As much as we all tried to hook Chatty up while we were on a night out, I admit to stitching him up on several occasions, rather than helping him with potential girlfriends. He came up to me in a club one night absolutely buzzing, saying, ‘Greavsie, I am on fire tonight, there are about four darlings over there, and they are there really loving me, giving me the nod and allsorts.’
I said, ‘Well played mate, get yourself over there and say hello.’
He did, and after a couple of uncomfortable minutes, he came back fuming. ‘You tit, no wonder they were giggling away at me, I’ve got a fucking two-foot Dave’s Taxi’s sticker on my back, haven’t I?’
After we had all stopped laughing, I apologised, and as usual I gave him a big hug, which usually did the trick.
He did actually manage to get a date in the end, and for some bizarre reason had decided a game of tennis would be a good idea. Seizing on an opportunity we (Bernard G. Shaw was my willing accomplice) set up surveillance in some bushes near the tennis court. This was the court where, on numerous occasions, I had had the normally mild-mannered Chatty at breaking point with my ground shots and constant banter. Many a time there would be a racket sailing over the fence in anger after a bad shot, and many times it was that of the upstanding Michael Chapman.
Anyway, back to the bush, and just before the first shot was played Bernie let out a subtle ‘Miaow.’
Both Chatty and his lady-friend looked up, but suspected nothing. A few shots later, and on Chatty’s serve, I let out a, ‘Baaaaaaaaa’. Again both looked up, but didn’t investigate. They must have thought it was normal, somehow. Meanwhile we were in that bush, shaking with laughter, trying to keep silent. We were like little school kids playing a prank, laughing so much it hurt, especially when, after Bernie’s attempt at some sort of bird noise, old ‘Slipmat’ (one of the many nicknames Chatty acquired) walked over to his lady-friend and said, ‘I think it’s a squirrel nest, they’re real pests.’
Poor Chatty, over the next thirty minutes that court heard the sounds of an elephant, a donkey, a monkey and, the last straw for both players, two fighting pigs. Chatty said later that he suspected we were involved, but he couldn’t see us, and had really thought his date was a secret. Little did he know a footballer and an unemployed labourer have plenty of time on their hands to stalk potential victims. We laughed so much that day, even more so when Chatty returned and said, ‘You tossers, thanks for that. It was going badly before the noises anyway.’
‘Why?’ we asked, pictures of innocence.
‘You know why, you pair of muppets. The ten condoms that fell to the floor when I took the racket out of the cover didn’t go down too well.’
Chatty did try to get his revenge a few weeks later, but again it ended badly for the big fella.
The normal ritual for the morning after a night out is: as the hangover sets in, you search the fridge and cupboards for stodgy food. On this occasion, I had recently purchased a big block of cheese, so was looking forward to large amounts of cheese on toast. Strangely enough, on opening the fridge, I discovered just small fragments of cheese left in the bag. The bread was also gone as were a few bottles of beer. I was a bit confused – had I got the munchies the night before and forgotten? Had I already consumed the stuff a day earlier?
Then, as my brain started recovering, I remembered I heard a bit of noise during the night – a banging sound, then some giggling. Now, I was no Columbo or Ironside, but my suspicions were quickly confirmed after nipping around to Chatty’s to ask him if he wanted to go for a big fry up.
Incredibly, he said no. Now, Chatty was a big lad, so for him to say no was bizarre. Once I added to that the immense look of guilt on his face, I knew what had gone on. Bernie and Chatty had taken the key from under the only rock in the garden (security was not on the top of my list of priorities), sneaked in the back door, and had a feast of twelve slices of cheese on toast and eight ‘nightcap’ beers. After their weak efforts at some sort of apology, I said nothing. Instead, I waited until Chatty had gone to work the next day, and set to work myself. On his return, the close we lived in was a hive of activity (well around Mick’s house it was). His face was a picture as he saw the crowds taking photos of his house. I had covered the entire front of Mick’s house in paper, and on it was written in massive letters: ‘Keep all women and children away from Michael Chapman, Michael Chapman is a cheese thief, Do not approach this man, Lock all your doors and fridges.’ And to cap it all, ‘Michael Chapman is GAY and proud.’
