I’m Not Really Here

by Paul Lake

  Over the next three months, I helped to ensure that Richard received the duty of care that I’d never experienced and, after hour upon hour of painstaking rehab, he finally achieved full fitness. I was sitting in the Main Stand when he made his City comeback against Nottingham Forest in September 1997, my feelings a fusion of elation and envy as he lasted the entire 90 minutes, returning to the dressing room relatively unscathed, and giving me a thumbs-up as he trotted past. While delighted that such a good lad had resurrected his career – and happy that I’d played my part – I watched on, green-eyed, as he passed a point that I’d never been beyond myself.

  *

  Like every other City fan, I’d been left broken-hearted when Alan Ball’s side was relegated to Division One in May 1996, following a fraught 2–2 draw with Liverpool. More than a year after the event, however, the aftershock of demotion still seemed to be rumbling on. The subsequent slump in fortunes, both on and off the pitch, had been hard to stomach for many of my colleagues, and I noticed a fair few dampened spirits around the place. You couldn’t blame them, really. Preparing for home games against Port Vale and Bury, with all due respect, didn’t have quite the same kudos as previous visits by Chelsea and Arsenal.

  Masterminding City’s football affairs at that juncture was Frank Clark. The former Nottingham Forest boss had been handed football’s poisoned chalice towards the tail-end of 1996, his arrival at the club capping a tumultuous period of managerial mayhem that had seen Alan Ball coming to his senses and throwing in the towel, followed by Steve Coppell going mysteriously AWOL after just 33 days in the job. Interim caretaker stints from Asa Hartford and Phil Neal meant that City had gone through five managers in 18 months.

  The football fault-lines at Maine Road were so deep that I don’t think any manager could have waltzed in, banged his fist on the desk and immediately changed City’s fortunes. Clark and his staff tried their best to revitalise the side (there was much rhetoric about ‘turning things around’ and ‘regaining our focus’) but it was always going to be an uphill struggle to remedy the ills of his predecessors. Alan Ball’s legacy amounted to a 40-strong unit with, in my opinion, only Rösler and Kinkladze for the fans to get truly excited about. There were some decent lads in the ranks who cared for the club and gave it their all (Kit Symons, Michael Brown and Steve Lomas spring to mind) but I personally didn’t feel that there were enough characters, or warriors, to rally the troops and carry us forward.

  As far as I was concerned, the club was crying out for a firm managerial hand to bring everything into line; a hardnosed tough-guy to filter out the dead-wood and draft in some class. I’m not knocking Frank Clark’s ability or integrity – his track record was decent enough – but I don’t think he was necessarily the right person to deal with that particular squad at that particular time. Indeed, City would fail to gain promotion during his 14-month reign, and it would take another manager – a certain Joe Royle – to steady the ship eventually and restore our pride.

  Also becoming increasingly apparent in 1997 – judging by the whispers in the corridors and the chants on the terraces – was the feeling that Francis Lee’s honeymoon period as chairman was over. Despite overseeing many behind-the-scenes improvements – the renovation of the Kippax Stand, the redevelopment of executive suites, the revamp of the club shop, and the unveiling of a new ‘laser blue’ Kappa strip, for example – to some fans it was all a bit ‘fur coat and no knickers’. Fancy lounges, flashy merchandise and trendy kits were all well and good, but most supporters would have traded it all in for a decent side and some top-flight football, neither of which looked very likely at that time.

  The fact that a certain team from Old Trafford was storing up trophies left, right and centre only served to rub salt into the wound. I remember a lad once approaching me in my local Tesco as I did some late-night shopping.

  ‘Oi, Paul, how many City fans does it take to change a light bulb?’

  ‘Don’t know, mate,’ I said, looking past him and quickly steering my trolley towards another aisle.

  ‘None,’ he yelled after me. ‘They’re all happy living in United’s shadow.’

  ‘Our day will come,’ I whispered under my breath.

