Gazza: My Story (42 page)

While I was in hospital, Dave Seaman won the ice skating thing. I was lying here, in agony, when I got a text message from him saying he was at the airport stuffing his face with a bacon sandwich and about to fly off to Disneyland in Florida. The bastard. He didn’t, of course, know that by that time I was back in hospital. After that, my stomach flared up again, with all the stress and worries, and I went to hospital for a while. Then I got pneumonia which turned out to be really serious.

I didn’t want to know what the problem was at first. I just felt rotten, run down, no energy. Dave Seaman arranged for me to go to Arsenal, to see their physio,
Gary Lewin, and their doc. They did lots of checks, which was good of them, suggested various things. Then they said I’d better go and have some proper chest X-rays. So I went to the Wellington Hospital, had them done quickly for £180.

I had to be somewhere that day, a business arrangement I’d made, so I sent the X-rays to Arsenal in a taxi for them to look at, saying I couldn’t make it myself, not in the flesh. When they saw the X-rays, they realised I was in a bad way. That’s when I got rushed to hospital. My lung had collapsed, so I was told. I could hardly breathe. Literally. They put me on oxygen at once and filled me up with antibiotics, injecting me with them for speed.

So that was five times in hospital so far this year, which includes three operations. This is the sixth. Yeah, I’m now back in. My neck has been playing up again.

I am still arguing the money over some of the hospital bills. The knee problem was a football-related one, so the PFA have paid for that. I rang up Gordon Taylor and told him about it. Bloody hell, I paid into the PFA for fifteen years as a player, so I should get something out of them. They should still cover me for football-related problems, such as my knee. That’s been
buggered up, all because of football. With the neck, which happened doing the ice skating, I’m hoping the BBC will pay for that, though we are still in discussions.

During my playing career, I had to put up with away crowds shouting ‘fat bastard’ at me, which of course was true, on many occasions. I’m sure most people thought that once I stopped playing, I’d balloon up immediately. I’d be like a fucking pig and they’d all say, ‘Told you so, he’s still a fat bastard, only fatter.’

I was determined that wasn’t going to happen. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been so obsessed by keeping fit. I still go to the gym every day, working out. I do actually enjoy it. I like keeping my weight down.

But what happens is that some shite paper gets a photo of me looking really thin and they then have a story that I’m wasting away, that I’m a skeleton, down to eight stone, that I haven’t got pneumonia but, aha, I’ve got something far worse and that I’m not long for this life. There are people who do want to see me wrecked. What one paper said was that I feared I might be HIV positive. I sued for that – and got £15,000 in damages.

But I’m not wrecked, as you can see. I’m 11 stone, which I consider the perfect weight for someone of my
height. When I was playing I did like to be bulkier, around 12 stone. That was because I needed upper body strength to fend off all the thugs trying to clatter me.

So I’m fit enough, basically … well, apart from all the fucking things wrong with me. I mean I’m not overweight or run to seed. And I’ve been quite good for a while, mentally. I’m not taking as many pills as I was last year. I haven’t been going to the shrink as often, though Johnny is still a friend. And at the moment I’m not as obsessed by things as I used to be, apart from my health, though I still want things neat and tidy, all lined up.

But it is true I haven’t been looking after myself properly. I know you should have three proper meals a day, eat lots of greens and all that shit. I tend to live on a sandwich at lunch, then sweets in the evenings. And I have been rushing about, doing a lot of things.

When I was lying here, those first few days after I was rushed in with pneumonia, I felt like shit. I was all wired up, tubes sticking out everywhere, so I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I started thinking about what lies before me, if and when I do get better and get myself out. I knew I still had to have more tests for my stomach. Then my neck and spine still had to be sorted. And my
knee – I could still feel twinges, so how the fuck was I going to be a coach? You need to be able to kick a ball, run about, as a coach, otherwise you can’t do it.

I’ve been told I should never head the ball again, not with my neck problems. Because I’m on warfarin, it could cause a blood clot and I could die, just by heading the ball. So how can I qualify as a coach, with all these things wrong with me? That’s why my coaching career is on hold, for the moment.

Anyway, while lying here, I began to think what is the fucking point. I feel fucked, full stop. Fucked with life, fucked with myself. I’d be better off fucking dead.

