by Paul Lake
Though I’d signed a new contract, it would take a few months before I made a mark on the senior squad. However, I soon found myself making another kind of ‘mark’ – of the skid variety, I’m ashamed to say – before a youth team game against Coventry City. It was prior to this game, you see, that I had the dubious honour of cacking my pants five minutes before kick-off (WARNING: anyone reading this over their morning muesli might be wise to skip the next few paragraphs).
It was in the Maine Road dressing room, during one of Skip’s motivational pep-talks, that this highly embarrassing episode took place. I’d been suffering from a bad case of food poisoning – I hadn’t been able to train all week – and had mistakenly thought that a bumper packet of Imodium had cleared it up. Obviously not, because as we all shouted a collective ‘come on, lads’, the accompanying clap must have loosened something in my nether regions, and I immediately felt a dreadful warmth oozing from my bowels to my undies.
Kick-off was a matter of minutes away, so I had to do something, and quick. I managed to sidle away from my team-mates, my bum cheeks clenched so tightly I could have trapped my FA Youth Cup bonus in there, and minced John Inman-like towards the toilets. I miraculously reached the cubicle without any significant seepage and removed the offending pants, wrapping them in an entire roll of toilet paper. But what the hell was I going to do with them? There’s no way I could flush them down the loo, I certainly didn’t want them fermenting in my kitbag and I couldn’t exactly jog onto the pitch with them stuffed under my shirt. So, with time running out, I crept into Roy Bailey’s deserted physio room and dropped the revolting bundle into his waste bin. It’d get emptied first thing in the morning, I reckoned, so Roy would be none the wiser.
‘You okay?’ asked Glyn Pardoe, as I rejoined my team-mates in the tunnel. ‘You’re looking a bit pale.’
‘I’m fine, Glyn,’ I said, adjusting my shorts and making a mental note not to attempt any scissor-kicks that night.
I arrived at the ground early the next day. As I entered the dressing room, the colour drained from my face when I caught sight of the un-emptied bin in the physio area. An indignant Roy Bailey was mid-phone call.
‘Will you send Jimmy the caretaker over to sort these bleedin’ drains out?’ he angrily demanded. ‘They’re f***ing humming this morning …’
I eventually made my first team debut for Manchester City in January 1987. The manager at the time, Jimmy Frizzell, took me aside after training one wintry Thursday afternoon and told me that I was going to be replacing the injured David White for the Wimbledon game. Chuffed to bits at my inclusion, I floated out of Platt Lane into the path of Ken Barnes, who gave me a congratulatory pat on the back and offered me his two penn’orth. He told me to use my opportunity wisely and to look at the game as the perfect chance to gain some much-needed experience.
‘Try and enjoy the fact that you won’t be under any pressure out there,’ said Ken sagely, ‘because that won’t be the case soon, I can bloody assure you.’
As I was about to thank him for his words of wisdom, he suddenly gripped my forearm.
‘One more thing, Paul, son,’ he whispered guardedly, surveying the car park for eavesdroppers. ‘There are a few f***ing gobshites in that first team who aren’t the players they think they are, and reckon that the world f***ing owes them a living. Just make sure that you let your football do the talking and those bastards will be looking over their shoulders, mark my words.’
As word of my good news spread, the piss-taking from the other young City players went into overdrive. This included a flurry of bets being placed as to what the post-Wimbledon headlines might be, with LAKE DIVES IN, LAKE MAKES A SPLASH, and LAKE SUPERIOR being peddled in a dressing-room sweepstake. My selection for the first team had also pricked up the ears of the local media. A photo session on the Maine Road pitch was followed by my first ever broadcast interview, given to Piccadilly Radio’s Brian Clarke. I happened to catch his sports bulletin as I drove home that afternoon, wincing as I heard myself stuttering through a full house of clichés that included ‘Over the moon’, ‘Take each game as it comes’, and ‘At the end of the day’.
