by Paul Lake
The first day of pre-season was always full of little rituals, the ceremonial unwrapping of our new training kit being a case in point. The arrival of our ‘uniform’ was a very big deal to us players, and we’d spend ages scrutinising the individually numbered shirts, shorts and shell-suits, double-checking that the quality and design met our exacting standards. There’d invariably be something for us to moan about; one particular July our training shorts were so tight that little was left to the imagination, and another time we weren’t sent enough smaller-sized kits, meaning that the squad’s skinnies had to run around with Stanley Matthews-style shorts flapping around their knees.
The lads’ biggest gripe was when the waterproofs arrived two weeks late – as was often the case – which prompted a flurry of prima donna hissy-fits whenever the heavens opened. This was a nightmare for those players with blow-dried Patrick Swayze mullets who after yet another Mancunian downpour ended up looking more like a rat-tailed Peter Stringfellow.
Occasionally, some of the senior squad members would wangle a big-money sponsorship deal over the summer, and would make a grand entrance at the training ground sporting their branded shell suits, T-shirts, socks, boots and holdalls. These visions in Day-Glo would provoke wolf-whistles and comments of ‘oooh, get her …’ from me and the rest of the raggy-arsed brigade as we tried to conceal our envy. I remember us all lapping it up when our goalie, Perry Suckling, spent the first day prancing round the pitch in his shiny new Hummel boots, only to turn up the following morning hobbling like an old man, his feet studded with raw blisters.
‘Heyyyyy, Bertie big bollocks,’ we heckled. ‘You’d better get your slippers on ’cause you won’t be able to put your swanky boots on for a fortnight, will you?’
Then there were the close-season signings to size up. Our new recruits always elicited a degree of wariness (particularly if they played in your position) and we’d try to suss out whether they were going to be one of the lads or a pain in the neck. For the first fortnight we’d usually give them the benefit of the doubt, though, and would try to make everyone feel as welcome as possible. During my entire time at City I only ever took umbrage to one new arrival, a lad called Robert Hopkins. He treated the young professionals with utter contempt, and we did cartwheels around the training ground when he was offloaded to West Brom.
Making up the numbers would be the annual intake of 16-year-old apprentices who, on day one, would troop in like the ‘fresh fish’ newcomers in The Shawshank Redemption. Experiencing their first proper pre-season was quite a culture shock for most trainees, coming as they did from the comfort of home and school straight to the purgatory of summer training. The majority of the young ’uns would opt for a discreet, low-key arrival, getting on with their dogsbody tasks of loading up drinks crates and hanging the right kit on the correct hook. Those apprentices who turned up with a swagger and an attitude would be immediately earmarked by the older lads for some special attention, particularly if they possessed any distinguishing features. Big noses, bad acne, bowl-head haircuts and bum-fluff moustaches were seen as fair game for the seniors who took great delight in bringing these upstarts down a peg or two.
‘Come ’ere, Spotty Muldoon, I’ll squeeze that zit for you …’ would be a typical remark, or ‘let me blow your nose for you, I’m nearer …’
As a teenage trainee I had the misfortune of looking a bit like one of those Mr Potato Head toys (‘you’ve not quite grown into your features yet, Paul,’ was how someone once diplomatically put it). I recall being teased mercilessly during a communal meal, by our captain, Mick McCarthy, who wedged some pitta bread over both ears and yelled ‘anyone seen Lakey?’ at the top of his voice. I went scarlet with embarrassment but did my best to brush it off, smiling and shrugging my shoulders until the laughter subsided. But that’s all you could do when you were an apprentice. Batting away such remarks by your superiors was the only viable option, because you’d never have heard the last of it if you’d had an adolescent strop or – heaven forbid – dared to retaliate.
This ribbing was mild in comparison to some of the other stuff that went on, much of which could be pretty brutal. Back in the late 1970s and early 80s there was an unwritten rule that the YTS lads had to earn the right to enter the first team changing room, and that the correct protocol was to knock on the door and wait outside until someone answered. Any cocksure apprentice who sauntered in with a player’s boots or a freshly laundered training top would be given a right-hook by Joe Corrigan – City’s burly goalkeeper – before being slung out of the door.
