV in different rooms and not talking for days.

It was more than just the disappearing acts. Frances wasn’t happy with my gambling, and tried to restrict my outlay to a limit of £800 a month. Some chance. I’d gone through a period of cutting down to internet betting and casual flutters in a quiet local shop in Lancashire, but the boys at Blackburn liked the horses. I’d sit on the coach next to Garry Flitcroft and he would be looking through the Racing Post and calling in bets.

I hated listening to chat about races I didn’t have a bet in. Gamblers delude themselves into thinking they’d have backed the winner if they’d been involved. So, I couldn’t resist getting properly stuck into the phone betting again. It was a slicker operation now. I signed up with Ladbrokes and gave them my bank card details. Rather than a fella like Mickey Arnott coming over to settle any debts, it all just went on the bill.

At first, there was a £1,000 limit on my card, which I only learned about when a bet was refused. I immediately raised it to £10,000. Soon, I was betting with more frequency than anyone else on the bus. I really couldn’t let a race pass without having an interest, and the others got a laugh from the rapport I developed with the staff at Ladbrokes. Regularly, I’d ring up and ask to put on a bet and the person at the other end already knew who it was from the caller ID and didn’t bother with a security check because they had my details memorised. “Mr Gillespie. Account number QT 3561439, is it?”, they’d ask. “Yes, that’s the one.” The boys were only hearing my side of the discussion and always let out a big cheer when that happened.

Frances wasn’t amused by it though. Her plan to limit my gambling kitty failed miserably. I’d pretend to go along with it, and then the credit card bill would come through the post, thick with pages of deposits to betting accounts. I was staking thousands again, which was easier to do on a £14,000 a week salary. Whatever happened, there was still going to be money in the bank. But when Frances saw the statements, she would go out shopping and try to spend as much as possible on the American Express Platinum Card I’d given her. There was no limit on it. That was her revenge, I guess.

The marriage was going nowhere. The low point was a blazing row in a restaurant that concluded with Frances chucking her wedding ring across the table, and the staff on their hands and knees searching for it. We couldn’t find a solution to our problems so I bought her an apartment back in the North East, in a place called Wilton, near Middlesbrough, and we separated, barely on speaking terms. The silence was better than the shouting.

There was nothing acrimonious about my departure from Blackburn. My relationship with the club had also run its course.

The contract was up at the end of the 2002/03 season and it was obvious I would be moving on. There was no attempt to instigate discussions and the only development that might have changed the situation was a new manager. But Souness was in the process of steering the club to sixth position in the league, so his position was rock solid. As much as I had learned to get on with the gaffer, it was clear he wanted to spend my substantial wage on somebody else.

I was happy to leave anyway after an incident in November, a row with the reserve-team coach, Alan Murray, that was a long time coming. Murray was a stocky bloke from the North-East who had managed Hartlepool and Darlington. He had worked with Souness at Southampton, and was initially brought in as chief scout before being promoted. Nobody could really see why. I didn’t like him and he seemed very unpopular with the players.

I’m not sure how seriously he took his own position because he constantly rescheduled their training sessions so he could stand on the side of the pitch and watch the first team train. Maybe it was because he’d spent his career in the lower leagues, but he absolutely loved being around the dressing room. We didn’t like having him there. He basically seemed to do whatever was necessary to curry favour with Souness.

Much to our dismay, the gaffer started to give him extra responsibility. We played Charlton in a live TV game and neither Souness or Boey were on the bus home afterwards due to other commitments. Murray was the most senior member of management on the bus. A week earlier, Souness had changed the rules with regard to reporting at the club the day after a game. If you didn’t play more than half an hour, then you were in the next morning. I’d come on in the final few minutes, and sought clarity from Dean Saunders, who was another member of the coaching staff.

“Who’s in tomorrow, Deano?”

He went to ask Alan and came back to say that myself and Corrado Grabbi – another late introduction – were expected in.

I wondered why Dwight Yorke, our first sub, was being given the day off when he should have been in under the new criteria. Yorkey was a high-profile summer recruit after Matty’s accident in Italy left him on the sidelines.

The gaffer wanted to recreate his successful partnership with Andy Cole, but ended up falling out with both of them. Yorkey was a bit of an enigma. He always had something else going on, and there was no sign of him on the bus. I couldn’t understand why he was being given special treatment.

“Tell Alan Murray he’s a prick,” I said to Deano. He laughed. “Go and tell him yourself.”