My first senior appearance wasn’t one of those fairy-tale dream debuts, alas; not by a long stretch. We managed to scrape a goalless draw at a bitterly cold Plough Lane, which actually wasn’t that bad a result, considering we’d been bombarded by the usual Crazy Gang tactics of long balls, set pieces, elbows to the ribs and knees to the spuds. As it was I performed pretty steadily in central midfield, and whilst I didn’t set the game alight, neither did I let the side down. On the coach back to Manchester it all felt a bit anti-climactic, but I tried to console myself with the fact that it could have been much worse. I could have gone in late on Vinnie Jones and had a proper baptism of fire.
Thankfully, the manager seemed happy enough with my efforts. Jimmy (or Frizz, as he was known to all of the staff) hadn’t long replaced Billy McNeill as manager, but their Scottish heritage was virtually the only thing they had in common. Two more different personalities you couldn’t find; a proper case of chalk and cheese. During his brief stewardship at Maine Road, McNeill had acquired a reputation as a no-nonsense, straight-talking type of guy. My own opinion of him blew hot and cold, our relationship hitting a particularly Arctic patch after an episode involving my elder brother.
In 1986 Mike was 19 years old and, rated by many as a quality attacking midfielder, still harboured ambitions of making it as a professional footballer. After receiving some rave reviews whilst playing for a local semi-pro side, Curzon Ashton, he was invited to join City on a non-contract, expenses-only basis and made six appearances for the reserves, netting three goals and even earning two Man of the Match awards. These achievements were made all the more remarkable by the fact that, to make ends meet, he was also working nights for British Rail as an apprentice driver, often coming straight to training after having clocked off his shift at dawn.
Things appeared to be going really well for Mike. He was relishing the whole City experience, and many people were sitting up and taking notice of the senior Lake lad. Despite the fact that he was knackered most of the time, his attitude and application were second to none, and everyone at the club seemed really impressed by him, including the manager. I personally loved having my brother around the place, and I shared in his excitement when he told me that Billy McNeill had asked to see him one morning before training. Could it be the offer of a contract, maybe? Could there soon be another Lake on City’s books? We were both cautiously optimistic, since Mike had been playing really well.
I waited for him outside the manager’s office, crossing my fingers for some good news. Ten minutes later, however, it was a glum-looking Mike that emerged. McNeill had decided to release him from the club (‘I’m sorry, Michael son, this old ship hasn’t got as many coats of paint as it’d like,’ had been his cryptic way of pleading poverty) and my brother’s hopes were dashed in an instant.
To his credit, however, he picked himself up, dusted himself down and went on to sign for Macclesfield Town before being snapped up by Sheffield United. Ironically enough, he scored a great goal for the Blades against City in 1992, a looping volley from a ridiculous angle that soared over Tony Coton’s right arm. I didn’t feature in that particular game but I remember feeling so pleased for my big bro’, despite the fact that he’d put one past my own team. His strike was a contender for Goal of the Month, although he still says he’d have preferred to have scored it wearing a sky blue shirt.
An ankle fracture sustained whilst playing for Sheffield United, as well as a serious knee injury at Wrexham, put paid to Mike’s football career a few years later. I remain convinced, however, that he was good enough to have played for City. And while my brother’s experience had somewhat tarnished my relationship with Billy McNeill, no harsh words or dirty looks were ever exchanged. I wasn’t deluded – I knew that football could be a cruel and callous business – but it wasn’t very pleasant to see my big brothe
r suffering such heartbreak.
In contrast to his predecessor, Frizz was a fun-loving, wisecracking bloke whose acerbic comments would often render us helpless with laughter. One particular Thursday, during the latter part of the 1986–87 season, City left-back Clive Wilson had been touted in that morning’s tabloids as a future transfer target for Chelsea. Not a massive surprise, since Clive was a quality defender who was probably due a money-spinning move, but we still gave him some stick for getting all high-and-mighty on us (which, being a lovely, unassuming lad, he was anything but). That same morning, however, Frizz had decided to organise a practice match between a first team XI and a reserve XI, the former comprising lads like Clive and Andy May, and the latter featuring youngsters such as myself and Jason Beckford. Against all odds we won it 2–1, with Clive having an absolute stinker of a game, comically falling on his backside after being skinned by Jason. The manager was less than enamoured at this sight, and let rip accordingly.
