Gazza: My Story (15 page)

We had to take on more staff to cope. We’d set up a company called Paul Gascoigne Promotions and a fan club. I tried to get my family involved as much as possible in working for these companies, as I knew I could trust them. We also took on another lawyer. But, of course, Mel and Len supervised everything. The name Gazza had been registered so that people couldn’t instantly rip us all off. On my return from Italy, the
Mail on Sunday
was desperate for an exclusive interview, so we demanded a fortune, and we got it. I can’t remember how much money it was now, but I know it seemed a colossal amount for doing very little.

Later on, we made what I thought was a big mistake by signing up to the
Sun
for a huge sum. It meant their rivals did everything they could to rubbish me by digging out or whipping up scandals – and although I was working for them, even the
Sun
weren’t always nice to me, either.

The money and the offers just kept on rolling in. I’ve no idea how much I made during the year after the World Cup, but it must have run to several million. Mel and Len have since been accused by the press of taking advantage of a young lad from Gateshead who didn’t know what was going on, but I tried to keep an eye on things, to have the final say. Mel made it clear that he and Len didn’t take any commission from any of the commercial deals. Mostly it was a question of them charging me for their services by the hour, at a rate I think was usually about £200, plus, of course, expenses, and what it cost to hire or pay other people to handle various matters. It’s all my own fault that I didn’t keep as tight control as I should have done, or didn’t read all the small print or check all the bills and statements. I am in fact quite good at sums and can add up quickly, but I couldn’t be arsed. I would rather give people the money, or whatever else they want, than argue the toss.

I mucked up a lot of deals myself, by being daft, or
just not bothering. One endorsement my advisers lined up for me was with Brut, the aftershave firm, who previously used Henry Cooper to advertise their toiletries. They now wanted a younger sporting hero to be the figurehead for all their promotions. The deal had been worked out and agreed, and I went along to a press launch to announce to an astounded world that I was the new face of Brut.

‘How long have you been using Brut?’ someone asked me at the press conference.

‘I don’t,’ I said.

‘What aftershave do you use then, Paul?’

‘None. They bring me out in a rash.’

It was true. So I couldn’t lie, could I? I’ve also never worn underpants in my life for the same reason. They bring me out in a rash as well.

Anyway, the damage was done, and we lost the contract, which I think could have been worth around £500,000. But I merely shrugged it off. It didn’t mean that much to me at a time when I was getting something like £1,200,000 from just one boot deal.

I did a skills video, which I enjoyed, and another video with a commentary by Danny Baker. That’s how I met Danny, and after that we became good friends. Then there was a TV series for Channel 4, which was
OK. I also went on the
Wogan
TV chat show. I remember having a few brandies to steady my nerves before that. The crowds outside the studio had gone wild when I arrived, screaming and shouting as if I were a pop star. A doorman told me it was the worst racket he’d heard since they’d had David Cassidy on. I turned on the Regent Street lights that Christmas and the hordes of people there were hysterical as well. I’d never seen so many young girls screaming. Some of them were yelling: ‘Gazza, Gazza, show us your chest.’ Obviously I obliged.

I had always taken the piss out of Chris Waddle about that single he’d made with Glenn Hoddle, ‘Diamond Lights’, so I was a bit worried I’d get a taste of my own medicine when I agreed to record ‘Fog on the Tyne (Revisited)’ with the Tyneside group Lindisfarne. It got into the Top Ten and earned me a gold disc, selling over 100,000 copies, but as I had feared, I had to take a lot of flak in the Spurs dressing room.

Although I enjoyed being so popular, a lot of the stuff I had to do annoyed me. I get nervous in public, and hate being bound by arrangements, having my life all tied up and having to be at a certain place at a certain time. It was exciting, yes, but all I really wanted to do – all I’d ever wanted to do – was play football. And
some of the attention was just plain daft. Naming me Best Dressed Man of the Year for 1990, for example, seemed mad even then.

However, I was well chuffed when, at the end of that year, I was voted BBC Sports Personality of the Year, particularly as it was an award decided by the viewing public. I was presented with my trophy by another Geordie footballer, Bobby Charlton, who spoke about the pride the country had taken in their team out in Italy.