  Despite all the mickey-taking from other fans, the City faithful held their heads high and kept up their famously robust support. Home attendances continued to hit the 30,000 mark during the 1996–97 and 1997–98 seasons, and the travelling away support was as ardent as ever. According to my City-mad mates, the Division One years of the mid-1990s were, oddly enough, among the most entertaining in which to be a Blue. They still talk about the fun-filled, beer-fuelled day trips to Southend and Grimsby that compensated for some of the dross they had to witness on the pitch.

  Being a member of the medical team meant that I was now privy to a lot of behind-the-scenes shenanigans. I regularly had to attend coaching staff meetings, many of which encroached on first team affairs and were about as enjoyable in those uncertain times as bubonic plague. There were slanging matches aplenty; if it wasn’t someone condemning the sacking of City coaches Tony Book and Colin Bell (a decision that had saddened me, too), it was another staff member slamming a string of half-baked managers and lazy-arsed players for contriving the club’s fall from grace.

  Witnessing these short tempers and long faces was horrendous, both in my capacity as a fan and as a former player. I hated the club’s dirty laundry being aired, and far too often heard and saw things that just made me want to close my eyes, insert my fingers into my ears and shout ‘la la la la, not listening, not listening …’

  Coming as a welcome distraction from all this turmoil was some good news from Bernard Halford. In recognition of my loyal service at City, the club had finally agreed to grant me a testimonial. Comprising a year-long programme of fundraising events, it was to culminate in a benefit game at Maine Road against a team yet to be decided.

  A testimonial committee was promptly set up spearheaded by Tudor Thomas, a Stockport-based businessman who was also one of City’s honorary presidents. Tudor – a well-connected and highly respected figure in Mancunian football circles – was a staunch Blue who over the years had become a good friend of mine. So esteemed was Tudor at City that he’d even been allocated his own hospitality area at Maine Road which, with its array of fascinating photos and memorabilia, was more like a museum than a lounge. On the day of a game, ‘Tudor’s Room’ would swarm with celebrities and former players, all enjoying the Thomas family’s famously warm welcome. It also doubled up as a pre-and post-match meeting point for the match officials, and I’ll never forget an enraged Ken Barnes standing at the bar and calling Uriah Rennie a ‘f***in’ clown’ following a controversial penalty dismissal against Newcastle.

  The testimonial committee, comprising a broad spectrum of City devotees, quickly formalised a calendar of events. A Paul Lake Golf Classic, a barbecue at a Cheadle hotel, an all-star cricket match, a 70s Night in Manchester, a soirée at a London sports bar and a race night in Rochdale were just some of the dates in the diary.

  One suggestion that didn’t make the cut, however, was an offer from Bernard Manning to host a night in my honour at his famous Embassy Club in Harpurhey. Despite the fact that his love for City was legendary, his risqué (and that’s putting it mildly) humour was something that didn’t rest easy with many of the committee. I’d been to Manning’s club just once before and though I’d enjoyed some of his more general, observational gags, I’d felt really uncomfortable when he’d started on all the ‘black fella’ stuff. I was well aware that some of my pals saw him as an out-and-out bigot – and the last thing I wanted to do was to cause offence just for the sake of a few quid – so his offer was politely declined.

  The committee faced another comedian conundrum when the time came to decide which star entertainer should be booked for the Paul Lake Gala Dinner, a glittering occasion to take place at Manchester’s Palace Hotel. Some wanted bald-headed funnyman Mick Miller in the spotlight. Others preferred S
tan ‘Geeermans’ Boardman. Paul ‘Hi-de-Hi’ Shane’s name was also thrown into the ring, similarly Jimmy ‘There’s More’ Cricket. As the discussions descended into bickering, somebody suggested Roger de Courcey and Nookie Bear.

  ‘Roger de Courcey?’ I asked, half-laughing. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Straight up,’ one of the committee replied. ‘I saw him at a sportsman’s evening a few months ago and he was fantastic. He got Nookie to tell dirty jokes and sing daft songs. Had the audience in stitches, he did.’

  ‘Yeah, but are people really going to want to pay good money to see a bloke and a puppet?’ somebody else pointed out.

  ‘Well, it’d make a nice change from the usual run-of-the-mill comedians, wouldn’t it?’ he countered, as many of the committee stroked their chins and nodded in agreement. ‘People get bored with hearing the same old gags from the same old faces. Why not go for something different, eh?’

