Gazza: My Story (9 page)

I was now in my third full season in the Newcastle first team and felt I was a fully-fledged regular. But I was beginning to suspect that the club itself wasn’t moving forward, which was worrying. Liverpool had signed John Barnes from Watford and then taken Beardsley from us. That just seemed to sum up our lack of ambition. For a club as big as Newcastle to have won bugger-all in thirty years was a disgrace, really.

The game which was to change my life, though I didn’t know it at the time, was on 23 January 1988 against Spurs at home. We beat them 2–0 and I got both goals. Terry Venables, the Tottenham manager, and Irving Scholar, who had by now become their chairman, told me later that it was one of the best performances they’d ever seen from a player of my age. I gathered from Mel Stein, my recently acquired lawyer, that Irving
Scholar had asked what it would take to bring me to London.

I wasn’t bothered. I had never really fancied Spurs in particular or going south in general. There was also said to have been an approach from Manchester United, but I wasn’t much interested in that, either. If I was going anywhere, I wanted it to be Liverpool. I’d spoken to Kenny Dalglish a few times and he seemed really keen on me, so I couldn’t understand why nothing was happening there. I was told that Liverpool didn’t have the money. Kenny, apparently, was hoping I would stay on at Newcastle for another year, during which time he would be able to get the transfer fee together.

Nothing continued to happen but I kept on playing well. I won the Barclays Eagle of the Month award again in January, and Newcastle crept into the top half of the table. Bobby Robson, the England manager, was quoted as saying that I was ‘a little gem’. I’ve been called a few names in my life, not all of them complimentary, or repeatable, but at the age of twenty, for the England manager to say that gave me the biggest lift in my footballing life so far.

In February 1988 we were away to Wimbledon. They were known as a really tough team, because of
John Fashanu, Dennis Wise and Vinnie Jones. I’d been pleased with my performance when we’d met them at home, but Vinnie hadn’t played that day. The press built up the return match into a personal duel between Jones, the hard man who took no prisoners, and me, the young kid full of fancy tricks.

I didn’t really know much about Vinnie but he’d probably heard or read a bit about me being a new young player to watch, perhaps even a ‘gem’ in the making. During our warm-up, a lot of the photographers were taking pictures of me and I was generally getting quite a bit of attention. I could see Vinnie glaring at me. As I watched him in his warm-up, he looked huge. I’m always nervous and hyped-up before a game, but this time I was physically sick. As we walked out on to the pitch, and immediately after the kick-off, he made a point of talking to me. ‘I’m Vinnie Jones. I’m a fucking gypsy. It’s just you and me today, fat boy, just you and me …’

It’s quite normal for more experienced players to try to intimidate you, sometimes by threatening to kill or maim you, especially if you’re young and new or seen as a fancy-dan player. But one look at Vinnie and I believed his threat. I didn’t think he was acting, though
we know now what a good actor he has become. I was sure he meant it, and I was right.

The first time I touched the ball, he kicked me up in the air. He never left me alone all afternoon, except when he went off once to take a throw-in. ‘I’m off to take a throw, but I’ll be fucking back,’ he snarled.

As a free kick was being taken, Vinnie was standing in front of me, waiting. I suddenly felt his hand come around and grab me by the balls. I screamed in agony. I thought at the time that nobody had seen what had happened, since we were not involved in the free kick, but a photograph was taken that appeared everywhere afterwards, becoming one of football’s best-known images. Someone must have made a fortune out of that, and I must say it didn’t in the end do Vinnie or me any harm, either.

The game finished 0–0 and after the final whistle a Newcastle fan presented me with a bunch of roses. I sent someone to the Wimbledon dressing room with a single red rose from the bunch for Vinnie. In reply, Vinnie sent me a toilet brush. It made me laugh, but I didn’t quite get the joke. No one had yet called me daft as a brush, at least not in public. I now know, from Vinnie’s own autobiography, that when my rose arrived
he looked around the dressing room for something to send back to me, and the toilet brush happened to be the first thing he saw. Later on, Vinnie and I became good friends and I went fishing and shooting at his place.

Wimbledon had the last laugh on us that season. They beat us 3–1 in the fifth round of the Cup, having already knocked us out of the Littlewoods (League) Cup. They went on to beat Liverpool in the FA Cup final.

By this time I’d come to believe that the Newcastle board did not know as much about football as they did about the politics of being a director. We’d had no decent new signings and some of the board members didn’t seem interested in putting much of their own money into the club. Stan Seymour, the chairman, liked to call himself Mr Newcastle – though I’m sure no one else would have called him that. Gordon McKeag, who took over as chairman from Stan, spoke as if he had a plum in his mouth and seemed to me stuck up. He rose to become League chairman, but I still didn’t reckon he knew much about football, just the politics.

I was beginning to feel that I didn’t want to stay at Newcastle any longer, though I didn’t know where I would go. Perhaps I should have waited another year for
Kenny and Liverpool to make a bid. The uncertainty kept me awake at night, with everything going round and round my head, worrying about what was going to happen. I made endless lists. The frustration affected my game. When I played for the Under-21s against Scotland I got taken off because I was crap.

Towards the end of the season, Newcastle went to Derby, now managed by Arthur Cox, my old manager. I dreaded hearing his voice shouting at me, telling me exactly what he thought of my performance. He didn’t need to tell me. I was awful and ended up getting sent off, for the second time that season.

As I stormed towards the dressing room, I kicked over the Derby physio’s water bucket, soaking a woman from their staff. Then I trashed the dressing room, breaking the door. Arthur Cox was furious with me.

