Gazza: My Story

by Paul Gascoigne

  After weeks and weeks of physio and special rehab training, working my bollocks off, riding millions of miles on a training bike, I went up to Gateshead for a break. I was walking back from the pub one night with Lindsay, my little sister – we’d had quite a few drinks, but we weren’t drunk – when some kids started hassling us, shouting at me and calling me names. Then a workman on his way home got involved – and I think he had had a few drinks – and there was a bit of pushing and shoving. In the midst of this fracas, one of these people punched Lindsay in the stomach. I wrongly thought it was the workman, so I lashed out at him and he fell to the ground. I had to do something: to have failed to protect my little sister would have been cowardly. It led to the police being called and me being taken off to the police station and kept in a cell for a few hours. I rang Mel Stein, and he arranged for a local lawyer to come and help me, and eventually I was allowed home. The incident was, of course, splashed all over the papers, and some of them made me out to be a right yob, describing events as if I’d been in a drunken brawl. In the Italian press, on the other hand, I was presented as some sort of hero going to the rescue of my endangered sister.

  In August I went out to Rome to meet the Lazio management and be officially introduced to the club. My dad and some of the family came, along with Glenn Roeder, my old team-mate from Newcastle. He was planning his retirement from football and was looking to get into coaching. Although he’s ten years older than me, I’d always got on well with him and he had been great to me since I’d come south to Spurs, sheltering me when I was in trouble, giving me helpful advice and showing me real kindness. It had been decided that he and his wife Faith and his family would come and live in Rome while I was there, to keep an eye on me. Glenn would be my football friend and companion and stop me from doing anything too daft. It was also an opportunity for him to have a close look at Italian coaching methods, to see how they did things, which he thought would be useful to him in his future career. So there were advantages all round.

  We arrived in Rome to be greeted by amazing scenes. We were mobbed at the airport, and there were screaming fans everywhere. I did a press conference, and some interviews, and was taken round the sights of Rome. There were Gazza posters and photos everywhere, even though I still hadn’t signed for Lazio, the negotiations having been put on hold while they waited for me to get properly fit again. At the club, I met Dino Zoff, the Lazio manager – or coach, as they call them over there – for the first time. He, of course, had been one of Italy’s most famous players and one of the world’s best goalies. I was told they still wanted me, and were willing to wait till I was back in peak condition, whenever that might be – but not at the original price of £8 million-odd that had been agreed before my injury. They were still arguing the toss about what the new fee should be and who would get what share of what.

  Glenn and his family made inquiries about schools in Rome for their kids and started looking for a villa. They liked the city and were impressed by the whole set-up at Lazio. I went to watch a Lazio game, where I was introduced to the crowd. They went wild. I gave them a little thank you, in Italian. All round the stadium there were banners, in English, welcoming me with messages such as:

  Gazza’s Boys are here

  Shag women and drink beer.

  It made me dad and me feel quite at home.

  Before I left, it was agreed that I should make the move to Rome very soon, now that my knee was on the mend and I was getting really fit again. So finally, at the end of September, with all the arrangements in place, I went up to Newcastle to say goodbye to some of my old Dunston friends. As far as I remember it, after a few drinks at various watering-holes, we went to a club where a lad I had never seen before in my life comes up to me and says, ‘Are you Paul Gascoigne?’ I say yes – and he just whams me. As I crumpled to the floor I could feel my kneecap giving way. I put my hand down to feel my leg, to see what had happened, and my thumb practically sank into my knee. The hole was huge. The results of my operation had just been ripped apart. After all that work. I thought, fuck it. All the weeks and months of agony I had been through to recover, all the help I’d had from doctors and nurses and coaches and physios, and now this had happened. There seemed no way my career would recover this time.