The whole thing had taken me about eight hours to do, but it was definitely worth it. When Chatty got out of the car, he burst into laughter, finally stopping for just long enough to concede defeat.
‘Sorry mate. It was Bernie’s idea – you know I’ve never got anything in.’
He was right about that, his house resembled the set of The Young Ones at the best of times.
That incident, along with you being locked naked in a bedroom on New Year’s Eve, having a dead fish planted behind your sofa for three months, and him being abandoned, again naked, in Gran Canaria, must bring back great memories, Mick. They certainly do for me.
The laughs we had in my time at Hull City really kept me going and I am forever indebted to Chatty and the Beverley crew for just being great people, not judging me as a footballer – just as a person and a mate.
I went on some epic trips back then. On one occasion we went camping in the Yorkshire Dales with ten of us in two tents – there were supposed to be three tents, but Julie hadn’t thought of bringing a tent, so she borrowed mine. I had borrowed it from one of my dad’s friends, Dave Carrat. Dave had a body shop (not the bath products sort, more the ‘give me a weekend and it will look like new, forget the health implications, those fumes wouldn’t hurt a fly’ sort). Dave the spray man was into fishing, and had lent me his special bivvy tent. After Julie had finished with it, it looked more like a tea bag. I apologised to Dave, and said that Julie might have one or two smoking issues that needing sorting.
Another time, I went to Amsterdam with Bernie, where he took such advantage of the local activities it was as if he were on death row and had one last day. The group’s trip to the Canaries was epic. It involved us lads returning home at about seven in the morning, just when the girls (Fiona and her sister Becky), who had preferred an earlier night and a bit of morning sun, were getting up.
It was a recipe for disaster. Saying we were only staying out for one more drink was never going to wash. One night, as we snuck back in through the patio doors of the place we had rented, I heard a noise, so, quickly, I told the boys to whip on some swimming shorts, and pretend we were just getting up, ready for the day. Fiona walked in, and I said, ‘Hi babe, we couldn’t sleep, so we just thought we would get up with you and Becky.’
She replied, ‘Oh thanks darling, that’s nice of you guys.’
At the time, we thought we had pulled off a real coup, and although it was agony keeping up the act, we were as pleased as punch. On the flight back to the UK, Fiona turned to me and said, ‘Do you think I am a complete idiot, you silly, silly boy? I am going to make you pay for that little escapade, you total prat.’
OK, so it hadn’t been a total success, but we tried.
I also went to Glastonbury with Chatty, which was good fun – top bands, and a few days of peace and love. These are just some of the adventures we had, and a much-needed break from the madness of ‘footballers’ parties’. Those guys are still my good friends, and as my career took me to different cities and towns, the Beverley crew seemed to come with me, from Birmingham to Plymouth, from Hereford to Northampton.
My Beverley friends had seen a similar rise in the dance culture as my mates had in Cleethorpes, and they had definitely experienced the things that came with it. The difference was that, unlike for those in Cleethorpes, it was a just a stage they had gone through, and grown out of. They had decent jobs, and now wanted to earn money for cars and houses, not to waste on drink and drugs at the weekend
. As my habits changed from those I’d had back in Cleethorpes, to the more relaxed lifestyle I’d discovered in Hull, the ties between me and my old friends became weaker. The final cut of these ties happened at a party Fiona and I had organised to get all my friends, old and new, together. It ended with the Cleethorpes lot segregating themselves upstairs, watching Match of the Day – which in itself was bizarre considering the house was full of beer. I just don’t think the old Meggies lot seemed able to socialise with me or my new friends back then. It was too difficult for them, and I had moved on.
Even at this stage in my career, the money issue was becoming a problem. I remember surviving for three weeks on just beans on toast, every day (and they were cheap beans at that. I was in agony I can tell you!). I didn’t want to bother my folks about money, as I always saw asking for help as a sign of weakness, especially as I had now officially left home.