I just couldn’t think of anything to look forward to in life, except shitty, crappy, awful things. The press would be pleased I was a gonner. Oh yes they would, well a lot of them would. They would be able to say, ‘I told you so … I always knew it would end in tears … he was always going to end up skint and a fucking wreck.’ They’d love it if I topped myself. It would prove what they’d always predicted.

Yes, I know, don’t tell me, it’s not all the press. There have been some good things written about me – Gabby Logan did a nice piece in
The Times
, wishing me good luck and good health when I had pneumonia.
That was nice of her. But there are a lot of journalists who might say complimentary things to my face, but who are waiting for me to fall flat on my arse. They know that would make a good story, and it would sell papers.

The other crappy thing hanging over me was the thought that when I did get out, and felt well again, I’d still have to find the money for Shel. For years now, I’ve been having to find £10,000 each month, in cash, after I’ve paid tax. It hangs over me, every fucking month, wondering how I’ll manage it. OK, I did say I was doing a few business and media deals, but I have no regular wage, not like when I was playing football and money was coming in, even when I was injured. Then I thought of Shel herself. Shel of course wouldn’t care, either way, whether I lived or died – apart from the fact that her money would dry up. So if I did die, that would muck it up for her.

I got myself more and more depressed. Every way I looked, or everything I thought of, seemed to be full of problems. And they’re just going to go on and on and on. All these times in hospitals, all these operations, that’s me. I seemed fated. And it’s never going to get any better.

So I decided I’d ask the next nurse who comes in to give me an injection for the pain – and then a bigger one, to finish me off, once and for all. And if she won’t do it, I’ll somehow nick the drugs and do it myself. I thought that would be the best way. It would solve all my problems. After all, I don’t have a wife or kids at home waiting for me. Who would be really upset if I topped myself? Just my mum and dad and family.

So why didn’t I do it? Well, I suppose I began to get a bit better. That helped. But the main thing was the support I began to get from my friends. When they heard I was in here with pneumonia, so many texted me or popped in to see me and wish me well. I thought, Fuck the press. They’re always on my back, but I mustn’t let them win. I’ll keep going, just to show them. I decided I had to win the battle, on my own, and not give in.

My real friends know what I’m like, what the truth is. A lot of them happen to be quite famous themselves, so they know what it’s like. It’s happened to them, rubbish stories in the press which is all shite. So they never believed stories about me being down to eight stone, with half a lung, no stomach and two heads and that I was dying.

I got a text message today from Richard and Judy. I don’t really know them, but they sent best wishes. Terry Venables came in to see me. We had a good laugh, going over all the daft things I did with England and with Spurs.

One day when I was really doped up because of the pneumonia, there was this little kid crept into my room one morning, about 7.30. I thought it really was a kid at first, as I wasn’t concentrating and was feeling dopey. This kid stares at me and then starts pissing himself laughing. It was Dennis Wise. I liked him laughing at me. I wasn’t hurt or offended. I’d rather have someone laugh at me than go on all sad and soppy. It was the sight of me, all tubed up, that’s what amused him. He’s a good lad, Dennis. I also had nice text messages from Alan Shearer and Chris Waddle.

While I’ve been in here, I read a story about Gary Charles, you know, that kid at Nottingham Forest I tried to clatter in the Cup final and ended up buggering myself. He was such a nice young lad, very talented. I did feel guilty at fouling him. But I never had any contact with him after that game, or since. Now I’ve found out that he had to retire at thirty-two, because of injuries. He took to the drink and has been in prison twice. Dear
God, I thought
I
had fucking problems. That was a lesson to me, not to feel self-pity. When I get out of here, I’m going to ring him. Perhaps I’ll go and see him, help him if I can.

I also read a bit about that World Cup referee, the one who gave me a yellow card in the semi-final in 1990 against West Germany. A bloke called Jose Roberto Wright. Sounds English, eh, perhaps an Ian Wright love child, but no, turns out he’s Brazilian. In reading this bit about him, I discovered something I never knew at the time – that he had been selected to referee the World Cup final, but the Germans had lodged a complaint. It was to do with superstitions. A Brazilian had refereed two previous World Cup finals, in 1982 and 1986, and the Germans had lost both, so they didn’t want another. The German complaint had been upheld. The ref knew before that game that he wouldn’t be in charge of the final if Germany won. It would have been to his benefit if England had won.

