Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  We seemed to be winning every game, with Chalky White banging the goals in at an unbelievable rate. I managed to net another winner, this time at Mansfield, which propelled us into a play-off position. We stayed there until the end of the season and were joined by Plymouth Argyle, Darlington and Colchester United. Notable teams to miss out that year were Wigan Athletic, who finished tenth, and Fulham, who finished in seventeenth place. The team relegated from the division above was Hull City. Funny old game eh? Preston North End won the league, celebrated by a final game attendance of nearly twenty thousand fans, and were joined by Bury and Gillingham, who were also promoted. The league’s top scorer was our own Steve White on thirty-three goals, fifty in all competitions. In the same season, Man United had done the league and European double – a nice little taster of info for all you statisticians out there.

  So, the excitement of the play-offs was upon us and we were drawn to play Darlington. They say ‘a minute is a long time in football’. They also say ‘a year is a long time in football’ and ‘they’ are right. Within fifteen minutes of a very promising start in the home leg of the first play-off game, I went over on my ankle. I tried to run it off for about ten minutes, but I had clearly torn my ankle ligaments and I had to come off. I ended up missing the rest of the game and the following away game. We lost both.

  I remember walking into the dressing room at Darlington after the second leg of the play-offs. The lads had been beaten and were low, some knew that their time at the club was up, others knew it would be their last chance for a bit of success. Being injured was hard, but I tried to speak positively to the lads, saying that promotion could be had next season. How wrong could I have been?

  Hereford United contacted me constantly that summer, asking me to sign and saying that it would be the right decision for me to leave the Baggies. I suppose I was caught up with the emotion of the club, our near miss with promotion, and with the hopes for the next season. A holiday to Magaluf with the squad did nothing to dampen the spirits. They were a great bunch of lads, and they, like me, were genuinely excited at the prospect of next season.

  It was one funny holiday. I bumped into two of my old mates from my Grimsby Town days, Gary Croft, who, believe it or not, had been my boot boy years ago, and Mark Lever, one of the funniest blokes you could ever meet in your life, never mind in football. Incredibly (well, maybe not so incredible considering how many players migrate out there each year), I spotted them walking along the beach on the first afternoon we were there, and after finding out that they were on their own (I know, losers!), I suggested that they join the ’Bulls on tour’ squad. That afternoon, as is the norm on a lads’ break, we sat down for a few drinks in the sun. I hadn’t had time to tell the Hereford United lads much about the Grimsby Town duo, which made the next conversation even better. We were all in high spirits and, after having several frosted glasses of beer in the baking sun, Murray Fishlock, our hunchback, bow-legged, left-back (these boys are all thick skinned so please do not think they will be offended by these crude, but accurate descriptions) began telling the Grimsby Town boys about his ‘lucrative’ new deal. Bear in mind it’s Hereford United we are talking about here. He began, ‘Yeah, it’s a two year deal, you know, decent money, they had to sort me out. I have had a pretty good season and they didn’t want to lose me.’

  After wallowing in his own glory he then casually asked the lads how they were doing. Looking at Gary Croft – ‘Anyway, how about you mate? Are you sorted for the summer then, or do you need a club?’

  Crofty replied, completely deadpan, ‘No, I have actually just signed for Blackburn for 1.6 million pounds, not bad money, and it is a decent move, but yeah that Hereford United deal you got sounds good.’

  Murray tried to get some words out, but he was incapable of forming the right type of sentence. While all the other lads were laughing I shouted over, ‘Pick your chin up, Muzza!’

  He looked at me.

  ‘You could have told me.’

  To which I replied, ‘You didn’t ask me, you were too busy living your own little dream.’

  The short loan spell at Hereford United had been good for me, despite the play-off defeat, but I was now unsure what to do. I was at a big club but not playing, and Graham Turner was telling me that joining Hereford United was the right move for me. I ended up accepting a small amount of money to leave West Bromwich Albion. If I had stayed at the Baggies, chances are, I may have made the team, as Buckley was sacked three months after I left. I regret leaving such a big club so hastily, but my desire to play every week clouded my decision. I would have to say that leaving West Bromwich Albion was the worst decision that I have made in my career. It may have been naïve, but it was also very, very rash. I didn’t give myself enough time to deliberate over the move, and as much as I thought I was leaving a club for the right reasons, I wasn’t. I was just trying to get away from Buckley again, and boy did I pay for it.

  It pains me to write about the next season and the troubles it brought for me, but I guess it has to be done. But before I do I will have to unplug the laptop. I will carry on upstairs later on. My office (which is a desk in the dining room, which is open to the living room) is becoming impossible to work in. As I write, Top Gear is turned on full volume, and Cameron is winding Harriet up by telling her she can’t watch Peppa Pig. She in turn has been running around with nothing on, shouting, ‘You can see my boobies.’ She also looks as if she has had a fight with a chocolate muffin but has assured me that she only ‘borrowed’ it. Isabella has been cleaning out her new hamsters and one has just escaped. Added to this, Fiona has just returned home from work and I have completely forgotten to do the washing, the tea or the tidying. The next couple of hours will be tense.