I was running a Citroën BX at the time, the one that rose as you started the engine. That car was garaged for insurance reasons – I couldn’t afford it. I went in my garage a month later, and the floor was soaking wet – the hydraulics had gone and the fluid had leaked all over the floor. That motor had never brought me much luck. I remember being woken very early one morning, and very hung over after a night out with the lads, by a policeman and a police-woman. She was smiling, he was grimacing – I had nothing on. They informed me it was a Saturday morning, Beverley’s market day, and my car was in the middle of where the traders would normally be setting up their stalls. The team had gone out after a pre-season game on a Friday night. I had (finally) scored a goal, believe it or not, for Hull City, and had then got sucked into a bit of a night out (if I remember rightly, it was the flat cap worn backwards phase, pure Boyzone – we must have looked ridiculous). I had hurriedly abandoned my car in the market place, a cardinal sin for any Beverley resident, and had cracked on with the lads.
So, I rushed to the car, arriving sweating and in expectation of a very icy reception from the market traders. What I saw certainly shocked me. The traders had obviously got fed up with waiting, and had carried on setting up, regardless. My car, when I found it, was sandwiched between an art stall and a fruit and veg stall – the bonnet was literally covered with boxes of bananas.
It went down well with everyone I knew because of the comedy value, but for the market traders I can’t say the same – those early morning rises would make you massively irritable anyway, and having some plonker’s car get in the way of your plot is a dead cert for a case of chronic humour bypass. As I tried to apologise to the man whose plot it obviously was, he leaned towards me and said, ‘Wanker.’
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
On the drinking front, we certainly made the most of our club sponsor at the time, ‘Pepi’s Bar and Restaurant’, situated on the Marina. They would provide us with free beer all day on a Wednesday if we won an away game the previous weekend, or the day before. This was like a red rag to a bull for the lads, who cracked on at full pace. This offer was only stopped when two of them decided to jump into the docks one day after consuming far too many bottles of fruit flavoured beverages.
1994/95
The second season at Hull City promised much, but yet again it didn’t happen for me. The first game of the 94/95 season saw us play Oxford United, away. I missed an easy early chance, we got beaten 4–0, and I got sent off. I felt as if I must have had a curse put on me while at Hull City; I could hit a bar or post with the best of them, I had them cleared off the line and disallowed, but I could not hit the net. The Monday morning following this particular match against Oxford, I stayed out on the training ground for about two hours after the first team had trained. I got one of the apprentices to do the same free-kick routine that had seen me get in past the Oxford City defence the previous Saturday, but had resulted in a miss. This time, I put the ball in the top corner, the bottom corner, and I smashed it down the middle. In fact, I didn’t stop smashing balls in the net until this poor young lad said, ‘Chris, I’m sorry, but I have to get my bus in fifteen minutes!’
I know it doesn’t count in training, but I had to get it out of my system.
Still, I would go on to do this type of extra training time and time again over the course of my career, and many pros do the same. I would go in on an afternoon on my own, or after training when the boys had left, and just practise for an hour or two. It could be anything, just as long as I felt I was doing something productive. I suppose it goes back to being in the park when I was a kid and just enjoying football. One thing is for sure, I tell the younger pros starting out now to do the same, as going to the pub when you’ve been playing off form is, without doubt, not the answer – well, not every night, anyway!
From the beginning of this season, Dean continued to bang them in, and he was building a great partnership with Linton Brown. As much as many people criticise Dean Windass for some of his behaviour on and off the pitch, it isn’t possible to argue with his achievements on it, not only for himself, but also for Hull City. Many years later, when I had signed for Brentford, I was chatting to a few of the lads there, including Jamie Lawrence, Isaiah Rankin and Andy Myers, and Dean’s name cropped up. Let’s just say, his name got a very frosty reception from the lads from his Bradford City days, for many different reasons.
Dean is what he is though, and he was always OK with me. His will to win could not be in doubt, but it did sometimes boil over. In one warm-up, the lads had organised a circle – this is where there would be a circle of lads, and two players would be in the middle trying to get the ball off the lads on the outside. During the circle Dean had laid a pass a bit short towards our centre-half, Gary Hobson, and it was won by one of the lads in the middle. Everyone waited for Dean to go in, but instead he piped up with, ‘Any fucking danger of you going to the ball, Hobbo?’