  When Glenn Roeder heard what had happened, he said, ‘That’s it.’ He didn’t even want to hear my explanation. It had not been my fault: a stranger had lashed out at me for no apparent reason. But Glenn said I’d promised never again to get in scrapes like that, and not to put myself in any situation where it could happen. So I shouldn’t have been going to the sorts of pubs and clubs where there was a danger it might. I argued that this wasn’t fair. It could have happened anywhere, and to anyone. But he wouldn’t listen. He said this was the end, that I’d had me last chance. And he cancelled all his arrangements for Rome.

  I know it was stupid not to have seen this daft kid coming after me, but the point was, I didn’t want to stay away from the people or places I’d come from. I’ve never wanted to grow away from my roots. I want to live as I always have, not dropping old friends and old haunts, not moving away, not pretending I’m any different from them, that I’m something I’m not. And I like to think that, despite everything, I haven’t changed. I’m still the same Geordie lad.

  It was, though, a high price to pay. I had to have my third major operation in five months. Afterwards I returned to my house in Dobbs Weir, where Anna helped to look after me. Trying to recover all over again seemed to take for ever, but once more I worked like hell. In the meantime, a new president took over at Lazio, Sergio Cragnotti, who seemed tougher than the last one, but they still appeared to want me. Of course, it meant all the financial negotiations started again, with yet another series of deadlines and endless visits from doctors and specialists, both English and Italian. Lazio sent their experts over several times to check how I was doing, and I went over to Rome as well, to another triumphal welcome, so that they could all see me, and to show the fans they could expect me soon.

  The deadline for the transfer was set for May 1992, a full year after my Cup final disaster – depending, of course, on me being passed fit. I was by now training again, and having treatment at Spurs, as I was still a Tottenham player.

  At training one day, Steve Sedgley was showing off his new car, and being really flash. I happened to have a 2.2 air gun in my car, so I got it from the boot and shot out the back window of his car. I had to pay the bill for the damage, but it was worth it just to see the expression on his face.

  When the Italians were over to check up on my progress, Maurizio Manzini came to watch me training. One of the youth players was sent off to bring him a pot of tea. This lad was heading towards us, carefully carrying the teapot, cup and saucer and all the other bits and pieces on a tray, and for a laugh I got out my rifle and shot the teapot right off the tray. I think by that stage Lazio were beginning to wonder what they were signing.

  When it was time for my new club’s final check, I was so worried that I wouldn’t be fit that I arranged an extra practice session for myself after normal training was over. I paid all the Spurs youths and young reserves £50 each to stay on and play a game with me, just so the Italians could see for themselves that I was OK.

  I was finally transferred to Lazio at the end of May 1992 – the end of the football season in England and in Italy. I thought I deserved a break, after all the agonies and exertions, so I took the whole family off to Disneyland in Florida. There was my mam and dad, Anna and John-Paul, Lindsay and her boyfriend, my brother Carl, Jimmy, of course, and a couple of other friends as well as Sheryl.

  Before my transfer, Sheryl and I had parted once again, but I soon realised how much I was going to miss her, on my own in Italy, with no Glenn and his family to give me company and support. I drove round to Shel’s house. I pleaded with her to come with me, bursting into tears, telling her how much I loved her, missed her and needed her.

  I had never lived with Shel when I was
at Spurs, but she lived near me so I was often at her house. I had my own place at Dobbs Weir. Anna continued to live there for some time, while I was away, then I eventually sold it. I decided I didn’t need it any more.

  It took a while, but she agreed to come in the end. It was decided that Bianca, who was then aged about six and was at school, should stay in England and live with her father. Shel and Mason would come with me, and Bianca would come out during her school holidays.

  With a party of that size, the Disneyland holiday wasn’t cheap – and that was before anyone went shopping. Shel managed to buy herself some nice bits of jewellery. It wasn’t a total success, though. I have to admit that my family didn’t exactly hit it off with Shel.