  1996/97

  I dabbled in two businesses while living and working in Birmingham, two crazy ones at that: the music industry and photography. I had lost out on a car that I had been interested in buying, and within minutes of being told the car had already been sold, Paul phoned up explaining how Wayne was struggling to get a record deal, and that they needed money desperately to get him launched.

  It is at this point that the ridiculous words came out of my mouth, ‘How much do you need?’

  I ended up giving Paul six thousand pounds – with a promise of getting double back in six months. A year and a half later, Wayne did give me a cheque for six thousand, but by that time I had also given Paul another three and a half grand that I haven’t seen since. It did affect our relationships, and although Wayne sang at my wedding, and Paul was there, I do think that mixing business and friendship is a big no-no. The fact that we have not seen each other for nearly ten years speaks for itself.

  The other business was a spin-off from a bit of modelling I did (no not for gloves or balaclavas, thank you very much). I was asked by a friend to do a few modelling shots, you know the sort – tense up, smile and point to the sky, or stand in a field holding a piece of straw in your mouth sort of stuff. The same friend then recommended me to a few local modelling agencies, and they started to get me work. One agency asked me if I would take part in The Clothes Show, to do a before and after shoot. They wanted me in football kit, walking down the runway while keeping the ball up, first with longer hair, and then with a new fresh style. I wasn’t sure, although it wasn’t the fact that I would have to get my hair chopped that was worrying me. It was more that I might have dropped the ball halfway down the cat walk, wiping out the editor of Vogue or Horse and Hounds, or whoever turns up at these things. Perhaps I should have just accepted, but the fact that we were in a relegation dogfight meant that I chose not to participate in any of these extracurricular activities. I should have just relaxed and done it really, but at the time, I worried it would be detrimental to my football.

  Funnily enough, I was also down to the final two for The Price is Right man, you know, the one where the guy and girl put on a bit of lycra, and smile at the camera while pedalling on the exercise bike on offer. They were extreme
ly keen for me to do it, and told me that if I really wanted it, I would get it. I remember joking to Dave Norton at the club, ‘Do you think I should I ask Graham for a few Saturdays off?’

  His reaction said it all, and I had to let that one go as well. I am mightily relieved now that I chose not to go for the ‘cheesy smile’ role, although I would have been able to meet Bruce Forsyth, of whom I am a huge fan G-g-g-g-good game.

  I started a photographic business instead, working with the same friend who took those early modelling shots. We decided to form a photography company, renting a studio and kitting it out with some good lighting and equipment. It was aimed at aspiring models wanting to have their shots taken – predominately to get contact sheets to look at and put in their modelling portfolio. The friendship became strained almost straightaway, as I was training everyday and he was in the studio twiddling his thumbs. It wasn’t ideal. Neither was the direction that he wanted the business to go in – let’s just say it involved fewer clothes and more cameras. In saying that, it hasn’t exactly done Katie Price, or the photographers who have shot her, any harm, but had Fiona walked into the studio while I was holding a light reflector and saying, ‘Good, good, just a little bit lower with the towel’, it could have been a problem.

  That disastrous venture was another few quid down the drain, and although I look back and laugh now, I must have been mad at the time to get involved in something I knew absolutely nothing about. We disbanded the business and parted company, pretty amicably though, it has to be said. And I did have the chance to go down another career path before long. All the equipment and props we had were sold to try to recoup some funds, and one guy, who had bought a load of lighting equipment from me, suggested I come over to his pad in the country to do some ‘special’ filming. He said I looked a nice, fit, young lad, and that the work would involve some lovely ladies and that I could earn some ‘real’ money. My career could have really taken a turn there, although I am not totally sure Fiona would have given that one her consent (she might now, however, you know – needs must and all that!).

  Graham Turner told me that we would really be going for it next season. After much persuasion I had agreed to my contract being taken over by Hereford United. Unwittingly, I had joined a club in financial turmoil off the field, and in a crisis on it.

  The 96/97 season began, and before long we were struggling in the league. Not enough players, and not enough good players, meant that instead of challenging for promotion, we were soon in a relegation fight. The only plus point was that I finally found my best position, changing from a striker to a left-winger. I scored a few goals, played in most of the games, and enjoyed my new role, but the constant problems within the club spilled out onto the pitch. The training was also a major problem. If Graham had taken most of it, I honestly believe we would have been a lot better off. Unfortunately for us, but importantly for the fans, Graham had to divert much of his attention to keeping the club alive, which he did succeed in doing.

  However, as a result, and much to our annoyance, most sessions, and all afternoon sessions, were taken by Mr Dick Bate, a head of coaching at the FA both at the time and still now. His afternoon sessions were so old school it was incredible. Spending hours going over and over corner routines was a bit of a drag for a team already low on confidence, and in such a precarious position in the league. In one session, we had been standing for so long that when I attempted to run for a ball, my back completely seized up. I was in agony. At that time, because of my back, standing around for a two-hour session was not ideal. We should have been inspired to fight and to play good attacking football, but he was determined to get his point across, even if it meant spending two hours too long to do it. This had a very negative influence on our team. I know he meant well, but it wasn’t the answer.