Hobbo stuck up for himself, and said it was a poor pass and Dean should get in the middle and deal with it. Dean walked towards him, but the rest of us thought nothing of it, as both players were just sticking up for themselves with the typical banter, until Dean said, ‘I’ll fucking smash you! It was a shit ball.’
Hobbo’s reply was, ‘Do it then, I’m here mate.’
It should have been done and dusted there and then, and just put down to a ‘handbag’ moment, but as he got near Hobbo, Dean decided to throw a head butt. It was mayhem: blood everywhere, Hobbo in shock with a suspected broken nose, and the lads dragging Dean off him. Terry Dolan just stood there shitting himself, knowing he had to make some sort of a decision.
He certainly did that. Knowing that Dean was our prized possession, Terry swept the whole thing under the carpet. Dean had been well out of order, but a short time later he was off to Aberdeen for a fee that saved Hull City. That was the way with Dean, he could drive you mad, but put him on a football pitch and he would do the business for you.
There was a spell at Hull City when the lads thought Dean was getting a bit big for his boots, and so a plan was put in place to knock him down a peg or two. We got one of the girls in reception to phone his house saying that the manager wanted to see him urgently, as Aberdeen wanted to sign him the next day. At this stage there were only just rumours about Aberdeen. As we hid behind one of the stands, Dean’s little Vauxhall Nova came into view, hurtling into the club car park. He got out and shot into Terry Dolan’s office. Five minutes later he came out again, with his tail well and truly between his legs, looking around, knowing the lads were involved. Terry had apparently said, ‘Sorry Dean, we have had no enquiries from Aberdeen whatsoever.’
He was fuming, and in typical Dean fashion the next day he had revenge, by putting Linton Brown’s car on bricks. A few months later he did go to Aberdeen for six hundred thousand pounds. Last laugh there, then!
My relationship with the manager and his assistant, Jeff Lee, was becoming strained. Jeff had rapidly shown himself to be a bit of a psycho. At half time in one game, we were drawing 0–0, the manager said a few words, and then Jeff
let rip big time. He looked around the changing room shouting, ‘You’re all fucking having one, no desire, no fuck all.’
He then turned to me and said, ‘And it’s all your fucking fault you cunt, it’s all your fault!’
Jesus, don’t hold back Jeff, honestly just say what you think – had I have known then what I do now about football, and the characters in it, I would have got up, dragged him out of the changing room, and beaten him up, while shouting, ‘Why have you got a job in football you little weasel?’ – but I was young, and very low on confidence, so just took it. It was no surprise to see my number held up five minutes after the second half had kicked off.
On another occasion, I didn’t wait to give Jeff Lee the pleasure of hammering me. Again I was dragged off, but this time it was ten minutes before the break. He must have been shocked upon entering the changing room at half time to see it empty. I’m sure he was ready to explode with anger, as he normally did towards every player, and especially me. The only exception was his son Chris, not a bad lad, to be fair, but played by Jeff week in week out, much to the amusement of the fans. Chris was never the target of Jeff’s offensive tantrums. Jeff’s face used to go so red during his rants that I swear he was one burst blood vessel away from a heart attack.
Anyway, as I say, I wasn’t prepared to be called a ‘cunt’ again, not on top of the embarrassment of being dragged off before half time, and by someone who had not exactly been a world class player or coach himself. No, this time I pre-empted any mad rants; I got showered, got in my car, and drove to Birmingham where Fiona had a placement, and where I knew I would be far away from football. That night I bought a bottle of wine and just chilled with Fiona, and it was pure bliss.
My absence certainly got the message across to Lee that I wasn’t going to be treated like shit any more. I am, and have always been, my own worst critic. I know if I have had a good or bad game. I can tell when criticism is deserved, and could tell that Jeff always went over the top. Leaving the ground at half time that day was me sending a signal that I wouldn’t tolerate an inappropriate outburst again. However, it was also probably the stage when they decided I would be gone at the end of the season.
Where's Your Caravan? Page 9