by Paul Lake
‘Your mum’s from a family of McGintys, and that sounds Scottish enough for me,’ he told us as we watched a tartan-clad bloke belting out their world cup song on Top of the Pops.
We’re on the march wi’ Ally’s Army, he sang, his sporran swinging in time with the music, ‘… we’re going tae the Argentine…’
The Scots’ match against Holland on 11 June was one of the most eagerly anticipated games of the tournament. Mike and I were only allowed to watch the first half, since it was kicking off on a Sunday evening and we had school the next day (David, being just that bit older, was allowed to watch the whole game). It was all-square at the interval, Kenny Dalglish having equalised a minute before the half-time whistle.
‘Right, up you go, boys,’ said Mum, no doubt expecting the usual whines of ‘awww … can’t we stay up for a bit longer?’ Instead, Mike and I nodded meekly and padded upstairs, Mum’s orders uncontested only because we’d already planned to have a sly listen to the second half on Radio 2.
My elder brother and I shared a small bedroom, competing for space with a coffin-sized Grundig radiogram that was so huge we could only move around the room sideways. The display panel of this sound system was a work of art, comprising a variety of knobs and switches and a metre-long window dial featuring hundreds of far-flung services such as Radio Belgrade and Voice of America. By and large our listening habits were confined to just three or four stations; Radio Luxembourg or Radio 1 for the pop music (including the sacred Sunday-night chart rundown) and Radio 2 or Manchester-based Piccadilly 261 for the sports shows.
In those days, overseas match commentaries were transmitted down fuzzy phone lines. This, together with the ebb and flow of the night-time medium wave signal, meant that chunks of the Scotland v Holland game that summer night were barely audible and we could only keep tabs on the game by pressing our ears against the vibrating fabric speakers. The crackly commentary by BBC’s Peter Jones evoked a real sense of distance as Mike and I sat in our little bedroom, straining to hear the match action against a background of muffled chants and muted salsa bands.
We could hardly contain ourselves when, with about 20 minutes to go, Archie Gemmill, Scotland’s balding, barrel-chested midfielder, scored what sounded like a wondrous goal to make it 3–1, having already upped their tally with a penalty after the break. We had to stifle our cheers into our pillows, fearful that Mum and Dad would hear us and get wind of our crafty ruse.
The following day I trooped down to the park to hook up with my friends for our after-school World Cup kickabout. Each day of the tournament would find us faithfully reenacting a specific match, replaying the full 90 minutes and replicating all the action in minute detail to include scorers, bookings and substitutions. The previous week we’d staged end-to-end thrillers like Tunisia v Mexico and Italy v Hungary, yet the excitement was reaching fever pitch for that afternoon’s Scotland–Holland showdown. After the usual team-selection arguments (‘no way am I being Alan Rough …’), I finally won the fight to be Archie Gemmill.
‘Gooooooaaaaaalllllll!’ went the cries round Haughton Green Park after I played a one–two with Steve Archibald (i.e. our Mike), nutmegged Johan Neeskens (alias Simon Whelan), and skilfully lifted the ball over the legs of the despairing Jan Jongbloed (aka Brendan Hourihan). I clenched my fist as the winner went in, shouting ‘get in therrrre’ in my best Irn-Bru accent.
Then, as was the custom, we all reached into our tracksuit pockets to throw shredded toilet paper up into the air, our makeshift version of the tickertape that we’d seen fluttering over Córdoba and Buenos Aires.
A decade later, the fantasy became reality. I pulled on an England shirt for the first time in September 1988, making my international under-21’s debut in a friendly against Denmark. I’d been called up before, but injury or illness had always prevented me from appearing. This time, fortunately, I was fit, well and raring to go.
Prior to the kick-off at Vicarage Road, I joined the gaggle of team-mates in the main reception and made my way to the dressing room. There, beneath my peg, lay a pure, white, pristine number 8 England shirt. It might as well have been lowered down on a silver platter by a host of angels for the profound effect that it had on me. I carefully unfolded the crisp cotton shirt and gingerly pulled it on. As my head popped out of the top, I happened to look in the mirror and caught a glimpse of those three embroidered lions on my chest. Had I not been in a roomful of fellow professionals I’m sure I’d have punched the air and jumped for joy.