I managed not to have any brandies before this television appearance, but I had a hard job keeping back the tears. I said I was so honoured to be given the award by such a great man as, er … I had nearly said Jackie, for some reason. Then I just grinned and said to Bobby: ‘I haven’t won anything in the game as yet. But the World Cup did help to put England on the world map again.’

After the World Cup, the whole squad had been invited to Downing Street. It had always been one of my ambitions to get into Number 10. When we were introduced to the prime minister, Mrs Thatcher, I said, ‘Is it OK, pet, if I put my arm round you?’ She just smiled; she didn’t seem to object at all, though I could see that her husband, Denis, was a bit alarmed. I pretended I didn’t know who he was and remarked to
Mrs Thatcher: ‘Your security bloke doesn’t look too happy.’ She took it all in good humour.

I also met Princess Diana, before the Cup final at Wembley in 1991. The Tottenham team were all presented to her by Gary Mabbutt, who was the captain that day.

‘This is Paul Gascoigne,’ says Gary.

‘Hello,’ she says.

‘Can I kiss you?’ I asked.

She smiled, but she looked a bit embarrassed, not to say taken aback. But she hadn’t said no, so I leaned forward – and kissed her hand. The incident was common knowledge because it was covered in all the papers, so when I was due to meet Princess Diana again some time later, at a charity do at the Dorchester Hotel, word came from Buckingham Palace that I was not to be presented to her after all. Instead I was kept waiting in another room. I was well pissed off by that. I blamed the Queen, or one of her courtiers at the Palace.

Before another England match I was, however, introduced to the Duchess of Kent. She was well clued up. I was standing beside Ian Wright, and she said to him: ‘I hope you score a goal for England today.’ When she reached me, I said, ‘Hi, I’m Gazza.’ She replied: ‘Yes, I know who you are, Paul. I do hope you have a good game.’

And I met the King … no hold on, Prince Philip, that’s it, at Buckingham Palace. I was presented to him at another charity function. He was doing the queue, walking along it, saying hello to each person. When he got to me, he asked: ‘What’s your name?’ I was gutted by that. At the time, the papers were saying that I was the most famous person in the country after Princess Diana. A High Court judge had recently inquired during a hearing, ‘Who is Gazza?’ and everyone had taken the piss out of him for being so out of touch.

Prince Philip then asked me: ‘And what do you do for a living?’

That was me well and truly in my place. I don’t think he was being funny. I think he genuinely didn’t know who I was. I did meet him again, a few months later, at another event, something to do with the Duke of Edinburgh’s award, and he did know me this time. We had a good chat about fishing. He seemed a very relaxed bloke.

Besides royalty, I met a lot of showbusiness people, of course, as so many of them love football. Rod Stewart is a huge football fan. He wanted me to come on stage at one of his shows and help him kick footballs into the audience. I was at the concert with the Spurs lads. We
all had seats, but I was the only one to get this invitation to go on stage and then meet Rod in his dressing room afterwards, and I wanted it to be all of us, not just me. So I declined.

I did meet Rod later at the Pharmacy restaurant, when I was with my mate Chris Evans, the television presenter and producer. I rang me dad and asked Rod to talk to him, and he sang a few songs to me dad over my mobile. He asked me if I had ever had a Kamikaze. I said I was game for any drink. Famous last words. I don’t know what was in it, but I practically collapsed in Rod’s arms. He arranged for me to be taken back to Chris Evans’ house and made sure I was safe.

And Phil Collins I would consider a friend. He once offered to sing and play at a birthday party I was having, without me asking. In the end, the date clashed with another engagement he had, but the thought was there.

After I played in Paul Walsh’s testimonial at Portsmouth, I got talking to Robbie Williams. I said to him, ‘Come on, let’s go and have a few drinks,’ but he said, ‘No, I’m on the wagon, I haven’t had a drink for six weeks.’ All the same, I persuaded him and we went out in this big limo. On the radio, we could hear one of his records playing. He shouted: ‘Turn that off, it’s
shite. I’ll sing it to you better.’ And he sang us the song, in the back of the car, as we drove off to find a pub.

Having a few bob gives you the means to go and do daft things, which otherwise I suppose might not occur to you. Although I don’t know. Having no money had never stopped me.