  I can’t say I was convinced that a ventriloquist whom I’d last seen on Seaside Special in 1978 was going to be our best bet, but the majority ruled, and Nookie was booked.

  Fast-forward to a swanky banqueting hall one night in May where over 300 VIP guests, having enjoyed their five-course meal, were eagerly awaiting the star turn.

  Cometh the hour, cometh the dummy. Roger de Courcey walked on with his freaky little bear, sat on a stool, glared at the audience, and proceeded to bomb like I’ve never seen anyone bomb before. Narky and irritable, he was obviously in a foul mood and made no attempt to hide the fact that he didn’t want to be on a Manchester stage with his hand stuffed up a teddy, entertaining the guests of some has-been footballer he’d never heard of.

  The act comprised feeding Nookie a string of lame jokes about getting pissed and shagging birds, although unfortunately de Courcey’s garbled brand of voice-throwing meant that most of the punchlines fell flat. As the tumbleweed floated past, I squirmed in my seat, wishing that a trap-door would swallow up this rambling, shambling ‘entertainer’.

  Nervous titters soon turned into noisy jeers as our star attraction (whom we’d paid a fortune, incidentally) continued to die a death. It was excruciating. Ten minutes into his set, realising that he was going down like a lead balloon, de Courcey put us all out of our misery by calling it quits, muttering some expletives and gesturing angrily as he dismounted his stool. Then – in what turned out to be the funniest part of the act – Nookie Bear, that cuddly puppet beloved of children everywhere, told us all to f*** off. De Courcey stormed off stage and fled into the night, presumably to drown his sorrows with a few gottles of geer.

  Thankfully, the rest of the night made up for this unmitigated disaster. Master of ceremonies and former referee Neil Midgley did a grand job, filling the humour vacuum with some choice gags and anecdotes. Then, after fortifying myself with a vat of wine, I took to the stage to say a few words, thanking everyone who’d helped me through my many ups and downs.

  Once I’d got that particular ordeal out of the way (public speaking wasn’t my forte) I drank the hotel bar dry, partying until breakfast with many old friends, colleagues and supporters, loving the fact that this special occasion had been about celebrating my career, not mourning its demise.

  Our schedule of events continued to motor nicely until just before the start of pre-season we were floored by some bad news regarding my showpiece benefit match.

  A few weeks earlier, the club had confirmed a date for the game, Sunday 5 October at Maine Road, prompting Tudor to contact Glasgow Rangers about the possibility of fielding a side to play against a Manchester City XI. They’d kindly agreed, and the arrangements had begun in earnest. Before long, however, our meticulous plans fell through. During a meeting with Greater Manchester Police, it had become clear that the cost of patrolling thousands of Scottish fans (supervising them on trains, marshalling them to hotels and escorting them to Maine Road, for starters) would be way beyond our budget. Therefore, the committee was left with no other option but to scrap the plans and go back to the drawing board.

  I went into panic mode (we only had a few months to go before the big day, after all) but a tireless Tudor pledged to use his contacts to come up with a more local and less costly alternative. A couple of days later he asked me to meet him at Maine Road, since he had something important to discuss.

  ‘Good news, Paul,’ he said over lunch in his private lounge. ‘I think we might have rescued the game. A team you might know quite well, in fact.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say they’re not a million miles from here …’

  ‘Bolton? That’s great, Tudor …’

  ‘Not Bolton. Much closer than that.’

  He smiled broadly, and the penny dropped.

  ‘You don’t mean United …’

  ‘I spoke to Alex Ferguson this morning. He’s more than happy to help out. Says it’s the least he could do.’

  It turned out that Keith Pinner, a member of the committee and a long-time friend of the United manager, had floated the idea past Ferguson, who’d countered by questioning why he hadn’t been asked in the first place. Keith explained that we’d assumed that, since the Reds were scheduled to play a league game the day before, and since half the team were due to leave for midweek internationals 24 hours later, it was bound to be a no-can-do. How wrong we were.