The customary pre-match get-together had taken place at Bisham Abbey, a training complex situated in rural Buckinghamshire. Travelling with me down the M1 were my City team-mates Bob Brightwell, Steve Redmond and Andy Hinchcliffe, who’d also been picked for the squad. As reassuring as it was to be with some friendly faces, it was also nice to meet up with different players from other teams, many of whom I’d come up against on numerous occasions wearing my City colours. Unsurprisingly, there was plenty of club-versus-club banter, much of it of the north-south divide variety.
‘Nice to see you Manc wannabes getting a taste of southern style,’ joked Steve Sedgeley as me, Bob, Reddo and Hinchy arrived at the HQ.
Despite the presence of many up-and-coming starlets, there was a refreshing absence of egos within the squad. Michael Thomas, who was making a big name for himself at Arsenal, struck me as a very level-headed guy with no edge to him whatsoever. His Gunners team-mate, Paul Merson, was a laugh-a-minute nutcase, and I got on famously with lads like Stuart Ripley from Blackburn Rovers and Coventry’s Dave Smith.
Although we quickly bonded as a unit, the competition between us remained intense. The 1990 World Cup in Italy was looming on the horizon, and the Denmark game was seen as a shop window in which to showcase our skills. It was our chance to impress the big cheeses in the England set-up, from our passionate under-21s coach, Dave Sexton, to the head honcho, Bobby Robson.
The game, watched from the directors’ box by Mr Robson as well as Messrs Dalglish, Graham and Souness, went pretty much according to plan for me. Beforehand, however, I’d had to deal with my usual bout of pre-match tension, an inner conflict that made my head buzz with excitement and my knees knock with nerves. I needed to chill out, big time, so I spent a few minutes’ solitary confinement in the dressing-room toilets. Hunched in a cubicle, I drummed into myself all the fundamentals that I’d learned over the years. As often happened in these circumstances, I closed my eyes and sought Tony Book’s counsel.
Keep level-headed, Lakey; stay focused and do those simple things well … I visualised him saying, narrowing his eyes and jabbing his bony finger.
So that’s what I did. Keeping it simple, and avoiding silly mistakes in those first 15 minutes, did my confidence the world of good and had a real calming effect on my game. Once my nerves had settled, everything I did in the first half seemed to come off – my passing, my positioning and my setting up of chances – and Vinny Samways and I set the tempo for the game.
A whack on the calf ruled me out of the second-half action. Though I was upset to have to leave the pitch, I felt pretty pleased with my display. My appearance, albeit brief, had showed me that not only could I hold my own with players at this level, but I could actually go out there and shine.
Something that I hadn’t foreseen in the aftermath of my England call-up was the dramatic increase in my fan mail. What had previously been a trickle of post turned into a torrent, as supporters from all over the UK began to write into the club to request autographs and signed memorabilia. One afternoon I noticed a brown Jiffy bag wedged into my pigeonhole.
‘Maybe it’s your first pair of knickers to sign, Lakey,’ laughed Nigel Gleghorn as I tentatively groped the squashy packet. ‘Open it, mate, let’s have a butchers …’
I was taken aback when I pulled out its contents. There, in all its blue velvet, gold-tasselled glory, was my first England cap. Before then I’d only considered the cap in an abstract, statistical kind of way, but seeing the tangible proof
took my breath away.
‘That’s quality, Lakey. One to show the grandchildren, eh,’ said Nigel as I balanced it on my index finger and studied the embossed lettering. Part of me felt the urge to put it on, drive to my old school in Denton and yell ‘librarian my arse!’ at that careers adviser who’d doubted my football ambitions. Instead, though, I walked across the stadium forecourt towards my car, with my treasured package under my arm, reminding myself of the importance of keeping my size 11s firmly grounded.
You’re only as good as your last match, son; never forget that, I imagined Dad warning me. Don’t be getting’ all bloody high and mighty, now …
Still, I did try my posh cap on when I got home, staging a camp fashion parade around the lounge for my giggling mum. But, high jinks over, I then returned it to its padded beige envelope and switched my priorities to that Saturday’s game.