I also remember one fellow trainee receiving a birthday ‘present’ from the first teamers that involved stripping him down to his underpants, bundling him into a basket skip, drenching it under a cold shower and then abandoning the locked casket on the Maine Road forecourt with the traumatised player still inside.
‘H-h-happy f-f-f***ing b-b-birthday …’ he whimpered to himself when the senior lads eventually surrendered the key and allowed us to unshackle him, watched as we did so by a bemused elderly lady who’d been prodding the talking skip with her walking stick.
City’s official pre-season weigh-in had its own humiliations. There was nothing worse than a public assessment to cruelly expose someone’s summer bingeing, and players turning up on the first day looking like they were sponsored by Burger King would be singled out for ridicule by their team-mates. It wasn’t a laughing matter for the coaching staff, though. Anyone waddling into the training complex with a Jocky Wilson beer gut conveyed the message that he wasn’t prepared or wasn’t bothered – or both – and was hauled in to the manager’s office for a confessional (‘forgive me, Gaffer, for I have sinned; it’s been six weeks since my last salad …’). The said player would have his cards well and truly marked, and would spend the next three weeks being forced to train in a bin bag in order to sweat his flab off. And worse still, his team-mates would single him out for some serious ragging for weeks on end. Being a fat figure of fun for a squad of mickey-taking footballers was never a pleasant experience; thankfully my skinny build meant that I was never a target.
Half of me dreaded the prospect of a physically gruelling pre-season; the other half welcomed the opportunity to push my body to its limits and smash the pain barrier until my heart pounded and my muscles burned. The first couple of weeks were always the most demanding, with just a smidgeon of football amid strenuous back-to-back fitness sessions. Such an exhausting training regime knocked the stuffing out of the best of us; even natural-born athletes like Earl ‘Kip Keino’ Barrett, Bob ‘Olympic Spawn’ Brightwell and Paul ‘Road Runner’ Moulden would be totally wiped out by the end of the day.
Suffering on the sidelines would also be the teenage apprentices who, mistakenly assuming that their youthful zest and innate fitness would carry them through July’s trials, would find themselves chucking up their Frosties after yet another stomach-turning session. Come four o’clock, every single one of us would be collapsed on the grass, groaning in agony.
The shared pain of pre-season training definitely helped the squad to bond, but it also produced a few powder-keg moments sparked off by our frayed nerves and fatigued bodies. A notorious endurance discipline called the Snake Run was the cause of many a pitch-side scuffle. This punishing task always took place towards the end of the afternoon, and involved already flagging lads having to jump over team-mates lying horizontally round the pitch like human hurdles. All it took was a trailing leg or an ‘accidental’ stamp for tempers to flare, and players would often have to be separated as they wearily traded blows. Tensions could be equally as high in the dressing room. Some of the senior pros, many of whom had played at the top level for ten years or more, considered themselves experts in training strategies and enjoyed putting the world to rights if things weren’t to their liking.
The 1987 close season saw our manager, Mel Machin, placing the emphasis on arduous, stamina-based work in the first fortnight. This wasn’t popular with everyone, however, particula
rly those who preferred to let the ball do the work during five-a-side matches or skills sessions. Certain players bemoaned the fact that their short’n’sharp 20-yard passing game was being disregarded in favour of mini-marathons.
‘This club treats us like shire horses, not race horses,’ one commented following an afternoon of cross-country running. I managed to tolerate the five-mile slogs, though, convincing myself as I squelched through another muddy ditch that all this suffering would return me to my fighting weight. With each passing day my fitness levels climbed, the feel-good factor rose, and the needle on the scales crept gratifyingly anticlockwise. As my strength increased so too did the surge of endorphins, to such an extent that when August arrived I was bouncing around like Tigger, excitedly ticking off the days until the start of the new season.
At the beginning of August we’d upped sticks from Camp Wythenshawe and headed back to Platt Lane, the club’s official training ground, where the emphasis had shifted to more tactical work in preparation for the new season. Analysing from the touchline and debating behind closed doors, the backroom staff now had the tough task of finalising their starting first team line-up. Being scrutinised at such close quarters could be unnerving.