I decided it was about time I did just that and left my card game to wander up to the front of the coach and give Murray a piece of my mind. “Why fucking put these new rules up if they’re not going to be abided by?” He seemed flustered and started ranting and raving before saying I could have the day off as well. I was turning around to go back to my seat when he tried to have the last, sarcastic word. “Aye, you’re a fucking good player.”

He’d flicked a switch. I wasn’t taking that from a jumped up nobody so I reached across to his window seat and pushed my head against his. Straight away, he jumped up and grabbed a hold of me. We had each other by the throats with no room to throw a punch. I was calling him a snake and a brown nose and all the other things I’d always wanted to say. Craig Short and Andy Cole tried to drag me away but I wasn’t budging. Andy lost balance and his trainer came flying off, but they eventually managed to break us up. I went down the bus and Flitty asked what was going on. “Ah, it’s that fucking prick up there,” I said. “But it’s alright, I got the day off.” We all had a good laugh.

Flitty was a real joker and when I arrived in on Tuesday he had covered the training ground with boxing-themed posters advertising a rematch between myself and Alan. Even Souness had a laugh when he saw them, although he called me into his office for a meeting. He said that I should say sorry to Alan, but he wasn’t aware of the smart comment that set it off, and admitted that was out of order. I made it clear there would be no apology and thought the case was closed.

On Thursday, I came in, trained as normal, and was back home when Phil rang to ask what the hell I’d done. The chief executive, John Williams, had called to say the club were suspending me for three weeks. I couldn’t believe that nobody had the balls to say it to my face that morning. Straight away, I picked up the phone and rang my good pal Craig Short, who said he would speak to Flitty. I was pissed off and jumped on the first plane to Northern Ireland.

Craig rang the following day. Flitty had arranged a team meeting with Souness where the senior lads had spoken up on my behalf. Even Yorkey, who I liked on a personal level, supported my cause. On Sunday, a day after I had missed a league game at Fulham, the manager’s secretary, Katherine, rang to say that my ban was over. Two days later, I was on the bench for a League Cup game at Rotherham. While I appreciated the show of player power, that was the start of the countdown to the summer.

I had started to spend a lot of my spare time in Northern Ireland. Kelly Maguire was the reason, a tall blonde girl who caught my eye in a trendy Belfast spot called The Apartment after an international match. We chatted for a bit without swapping numbers, but I knew she was a friend of Albert Kirk, a cameraman from UTV, so I asked him for her number and eventually plucked up the courage to make the call. It started from there. A few weeks later, I flew back for a weekend with her and, from then, I travelled back as much as was possible. We clicked. Kelly was a smart girl, with a degree in politics, and beautiful as well – she’d finished runner-up in Miss Northern Ireland.

Our relationship began to attract column inches at home, and that did make me slightly uncomfortable. Kelly was a manageress in the bar at the Odyssey Arena in Belfast, a big venue that played host to loads of high-profile concerts. There was a VIP area where a lot of the acts went afterwards, Westlife and groups like that, and I’d go there to see Kelly. There were showbiz journalists around who spotted me, and I suddenly found my love-life splashed across the celebrity pages.

With Kelly’s beauty queen background, the local papers tried to make a story of it and she gave a couple of interviews which, looking back now, is a sign that she was as interested in my profile as she was in me. I hated that kind of attention but knew that if it was going to become serious, she’d have to come across to England to be with me. That would take us away from the spotlight.

I just needed to know where my next move would take me before she could move over properly. The departure from Blackburn was a poorly-kept secret, and fliers started coming through the letterbox from people asking if I was looking to sell my house, so that was sorted quickly. Down in the club, the goodbyes were low key. Tony Parkes had the decency to approach me in the gym, shake my hand and say thanks for my contribution. I heard nothing from Souness, and wasn’t especially surprised either. I was no longer useful to him.

Phil was sure that finding another Premier League club would be no problem, and I was enjoying a break with Kelly when he called to say that Leicester were keen.

They had been promoted and were on an impressive recruitment drive with my old pals Les Ferdinand and Steve Howey already signed up. The manager Micky Adams was certain he wanted me and the club were willing to match my salary at Blackburn.

I didn’t feel the need to fly to England to sort it out, and gave Phil the go-ahead to finalise the small print of my two-year contract with the director of football, Dave Bassett.

I signed officially on the first day of pre-season and with Craig Hignett and John Curtis also joining from Blackburn, there were plenty of familiar faces in the dressing room.

I bought a new house in a quiet village called Queniborough and looked forward to a fresh challenge. Instead, it was the start of a season that would leave a disgusting stench.