In this interview with him, he said he had always regarded me highly as a player and had been looking forward to seeing me in the final, with him as ref. So he was probably in tears as well, but for a different reason. Just shows you, eh? I don’t know what it just shows. Something or other.

Hey, look, there’s Julian Dicks on the telly. Haven’t seen him for ages. Yeah, I have the TV on in my room all the time, tuned to Sky Sports. While I’m watching I’m also on the phone, talking, and at the same time, on my mobile phone texting while I’m talking. Clever bastard, eh. I like to be active, keep myself busy.

I had some good laughs with Dicksy when we were in the Under-21s together. One evening, he tried to get me to sneak out into town and go to a pub, but I didn’t feel like it. He went on and on, wouldn’t let me go to sleep. Next day, when he was asleep, I got my own back. I went out and bought some fireworks and went into his bathroom. I lit a big banger and set it off. The noise in the enclosed space was incredible. I rushed into his room shouting, ‘Evacuate, evacuate, bomb blast, bomb blast!’ Dicksy jumps up and runs naked out of the room into the corridor. The firework did a bit more damage than I had intended. In fact it blew off the lavatory seat. I had to pay for it. But it was a good laugh.

Yeah, I did have a wild time for about twenty years. I don’t do that sort of thing any more. It’s now almost two years since I had a drink and two and half years since I touched any substances. I haven’t actually gone to an AA meeting for, let me see, two months. I should
go every day. I did for a long time, but with being in and out of hospital so much, I haven’t been able to, have I? But I’m determined to keep off the alcohol. I can’t see myself ever going on the drink again. Life is so much easier, not drinking. I’m aware of that all the time.

I’ve also given up smoking. When I say given up, I mean I haven’t had a fag since, well, since I came in here, yesterday. And when I had the pneumonia, I didn’t smoke for, well, must have been eight days. My lungs were knackered and I was unable to breathe, that decided me. I won’t go back to smoking. Not heavy smoking. That’s what I tell myself. What I really like now is the odd cigar. So I’m leading a pretty healthy life, apart from the sweets. Last night I had a craving for popcorn so I asked for a big bag.

I know what will happen, though. In about ten years’ time, when I have become a manager of a decent club, I’ll lose my first game and the press will say, ‘Oh what do you expect, he did cocaine fifteen years ago.’ I know my dissolute past will always follow me around, for as long as I live.

For some of the first part of the year, I was living with Jimmy in his flat in Dunston, but it wasn’t my home. Just where I stayed when I was in Newcastle. I
got pissed off when the press made a big thing about it, said it showed what I’d come down to, living in an ex-council flat with Jimmy. It’s actually a nice little place. It was handy for going to see Mam and Dad, my sisters and brother and their bairns. There’s a fish shop at the end of the street, though I don’t eat chips any more, or kebabs, well not very often, and also a fishing tackle shop. So it was convenient. But it was just a base, where I kept some clothes. All my real stuff is in store, or at me mam’s, till I decide what I’m going to do next.

While I was at Boston those three months, I was in that hotel; then whenever I come to London, which has been quite a bit, I stay in a hotel. Or in a fucking hospital.

I’ve recently taken on an apartment in Newcastle – in Jesmond, in a new luxury block. A few of the Newcastle players live there. It’s dead smart, two bathrooms, two bedrooms, all mod cons. The first day though, when I moved in, it felt so weird. For the last five years, since the move to Everton, I’ve either been in hotels, or hospitals or fucking clinics. I couldn’t stand it, I felt sort of displaced, not having room service and that. So I moved out again and spent the next two nights in a hotel.

I don’t mind living in hotels, or being in hospitals, never have done. I like the feeling of being cut off, yet looked after. But it would be sensible to have my own house. I’ve given enough houses away in my life. After two days, I moved back into the apartment. Before I came down here, I’d got it organised better, got my own telly and other things. I’m living there alone. I make my own food, such as it is. I do forget to eat and don’t look after myself as well as I should do. If I had a proper home, and a proper wife and normal family life, then that might be different.