‘Chelsea f***in’ Football Club?’ he bellowed. ‘More like Chelsea f***in’ Flower Show, you ****.’ Clive, to his great credit, saw the funny side. He went on to have the last laugh, too, bagging a £250,000 move to Stamford Bridge in March 1987, claiming a fat signing-on fee in the process.
Frizz’s stint as City manager was short-lived, however, and he was replaced by Norwich City’s coach, Mel Machin, in the summer. This wasn’t exactly a shock development, since the club had been giving out enough vibes that Frizz was merely keeping the hot seat warm for someone else (as someone said at the time, his coat was on a wobbly peg). Luckily, though, Frizz stayed on at Maine Road as its general manager, and latterly stadium manager. He struck up a great friendship with Ken Barnes – they shared similar opinions and characteristics – and they’d often put the football world to rights in the chief scout’s office on weekday mornings, turning the air blue as they did so. Prior to training I’d always pop my head in to say hello, before being beaten back by a mushroom cloud of nicotine.
I was ridiculously nervous before my home league debut against Luton Town. I can sympathise with those West End actors who get first-night nerves, because I was worried sick on the eve of my own première performance. Although I was familiar with Maine Road, having already played there in the FA Youth Cup Final, a Full Members’ Cup tie and countless reserve games, this was a completely different proposition.
On 21st February 1987, a throng of family and friends piled down to Maine Road to lend their support on my big day. Stupidly, I let the occasion get the better of me and was as jittery as hell for the first 20 minutes, so much so that a bloke in the stands was heard to sneer sarcastically, ‘Here we go, yet another brilliant find from our illustrious football academy.’ He was entitled to his opinion of course, but had the misfortune of sitting behind my mate Millsy’s dad, who turned round, told him to shut the f*** up and punched him in the face.
Despite my colly-wobbles, I somehow managed to score my first ever senior goal a minute before the interval, latching onto a half-chance that had sped across the box and steering it into the far corner. The game ended all square after Luton’s Brian Stein neutralised my strike in the 62nd minute. My post-match emotions were pretty mixed. I was delighted to open my goal account, but not massively impressed by my shaky performance. I think the burden of pressure that Ken Barnes had spoken of had definitely reared its head that day.
With the advent of my first team appearances came another kind of pressure, namely my new-found ‘celebrity’ status. As I made inroads into the senior squad, complete strangers started to let on to me as I went about my daily business, some even asking me to scribble autographs or pose for photographs.
As I was quite a shy lad, all this would sometimes make me feel pretty uncomfortable, and I had to pluck up courage to attend the various cheque presentations, school visits and press interviews that I was now obliged to undertake. Though I realised that public appearances were part and parcel of being a professional, I just didn’t feel that I merited the attention because in my mind I was still your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill YTS kid. Doubtless I’d have benefited from some media training to boost my confidence, but City, like most clubs, had yet to embrace that concept. In fact, I got most of my tips from Granada TV on a Friday night, watching Elton Welsby interviewing old hands like Frank Worthington and Graeme Souness on Kick Off.
I don’t think it was a huge coincidence that I also started to attract more attention from the opposite sex. This state of affairs, while welcome, was reminiscent of TV’s Mrs Merton infamously asking Debbie McGee what she saw in the millionaire Paul Daniels, because I wasn’t exactly the Brad Pitt of the squad. Shoot! magazine, the cheeky bastards, once even compared me to The Pogues’ front man Shane McGowan, who had ears like FA Cup handles and teeth like tombstones. And being asked if I was Ivan Lendl’s brother by a snotty-nosed kid at a Junior Blues meeting didn’t exactly do wonders for my self-esteem, either. (In my defence, I feel I must point out that in 2008 I was nominated as a ‘Blue Hunk’ in City’s match-day programme – don’t laugh – by a female fan from Chorley who reckoned that I possessed ‘film star looks’. ‘Run, Forrest, run’, remarked my wife when I told her.)