The magnitude of representing your country only truly hits home when you’re standing tall, puffing out your chest and belting out the national anthem. Even more so when you’re playing overseas. The first time I sang ‘God Save The Queen’ on foreign soil was on 7 March 1989, prior to a UEFA under-21s championship tie in Shkroda, Albania. As the music reached its climax, I felt a tremendous upswelling of patriotism and had to steel myself to keep the tears at bay.
The match that ensued was in effect a curtain-raiser for the England v Albania World Cup qualifier due to take place in the capital, Tirana, the next day. Indeed, Bryan Robson, Paul Gascoigne and the rest of the lads were in the crowd that night. Just being able to share the flight over with them had been enough for me, yet here they were, sitting yards away from the touchline, watching our every move. It was the perfect morale-booster.
Our opponents were the oldest-looking under-21s I’d ever seen in my life, with leathery complexions, glossy beards and thickets of chest hair sprouting over the top of their shirts. It was like an Academy XI coming up against a Veterans XI. The Albanians were technically able and physically imposing but, thanks to some stoic defending from the two Steves (Chettle and Redmond) alongside some effective link play between me and Stu Ripley, we controlled the game and fully deserved our 2–1 victory. Had it not been for our wayward finishing the goal margin would have been much wider, but it was a good result nonetheless.
Following the final whistle, my Albanian counterpart jogged over, shook my hand and gestured for me to swap jerseys. The prospect of forsaking my prized red away shirt for a white, sweaty polyester number didn’t exactly fill me with joy but, as protocol demanded, I peeled it off and reluctantly handed it over. However, before fulfilling his side of the bargain this fella suddenly turned on his heel and legged it, Carl Lewis-style, out of the stadium, still clad in his own shirt. I was left standing there, red of face and cold of nipple, with the laughter of ten team-mates ringing in my ears.
‘They’ve only got one strip, you Manc muppet. They never do swaps,’ cackled Michael Thomas. ‘Oh, and nice tits, by the way …’ he shouted as I stormed off in the direction of the home dressing room to reclaim my shirt.
I arrived there to be informed via basic Albanian sign language that my arch-enemy had already fled into the night. I then found myself being slowly backed into a corner by a dozen Teen Wolf lookalikes wearing ‘whatcha gonna do ’bout it?’ expressions.
I wish I’d known the Albanian for ‘I’ll get me coat.’
Venturing beyond the Iron Curtain for the first time had been a huge culture shock for me, and I found the stark contrast between this Communist outpost and my cushy Western lifestyle extremely unsettling. Our hotel was a case in point. The room I shared with Steve Redmond, with its dull decor and barred windows, was like a prison cell. Its open plan layout meant that we could almost touch the bath from our beds, and were within sniffing distance of a Balkans-style hole-in-the-ground toilet. This was a completely new concept to me and, as I stared into its stagnant abyss, I found myself yearning for my pine-fresh Armitage Shanks loo at home.
‘It’s a good job we’re mates, Lakey,’ Reddo said, squatting over the hole of doom and taking aim as I averted my gaze to the polystyrene ceiling.
Making this sorry situation even worse was the fact that, having been advised by our medical team not to touch Albanian food with a bargepole, we’d flown over our own supplies from England. So we arrived laden with bread, jam, chicken, potatoes, Mars bars and Ambrosia rice pudding. And a crateful of Heinz baked beans. Tin upon tin of Heinz baked beans, supposedly to maintain our carbohydrate quota and to keep us regular. With this as our staple diet, and with a prehistoric bog in which to deposit its outcome, it’s no wonder that our hotel room ended up smelling like the elephant house at Chester Zoo.
Travelling to watch the seniors play in Tirana was an enlightening experience. Our driver was friendly enough – the three lions cardboard cut-out that he’d glued to the windscreen was a lovely touch – but the coach itself was a knackered old rust-bucket with cracked headlights and a sagging exhaust pipe. Inside, the seats were threadbare, the ashtrays overflowed with fag ends and the curtains were so rank that they’d probably have disintegrated had we tried to pull them shut.