‘Believe you me, we’re watching everything,’ warned coach Tony Book.
All of us were well aware that one immaculate pass or one clumsy tackle could make the difference between a first team pick or a reserve team run-out. And although everyone in the squad remained hopeful of that final nod of approval, I don’t think any of us believed we had the divine right to selection. Even dead certs such as Paul Stewart and Paul Simpson glanced nervously over their shoulders, well aware that there were plenty of frisky young colts ready to take their place.
Our concentration on the training pitch wasn’t helped by the fact that Platt Lane was a meeting point for a noisy troupe of local winos who, when they weren’t bothering passers-by in Moss Side, lurched down to our HQ to hassle us instead. They often congregated behind the mesh perimeter fence and spewed out a torrent of abuse as we ran out each morning.
‘Yer all f***in’ wankers, the lot of yer,’ was probably as polite as it got.
These fellas revelled in creating as much disturbance as possible and because security at Platt Lane was non-existent, they often hung around for the entire session. Try as we might, it was hard to ignore our resident drunkards, particularly since we had to jog right past them whenever we did laps of the pitch (I remember one particularly creepy-looking guy who tried to put us off our stride as we completed each circuit by smiling menacingly and slowly rubbing his crotch up and down the netting.) The ball frequently got smashed high over the fence – especially if Imre Varadi was having target practice – and one unfortunate soul would have to go and retrieve it, often having to wrest it from the grasp of some Rab C. Nesbitt lookalike with his arse cheeks hanging out of his pants.
‘Wonder whether Bryan Robson has to cope with this at the Cliff?’ we laughed as the ball was lobbed back into play.
Believing that I’d given a pretty good account of myself during pre-season, I was absolutely gutted not to figure in Mel Machin’s side for the opening game against Plymouth Argyle. I watched forlornly as the player-coach, John Deehan, pinned up the squad line-up on the dressing-room wall, and ordered myself to keep my pecker up and my frustration hidden.
‘Don’t worry, son, your time will come,’ reassured Dad when I returned home that afternoon with a face like a wet weekend. ‘Just be patient.’
It was an injury to Kenny Clements that eventually provided the opening for me, and I slotted into the role of centre-half against Shrewsbury Town in September 1987. I went on to feature in the back-to-back goalfests against Millwall (4–0) and Stoke (3–0) and must have done all right because I kept my place even when Kenny regained full fitness, regularly appearing alongside him until he left the club the following March.
But, while everything seemed to be going pretty well for me on the pitch, I soon discovered that the gaffer wasn’t entirely happy with everything off it.
‘Can I have a quick word?’ he asked me one Saturday evening, pulling me to one side on the coach back from a League Cup tie in Wolverhampton. ‘Now don’t take this personally, Lakey,’ he whispered, ‘but I think you need to smarten yourself up a bit.’
For some unknown reason, my Nick Heyward-style Arran jumper and my nearly new cords from Affleck’s Palace were unacceptable for first team travel, and Mel told me I needed to invest in a proper suit. Although I hated wearing formal gear, I heeded his advice and paid a visit to Slater’s Menswear in Manchester, subjecting myself to the old tape measure and ‘suits you, sir’ treatment.
My youthful passion remained undimmed, though. One of my favourite city-centre hangouts, Affleck’s Palace was a rickety old building on the corner of Church Street and Oldham Street that housed an odd mixture of high fashion and second-hand tat; the only place in town where you could buy designer tops and dead men’s trousers all under one roof. It was also a renowned music mecca where you could spend ages browsing the little record concessions for rare vinyl and memorabilia. I was a keen collector of obscure 12-inches and picture discs, and used to love rummaging in the bargain bins and unearthing little-known gems by Echo and the Bunnymen, Spear of Destiny and Blue Rondo à la Turk (they don’t name ’em like they used to, eh).