When out on the town in the mid-1980s, I’d often find myself giving a girl the glad eye, only for her to either tut disdainfully or blatantly blank me. Then I’d lip-read a bloke in her group telling her that she’d just snubbed Paul Lake, the Manchester City player, after which she’d miraculously change her tune. The lad in the corner with the purple paisley shirt and the mousey crew-cut would suddenly be transformed into an irresistible hunk, and before long Little Miss Fickle would be all over me like a rash, batting her eyelashes as she seductively sipped her Malibu and pineapple. It was all as shallow as hell, but it didn’t make me look a gift horse in the mouth when one presented itself.
After a few short-lived dates and dalliances, I met the girl who’d become my first serious girlfriend. Karen was a pretty brunette who lived on Audenshaw Road in Denton and had attended the same secondary school as me. Her dad, Brian, was a massive City fan; not surprisingly we got on like a house on fire.
It was Karen who had the honour of being the inaugural passenger in my cherished first car, a used sky blue Ford Escort Ghia (its registration plate – OJA 154W – is seared on to my memory) that I bought on the never-never from Reddish Motors. Mike offered to touch up the bodywork a bit – there were a few scuffs and dents here and there – but I politely told him to piss right off, remembering the time in the early 1980s that he’d painted my Uncle Jim’s Rover 3800 with maroon Dulux matt emulsion, Jim being of the belief that it would be cheaper than a garage respray. The end result was predictably hideous and the car became the laughing stock of Haughton Green, with guffawing locals pointing in amusement as it was driven around town with a circular bald patch on the roof where my brother had forgotten to remove the paint tin.
I couldn’t wait to drive onto the Maine Road forecourt for the first time. I spent the night before visualising how I’d show off my pride and joy to my best buddies, Jason and Millsy, picturing myself casually propping up the bonnet to display the engine or highlighting the roominess of the boot and all those other things you’re supposed to do with a new motor. I imagined taking them for a lunchtime spin near the ground, slotting ‘Pump Up The Volume’ into the cassette player and cruising the mean streets of Moss Side.
‘Hey, that Paul Lake’s going places,’ the boyz-in-the-‘hood would say as they enviously watched me drive past with my left hand cradling the steering wheel and my right elbow hanging out of the window. Playing for City’s first team; face in the papers; nice sporty Escort; thumping tunes: now there goes one cool dude.
Sadly, though, it didn’t actually happen that way. In my childlike excitement that morning I managed to flood the engine and had to abandon my sky blue dream machine on the drive. I legged it to the bus stop, leapt onto the number 53, arrived late for training and got fined £20 for my troubles. Cool dude my arse.
Lucky Man
I NEVER LOST sight of how lucky I was to play football for a living. You’ve got a job in a million, Paul … I remember thinking as I jogged towards our pre-season training pitch on a blazing hot day in July 1987, carrying a bottle of water in one hand and a pair of flip-flops in the other. You’re being paid to kick a ball about with your pals in the sun. You’re playing for the team that you’ve adored since you were a kid. Go on, pinch yourself …
I’d not long returned from a much-needed holiday in Ibiza which, to be honest, couldn’t have come at a better time. Manchester City had been relegated to the Second Division a couple of months earlier – a horrendous experience for everyone involved with the club – and I’d badly needed some downtime (and some sunshine) to recover from such a body blow. While our demotion had been half-expected – an appalling set of results had effectively sealed City’s fate in April – nothing could have prepared me for the emotional scenes that had followed our final game in the top flight, against West Ham. Witnessing grown men in blue shirts shedding tears on the terraces, and the abject despondence in our changing room, had been pretty hard to bear for an 18-year-old rookie who, being on the fringes of the squad, had merely gone down to Upton Park for the experience.
By the time July arrived, though, the lads had had six long weeks in which to unwind and, as I reported for my first day of training at Manchester University playing fields, it was a relief to enter an upbeat dressing room buzzing with plenty of high-fives and ‘how-you-doin’?’ It was great to take part in the catch-up chatter, too, listening to big-hitters such as Imre Varadi and Paul Stewart banging on about exotic trips abroad and new top-of-the-range golf clubs, and singletons like Steve Redmond and Ian Scott regaling us with tales of summer lovin’ conquests and nights on the lash.