  ‘I’d be delighted to help out, and so would my players,’ Ferguson said when Tudor contacted him at Old Trafford. They chatted for a short while, the United boss revealing that he’d been in the stands watching me during that fateful game against Aston Villa in 1990.

  ‘Paul was a special player, there’s no doubting that,’ he said to Tudor, ‘and if there’s anyone who deserves a decent sendoff, it’s him.’

  I nearly shook Ferguson’s hand off when I met him at Maine Road, prior to the press conference announcing the news of this impromptu derby match. By stepping in at the 11th hour, he had done me an enormous favour. I couldn’t have hoped for a more prestigious, crowd-pleasing spectacle to mark the end of my career.

  On the first Sunday of October 1997, wearing a full City kit, my old-faithful football boots and a leg brace to stop my knee from falling apart, I jogged onto the Maine Road pitch for my last hurrah.

  The day had already had its fair share of drama and emotion. At 6 a.m. I’d become a father for the first time, my son Zac having decided to make his appearance a little later than expected. Cradling his tiny warm body in my arms gave me a huge surge of paternal pride, as well as a massive lump in my throat that stayed with me for the rest of the day.

  Once I’d spent a precious couple of hours with my newborn, I had to head back home. I had a quick shower and shave, chucked my kitbag into the boot, and set off for my big event. As I made tracks to Moss Side, I contemplated the day ahead, crossing my fingers that things were going to go to plan.

  I hope a few people turn up, I remember thinking to myself as I conjured up nightmarish visions of deserted turnstiles and half-empty stands. The testimonial treasurer had estimated that we needed only 10,000 bums on seats to make the day financially viable, but he was keen for me to manage my expectations.

  ‘You’ve got to bear in mind that City and United are both playing the day before,’ he’d pointed out to me after a committee meeting. ‘Some fans won’t have the time or the money to attend two matches in one weekend, so let’s not assume anything.’

  Just before three o’clock, I emerged nervously from the tunnel to be greeted by a crowd of nearly 25,000 fans. Looking up to see the stadium almost three-quarters full, with row upon row of blue-shirted fans cheering and chanting my name, was truly humbling. Even the United supporters, housed in the North Stand, gave me a standing ovation. As I walked slowly onto the Maine Road turf, both sets of players formed a guard of honour for me, which I can categorically say was one of the most moving moments of my life.

  In a break with the norm, Frank Clark and Alex Ferguson opted to field full-strength sides initially, which meant that Georgi Kink
ladze, Uwe Rösler, David Beckham and Peter Schmeichel were all present in the line-ups. Testimonial games traditionally feature a large quota of reserve teamers (the result of clubs understandably preferring to rest their top players and shield them from injury), but on this occasion they both threw caution to the wind and went for the full complement. It was a magnificent gesture.

  I was taken aback to see Paul Scholes, Nicky Butt and both the Neville brothers, as well as Beckham, limbering up on the pitch. Not only had they played 24 hours earlier, this international quintet were due to be reporting for England duty later that afternoon, with a vital World Cup clash with Italy just six days away. But here they were, turning up to show their respect and, by all accounts, getting up the nose of the FA by delaying their trip to Bisham Abbey.

  Once I’d made my entrance, the plan was for me to stand in the centre circle with a microphone and thank everyone. I chickened out, however. So highly strung was I that day – my head was still spinning after my son’s birth – that I feared I’d become a gibbering wreck. So, after the referee blew his whistle, I instead commenced proceedings with a wave, a smile and a side-foot pass to Kinky. I turned around to face the Kippax Stand for one last time and raised my arm to acknowledge the applauding faithful. I hoped to God that this wondrous image would never, ever fade from my memory.

  Trudging towards the tunnel, I was able to see the crowd at much closer quarters, and was shocked to see a few fans shedding tears.

  ‘Thanks for the memories, Lakey,’ shouted a voice from the stands.

  ‘You’ll always be a legend to me, son,’ yelled another.

  I’d been aware that my swansong would be a poignant occasion for many, but nothing had quite prepared me for this. I decided to hurry to the dressing rooms as fast as my knee brace could take me. While I was deeply touched, this was a day on which I needed to be strong, and I knew that if I hung around the pitch any longer my emotions would spill over.