Despite his intense loathing of the place, I regularly dragged my pal Millsy to Affleck’s after training. Millsy loved his King Street boutiques and ‘casual’ labels and hated having to mingle with the hippies, goths and Morrissey clones that Affleck’s generally attracted.
‘I need a bloody shower after coming here,’ he’d grumble, brushing imaginary dust off his Ralph Lauren sweater before grudgingly joining me in the top-floor café for a Colombian coffee, a wholemeal flapjack and a (passive) lungful of ganja.
Kitted out in my new match-day outfit of black suit, cream shirt, orange tie and black patent winklepickers, I reckoned I was finally projecting the right professional image. With a few more first team games under my belt, I also felt I was beginning to understand the extra-curricular responsibilities that came with playing for Manchester City, namely conducting myself sensibly, representing my football club in the best possible way and acting as a role model to others. All in all, I thought I was doing all right for a new recruit. And then John Gidman went and put a spanner in the works.
A highly experienced and well-regarded pro, John ‘Giddy’ Gidman had signed for City from Manchester United in 1986, following in the footsteps of Denis Law, Peter Barnes and Brian Kidd by becoming one of the select few to have played for both the Reds and the Blues. A sharp and sarky Scouser, he was a popular figure in the dressing room and was admired by the lads for being the only player to drive a Porsche, as well as being one of the first to own a hands-free car phone.
His rugged, perma-tanned features and brown corkscrew curls may well have given him housewives’ favourite status, but beneath the handsome exterior lay a rock-hard centre. No other player inspired greater fear among the apprentices than Giddy. A fiery, hot-headed character, he would cheerfully smack any young whippersnapper who had the cheek to overtake him during a training run.
‘No one makes me look f***in’ slow …’ he’d hiss as he elbowed you in the face.
Prior to our away game at Swindon in October 1987, the physio Roy Bailey had informed me of a change to the schedule which meant that I’d be rooming with Giddy instead of my usual mucker, Bob Brightwell. No problem, I thought. Giddy’s a sound bloke, if maybe a tad on the tetchy side, but I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.
As we unpacked our suitcases in the hotel room following our evening meal, I knew I was in for a bad night when Giddy told me to sort the drinks out. I duly obliged, filling up the plastic kettle and giving him first refusal on the complimentary packet of Highland Shortbread.
‘What are you f***in’ doing?’ he demanded.
‘I’m brewing up, mate,’ I replied as the k
ettle started to boil.
‘I want a Scotch, not a friggin’ sauna,’ he barked. ‘Get that mini-bar open, you lanky Manc t**t, and let’s have a wind-down …’
An hour and three miniature bottles of Famous Grouse later, I found myself hiding in the bathroom, trying to avoid the mad fella on the other side of the wall intent on plying me with alcohol. Giddy, you see, was one of those old-school footballers who could neck half a bottle of whisky on a Friday night and still be in fine fettle in time for the following day’s kick-off. I, in contrast, never touched a drop on the eve of a game and thought that any players who did so were bang out of order. But I was too in awe of Giddy to stand up for myself, and what was intended as a nightcap for him turned into a skinful for me.
Giddy proceeded to drag me out of the bathroom, informing me that he’d ordered us a bite to eat from the hotel kitchen, and that I had to go and collect it. At this time of night – by now it was pushing 11-ish – my other team-mates would have been tucked up in bed with a mug of cocoa, either playing on their Atari consoles or watching Platoon on video. Yet here was I, half-cut, creeping through the hotel to pick up an illicit late-night snack that I didn’t even want. A snack, it turned out, that consisted of two gigantic plates of cod, chips and peas, handed over by a puzzled-looking chef in an anorak, presumably just about to clock off his shift.
Balancing the huge metal tray upon my palms, I sneaked past the trio of City coaches sat chatting at the bar and headed towards the lift. I stood there, swaying slightly, trying to focus on the blurry red numbers above the door as they counted down each level. 4, ping. 3, ping. 2, ping. 1, ping. 0, ping. ‘Ground floor,’ announced the lift’s automated voice as the doors opened. Oh f***, said a panicky voice in my head, as out stepped chairman Peter Swales, manager Mel Machin and one of the directors.