  My transfer fee from Spurs to Lazio was finally settled at £5.5 million – quite a lot less than the sums being bandied around when negotiations had first started, but of course I’d had all those injuries and lost over a year of football. The club offered me a signing-on fee of £800,000. I didn’t care much about money – coming from a poor background, you know what it’s like to have nothing – but you have to get as much as you can while you have the wherewithal to earn it. Around that time, there were approaches from Japan, offering me something like £2 million over two years, so I thought I’d try it on with Lazio. I spoke to them on the phone and said I wanted a £2 million signing-on fee, clear of tax, and I wanted a yes or no in five minutes, or the deal was off. Before the five minutes were up, they came back – accepting it. I was totally amazed.

  My wages started at £22,000 a week, and were due to go up by about 10 per cent every year. So I was well and truly in the money and I was determined to spend it, mainly on my family. I bought them all houses and cars and holidays. It seemed the least I could do, after all the support they had given me.

  When I had first watched Lazio training, on that visit with Glenn Roeder and my dad before I signed, I was a bit nervous. Their technique and fitness did seem better than ours in England, and I wondered whether I would be able to keep up.

  When I eventually arrived, I was also, of course, worried about the language. I had had a couple of Italian lessons in England before I left, but I didn’t bother with anything after that. The club did offer me more lessons, but there didn’t seem much point when I had a translator available when I needed her, to help me get settled in, an Englishwoman whose name I’m not going to mention as she later wrote a book about me. In the end, I just picked up a bit of Italian as I went along, enough to get me by on the pitch or in shops and restaurants. The first words I learned were swearwords. I reckoned I’d be needing them.

  Lazio employed about sixteen bodyguards, just to look after the players. I was told I would be guarded night and day. I thought it was a joke till I learned how intense and passionate Italian fans are. In Italy, footballers can’t go anywhere without being pestered. And if your team is doing badly, they’ll wreck your car, attack your house, throw things at you in the street, beat you up.

  When I first moved into my villa in Rome, I was amazed to see two blokes hanging from the trees at the front, beside the gateway. I didn’t dawn on me at first that they were my own personal security guards. When I realised who they were, I invited them in and got them pissed.

  One of them nearly shot me one night. I’d got up to go to the toilet and, as always, I had to shut each door five times after me. He heard the doors being banged about and thought there must be a burglar in the house. Suddenly I found a gun being held to my head and this thug saying to me, ‘Non ti muovere!’ – don’t move – before he noticed it was me.

  Before long, though, they got to know me better, and the same two guys were usually assigned to me, Gianni, who I called Johnny, and Augusto, who spoke good English. We all became good pals.

  On the first day of proper training, when I was going to meet the whole squad, I went into town and bought twenty copies of a Teach Yourself English book. I got into the dressing room early and put one each on their benches. They thought that was hysterical.

  “I’m very pleased for Paul but it’s like watching your mother-in-law drive off a cliff in your new car.“

  Terry Venables, Tottenham manager, after Gazza finally joined Lazio, 1992

  “When he was at Spurs, and had bought his house in Hertfordshire, he was driving past this garden and noticed a man with a baldy heed who was bending over digging his garden. Paul went off and bought some eggs from a shop. Then he drove back to the man’s house and threw eggs at the baldy heed.“

  Carol Gascoigne

  14

  ROMAN DAYS

  My debut in Serie A eventually came on 27 September 1992 at home to Genoa, sixteen long months after I had last played a competitive game. It was shown live on TV, in Britain as well as in Italy. Just before half-time, Mario Bortolazzi whacked me in the knee and I went down like a sack of spuds. The crowd fell silent, thinking I’d been badly injured, but I got up and shook the guy’s hand, ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said. In Italian, of course. The game ended in a draw. I didn’t actually manage the second half as I’d got a dead leg after another knock, which hit a nerve, but I was OK for training on the Tuesday.

  I was in the starting line-up for the next game, against Parma, who were the Italian Cup-holders, and we thumped them 5–2. My new team-mate Giuseppe Signori recorded his first hat-trick in Serie A and I like to think I helped him get it. I came off about twenty minutes before the end, as I was getting tired, but I got a standing ovation. I felt great, played great and, most important of all, my knee felt great.