After a couple of days, when I’d cooled down, and before I got the bill for the breakages, I wrote a letter of apology to Arthur. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote, but Arthur later told me that I’d gone on about wanting to win things, wanting to be the best player in the country, and my frustration when I played badly.

Eventually, Newcastle got the message that I wanted to leave and wouldn’t be signing another two-year
contract. They officially gave their permission for my advisers to speak to Tottenham. Some of the Newcastle fans weren’t very pleased, naturally enough.

Alex Ferguson found out what Spurs were prepared to offer me. They couldn’t match it, apparently, but said that I’d more than make up the shortfall in win bonuses if I came to Man United. Fergie saw me as the natural successor to Bryan Robson, or so I was told, though later on, when I told Robbo this, I learned that this wasn’t the story he’d heard.

Fergie had discussions with my lawyer, Mel Stein, as if he was certain I would sign for them. The figures bandied around seemed enormous at the time, though they were nothing like those that change hands today. All I was really interested in was being able to buy a house for my mam and dad. In Fergie’s autobiography, this somehow got turned into me saying that the club had to buy a house for them, but this wasn’t so.

On 7 May I pulled on a Newcastle shirt at St James’ Park for the last time. Nothing had been officially settled, but I knew, and most people assumed, that I wouldn’t be playing for them the next season. The game was against West Ham and at the end of it, I ran to the Gallowgate End and applauded those fans who had been
applauding me. I ran all round the ground and finally left the pitch in tears. In the dressing room, it was very quiet. A few of the lads wished me luck, but I could sense a distance between me and them.

There was, in fact, nearly a last-minute change of plan. John Hall, later Sir John, was mounting a bid to take over Newcastle FC, and he rang me up. He said that although he could make no promises about when and how he might gain control of the club, he wanted me to stay. But he understood that I couldn’t wait much longer. As it turned out, he didn’t take over till quite a bit later.

I was pleased to get away with the Under-21s in Toulon. We started with a 2–1 win over Mexico. In the squad we had Nigel Martyn, David Platt, Michael Thomas, David Rocastle, all of whom made the full national team. In the semi-final against Morocco I got our goal, which took us into the final against France. The French decided to man mark me. Once you’ve been marked by Vinnie Jones, there’s not much that can frighten you. We tired in extra time and France beat us 4–2.

I got back to England to find that Newcastle had now decided that I was worth £2 million. It doesn’t seem a lot now, but it seemed a fortune then, for someone
who had just turned 21 and had yet to play for the national team, and also someone for whom they were only wanting to pay £250 a week. That was what Newcastle were offering, if I stayed and signed a new contract. Spurs, on the other hand, were prepared to pay about six times that and at Man United, so they said, I would get almost as much.

I hadn’t actually met Terry Venables, the Spurs manager, yet. I agreed to go down to London to be introduced to him at Mel’s office in Mayfair. I sat in a room with El Tel, cuddling a giant talking bear called Teddy Ruxpin, which Mel and Len Lazarus, my accountant, had given me for my twenty-first birthday. I let Teddy do most of the talking. I don’t think Terry Venables could really believe it, but at least he could see what he might be getting for his money.

For my part, I was very impressed by what Venables had to say, especially when he told me that if I came to him, and was trained by him, I would be sure to get into the full England team. That mattered to me even more than the money being offered.

In the absence of any firm offer from Liverpool, just the request to wait a year, I didn’t know what to do. I still hadn’t decided against Manchester United. In
fact, if anything I was veering towards them. I thought I’d feel more at home if I stayed in the north. Going south would be a big change. When I played for the Under-21s, a lot of the southern lads couldn’t understand my accent, or so they claimed.

I was invited by Fergie to come and look round Old Trafford. I set out to drive myself to Manchester, but changed my mind and didn’t go that day. I was in a very confused state.

Fergie phoned to say that he was about to go on holiday, but he really did want me to sign for him. I have to admit I did tell him on the phone, ‘Don’t worry, go on your holiday, and when you come back, I’ll sign for you.’ I know he was furious when I didn’t, as he has since revealed. But while Liverpool remained my first choice, I just couldn’t make up my mind. One day I would feel I should go to Old Trafford and the next I wasn’t at all sure.

Irving Scholar of Spurs then made a smart move. He got Glenn Roeder to talk to me. We met in a pub in Newcastle and Glenn told me it would be good at Spurs. This only added to my confusion. I went down to London to talk to Irving Scholar and I was most impressed by his enthusiasm. He seemed to be a real football fan. Everyone at the club was friendly, and not at all stuck up, as I had
thought they might be. There didn’t seem to be a lot of difference between Geordies and Cockneys.

Mel tried to get hold of Fergie, by now away on holiday, to ask if Man United would match the terms Spurs were offering, but he couldn’t get through. Mobile phones were not then as good as they are now, especially when it came to international calls.

Irving Scholar was offering me a very good deal, and lots of extras. Tottenham were then sponsored by Hummell, and I was wearing their boots at the time, so that was another factor. Chris Waddle had convinced me I’d like it at White Hart Lane. I liked the look of Venables and Scholar, and they had offered me the best terms. So, in the summer of 1988, I signed for Spurs.

I’m sure Fergie thought I’d behaved like a stupid little bastard, double-crossing him, and many people feel he’s never forgiven me. He sent me a letter saying I’d been a silly boy, that he’d believed me when I’d promised I would join Man United. I don’t know where that letter is now. There’s no doubt he was upset at the time, but he later invited me to play in his testimonial, and I agreed. And he gave me a watch, which I still have somewhere. As for me, I never hold grudges against anyone or any club.

Now my immediate future had finally been resolved. I was sad to be leaving Newcastle, and in some ways I didn’t want to go. They have the best fans in the world, but I could see that for the moment they were a selling not a buying club.