  Thinking back, the only thing that I can remember taking in from those sessions was that he had a bug ring on his forefinger with his initials, DB, emblazoned on it – not who I should be marking, or where I should be stood at defensive corners. Graham announced that Dick had some important work to do at the FA in the final weeks of the season and that he wouldn’t be at training or games. We, on the other hand, were all still left shitting ourselves at the bottom of the league. I am probably being a bit harsh on Dick, because he is a very respected FA coach even now, and, as a coach myself, I too respect him, but at that time, and in the position we were in, we really did not need his type of dictatorial approach to our training sessions.

  I can recall the precise moment I knew we were doomed that season. It was after a game against Cambridge United in which I had scored the winner in a 2–1 victory. I was buzzing, and said to the lads that we could have an outside chance of the play-offs if we were to go on a run, as there was still two months of the season to go. They all laughed at me, and the look that everyone gave me showed that they had already accepted defeat; they were expecting a relegation battle. With that sort of attitude we were bound to be in trouble.

  There were a few memorable moments that season; playing at my old club Hull City was great. After the game, Tony Agana, who himself had been a big success in the top flight at Sheffield United, said to me, ‘Chris, you have to believe you can get to the top, because you can, that was a magnificent performance!’

  I smiled and said thanks but whether I really did believe it would happen was another thing.

  At the end of every season, for about ten years, Fiona and I would stay at her parents out in the country, sometimes for a couple of weeks, sometimes for a whole month. While there, I would always start my fitness regime for the coming pre-season. It revolved around running to the sea and back as fast as I could, doing a distance of about six miles. It was a long country road and I used to sing aloud like a marine, ‘I’m going to make it to the prem-ier-ship.’

  I know it sounds crazy, and I am a bit embarrassed to say it, but that thought drove me on for years. It was only when I reached thirty-five that I eventually stopped singing it. As I said earlier, I have always been blindly optimistic.

  The daily journey to the training ground, made with a few other players who also still lived in the Birmingham area, was a long one. Winding roads all the way to Hereford didn’t do much for the soul, and knowing we were in for a ‘Bate’ session in that first season really fuelled the misery! By this time I was also getting really bad back problems. I had given up sitting on the sofa at home, much to the amusement of my friends and family. It was just too painful.

  I could never relax at the best of times, but this was ridiculous. I had, at great expense, bought every back device or gadget known to man, ranging from special gravity chairs and space mattresses, to an inversion rack. This would involve me putting a pair of boots on and then hooking myself onto a bar fitted in a doorway – I would then hang upside down like a bat for ten minutes or so, while my back joints would open out. I was like a modern day Thora Hird, but none of the above worked. I was popping pain-killing pills like Bez in his Happy Mondays heyday.

  I even had my ‘rocket launcher’ which claimed to extend my body by about four inches (no doubt endorsed by Ronnie Corbett). I would lie down and strap myself into this medieval-looking contraption, and when I was ready I would push down on the lever by each side, stretching my body and back out. It was hilarious really, and while I was sweating away on this rack everyone would be shouting, ‘5-4-3-2-1 we have lift off!’

  Despite the humorous side to these gadgets, the pain was a nightmare. It was constant, and nothing would make it go away. Backache costs the country billions, and it really can be a most annoying and frustrating complaint. I had been to see so many people about my back, chiropractors, physios – I even went to ‘Dr Herb’ one afternoon and allowed them to cover me in needles, all to no avail. I just looked like a hedgehog for a few hours and nodded when the lady shouted, ‘You better now.’

  I thought I had solved it once, when I saw an article about a bio-cranial professor, no less, who was working in Belfast and had been ge
tting rave reviews for his revolutionary back treatment. I was on the next plane. (This was all at my own cost, I might add, because back in those days, if the club’s physiotherapist couldn’t fix it, you were a hypochondriac, a shithouse, or just plain lazy. I have seen plenty fitting all of those descriptions in treatment rooms across the country.)

  After two days of treatment at his surgery in Bangor, I thanked the professor, who was a very articulate guy and who obviously knew his stuff. I told him that I felt great, which I did. During the taxi ride back to the airport my good mood stayed intact, despite the driver talking about dispiriting events such as how often certain hotels had been bombed. I had a bit of banter with the air stewardesses before the flight, pleased that I had been ‘cured’ – and happy that I hadn’t stayed at the hotels the taxi driver had mentioned. Unfortunately, after what must have been only ten minutes after take-off, my back seized up and returned me to my previous pain-ridden state. I felt like I was being stabbed in the back – a feeling I have had, in one way or another, many times in my career. All in all, it had been a wasted trip to Northern Island and one that cost me six hundred pounds for the pleasure. I have, however, since returned to Belfast to complete my UEFA A licence (a football coaching certificate) and I must say what a fantastic city it is.

  To make financial matters worse, for two years I had insisted on us buying only organic produce. It cost us a fortune, and it makes me laugh now as I throw in the Tesco Value shopping. We must have stayed in hotels twice a week in Birmingham, just because we could. We ate out three or four times a week, and our clothes budget knew no bounds. Now who’s a silly boy then?