  In the dressing room, Valerio Fiori, our goalie, spoke good English, as did Claudio Sclosa, who was my room-mate when we played away. Maurizio Manzini, the general manager, was very fluent and he was always helpful. Dino Zoff, however, didn’t speak any English at all, so my conversations with him had to be translated. One of the first questions I asked him was if it was OK to have a pint of lager now and again. He said it was OK by him, as long as I did the business on the field. He gave me the number 10 shirt, which is considered a big honour in Italy. Many of the best players in Italy have worn number 10, including Platini, Maradona and Roberto Baggio.

  Next we played away to AC Milan at the San Siro. They were the league champions and had an unbeaten run of forty games behind them and stars like Van Basten, Gullit, Rijkaard, Maldini and Baresi in their ranks. That game was live on TV everywhere. We scored in the first five minutes, but after that we never touched the ball. We were stuffed 5–1 and Van Basten got a hat-trick. It was probably a great one to watch on TV, and a good advertisement for Italian football, but I certainly didn’t think it was that terrific.

  In the dressing room, I went mad. Our team was a fucking joke, I said. They were all useless. What were they thinking of? In England, we would always fight, fight, fight to the end, even when we were being outclassed. Dino Zoff told me off. ‘Stai zitto,’ he said, which means shut up. ‘Tu non capisci uncazzo del calcio Italiano.’ You know fuck all about Italian football. Which, of course, was true.

  I think the other players probably realised I was over-excited, and deep down, they knew as well as I did that we’d let ourselves down. None of them held it against me. In fact, I never had any trouble with any of my Lazio team-mates, no rows or fights or anything. They were all very good, and we got on well.

  The more games I played, the more I became aware that the players were not as technically brilliant as I’d first thought. They just did some things differently. They’d keep the ball at the back for hours, so you thought, fucking hell, get a move on; then, suddenly, they’d come to life once they reached the last third. That’s when you saw their speed and skill and cleverness. That’s when they did the business.

  Johnny and Augusto, my security guards, remained great friends of mine. All Lazio’s bodyguards worked for Italy’s leading security firm, Mondiapol, who also looked after the country’s money. When I found out that one of their jobs was guarding some huge bank vault, I got them to sneak me in with Jimmy. I sat on this
huge mountain of money, about £50 million. I started chucking wads of it in the air, which wasn’t part of the deal – Johnny and Augusto had made me promise not to touch it. Jimmy has a photo of me throwing that money about, unless he’s lost it, the dozy sod.

  The club paid for my accommodation. I hadn’t long moved into my first villa when I found a nine-foot snake by the pool. I immediately insisted on moving. In my next villa, getting up one morning to get ready for training, I found a two-foot snake in the bedroom. I wasn’t as scared this time, because it wasn’t so long, so I just whacked it with a broom.

  I took the dead snake with me to training, and when everyone else had got stripped off and gone out, I put it in Di Matteo’s jacket pocket. Yeah, Roberto Di Matteo, the one who later went to Chelsea. He comes in after training, has a shower, gets dressed and puts his hand into his pocket. He went apeshit. It was hilarious. But no, he didn’t get too mad with me. He was just relieved it wasn’t alive.

  I went to training one day on a motorbike, a sort of mountain bike scrambler thing, which the owner of my villa had left behind. I hadn’t intended to use it, but my Mercedes had a flat tyre and I’d had a row with Shel, who’d gone off in her car, so in desperation I just jumped on this bike and rode off in a temper. I had no insurance, no helmet and I didn’t really know how to ride it. The club had hysterics. All that money they’d paid for me, and I could have killed myself.

  I did have one nasty driving incident, towards the end of that first season. The fans, as usual, were all over my car, hanging on, and in trying to get clear of them I ran one of them over. There were tyre marks on his leg and he was badly bruised. I gave him my number 10 shirt, by way of an apology, to keep him quiet, but he told the press anyway and everyone had a go at me, including the president.