Tirana itself was a concrete jungle of slate-grey factories and high-rise apartment blocks, interspersed with areas of barren wasteland. It made Denton look like Disneyland. Its citizens, however, were anything but drab. As if somehow compensating for their austere surroundings, they paced the pavements dressed in stack heels, bell bottoms with Bay City Rollers-style turn-ups and those short tartan jackets with the furry collars. It was like stepping back into the 1970s and seeing your childhood clothes being worn by adults.
England won the match 2–0, coasting to victory with goals from John Barnes and Bryan Robson. Within an hour of the final whistle we were aboard a coach hurtling towards Tirana airport, delirious at the prospect of seeing our families and sleeping in our own beds. Two days in Albania had been quite enough.
As I queued at the check-in desk, sitting astride my suitcase, I gazed over at our big-name players signing autographs and posing for pictures with a noisy group of England fans. It was abundantly clear who the main attraction was. At the hub of the scrummage was Paul Gascoigne, basking in the spotlight and chatting with the supporters as if they were bosom buddies. It was fascinating to behold. In fact, I was staring so intently that I happened to catch his eye and, before I knew it, Gazza was ambling over to me.
‘Howay, Lakey?’ he said in his Geordie twang.
‘Er, not bad, Gazza,’ I stammered. I’d never really spoken to him before, and assumed that I was about to become a target for one of his wind-ups. A few of the under-21 lads had already fallen victim to his trademark pranks.
‘Just to say I thought you were quality the other day, man. You took the piss going forward. And I f***in’ loved the nutmegs.’
‘Thanks, Gazza.’
‘S’all right. But don’t get too good, mind. I’m not having you nickin’ my f***in’ place,’ he said, giving me a playful wink before bounding back to his adoring fans.
Blimey. I could have flapped my arms and flown myself back to London at that very moment, such was the uplifting effect of Gazza’s ringing words.
And, if I didn’t think it was possible to get any more starstruck, none other than Bryan Robson offered me and Reddo a lift back to Manchester after we touched down at Gatwick. I spent the journey home perched on the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes, pinching myself that I was cadging a ride with the England captain, the very same midfield maestro that I’d watched score that early-doors pile-driver seven years previously.
As his driver bombed up the fast lane of the M6 (the police booked him not once, but twice for speeding) Bryan spoke freely about his career in football, offering up snapshots of life at Old Trafford and talking about his time as an international.
What a great bloke, I thought to myself as I hit the sack later that night, cocooned in my comfy duvet, delighted to be back home in Haughton Green.
Later that
year I found myself jetting off to Eastern Europe again, for the final group tie of the under-21 championships in Poland. I was particularly keen to impress in this game, having seriously annoyed Dave Sexton during the home leg at Plymouth. I’d been supplied a horror pass 20 yards from goal with a Polish player breathing down my neck. Displaying remarkable stupidity, I’d nutmegged him on the edge of the box, before passing the ball out of defence.
Afterwards, I’d received a proper cockney ear-bashing from the manager.
‘Lake, my son, If I ever see you f***ing nutmegging a centre-forward in the box when we’re 2–1 up with five minutes to go, I’ll drag you off and rip that f***ing shirt off your back. What gives you the f***ing right to take chances like that for your country?’
As our coach almost literally tore a strip off me, Paul Merson did his utmost to try to make me laugh, standing behind Sexton and gurning theatrically. I had to dig my fingernails deep into my thighs to stop myself from guffawing. The last thing I wanted to do was to show disrespect because, in the cold light of day, Sexton was spot on. Overconfidence can lead to recklessness, and I didn’t blame him for wanting to make an example of me.
In a small town called Jastrzebie, in a tiny university stadium, we beat Poland 2–1. The Poles posed a greater threat than the Albanians – they were considerably more organised and creative – but our perseverance and spirit prevailed that day with the magnificent Merson as our talisman. Victory wasn’t enough for us to progress to the next round, though; that honour went to Sweden, a team I’d not been able to play against due to injury.
*
In January 1990, hours before City’s third-round FA Cup match at Millwall, I took a phone call in my hotel room. On the line was an official from Lancaster Gate, the FA’s headquarters.