Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  While on the subject of organisations, let’s talk about the FA For all the millions in the vaults there, it’s run by people who couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery. Millions are spent on salaries for sub-standard managers, but the FA insist on making it as difficult as possible for ex-players to get qualified for coaching badges, and have a really fucking arrogant attitude to boot. I have been on some of their courses, and it amazes me how many ex-pros, many of whom have played at the highest level, are made to feel inadequate, and are pushed into scenarios they would never normally find themselves in. More often than not they fail, leave the course, or, sadly, are put off coaching for life. I still find it incredible that a player, who clearly knows the game inside out, and who has played around five hundred games, fails.

  I know coaching is not always about having played the game; it is about teaching in the right way, but in my opinion this is not where ex-pros are failing. The FA prides itself on training the best coaches possible, but they make the courses unnecessarily difficult, pompous and long-winded. France, for example, has won a World Cup and a European Championship since we have been messing about and, hello, they have around thirty thousand qualified coaches and a French manager in place. We have two and a half thousand coaches, an Italian manager with broken English, and have had no major trophy to celebrate in over forty years. You call that progress? Get off your backsides, stop eating your way through countless business lunches and prancing around as if you were superstars, and make some decent fucking decisions.

  ‘And breathe Mr Hargreaves, you can relax now, think of your childhood, think happy thoughts.’

  Within a few weeks I had been contacted by six or seven clubs. I, along with probably a few thousand others, had also written letters to almost every Premier League and Championship club around, asking for a chance to prove myself in the form of a trial (as I have said, I was always an optimist). I knew that I could do well if I spent a week or two somewhere, but at this stage I had no real bargaining power. With the Premiership and Championship clubs’ postal services obviously not working – sending a letter is about as much use as a chocolate teapot – I began to return the calls I had received, starting with that of the Plymouth Argyle manager, Kevin Hodges. He had left a message saying that he would love me to come down to Devon for a chat.

  Over the years I have, rightly or wrongly, held the firm belief that the first club to contact you usually wants you the most. I suppose it’s an old ‘heart ruling your head’ notion, and it has backfired on me a few times, but on the whole it has worked well for me. So, before long I was taking the journey down to Devon.

  As at the time of writing, 3.20pm on Thursday 12th August, I now have a few options available. Last week, an old mate of mine, Mike Spearpoint, owner of Exeter and Somerset speedway, building magnate, Torquay United fan and general top bloke, phoned me and offered me a labouring job if I needed it. I have been his official guest of honour at the speedway on a few occasions, and he sort of thought I was joking when I first asked him if there was any work going, but it’s as good a job as any, as far as I am concerned at the moment. So, I could soon be donning a pair of boots and carrying a hod. (It didn’t do Vinny Jones any harm, although he did do it the other way round.) Another call came in shortly after that from Steve Massey; he used to play professional football years ago, earned his fortune in the tourism industry, and has now taken over a local club, Buckland Athletic. (Funnily enough I presented the awards there last season.) He has asked me to come out of ‘retirement’ and play for him on Saturday in the FA Cup. He also said that he would give me five thousand pounds in instalments, as a signing on fee, to play until the end of the season. The problem is that I would have to give up my coaching at Exeter City, which, although part-time, is still a job at a decent club, and I reckon it would be like wheeling out the oldest swinger in town if I stepped out in the league they play. Saying that, for the money alone, I am very, very tempted.

  1998/99

  The journey down to Plymouth Argyle to meet Kevin Hodges was a long one. I had decided to use public transport instead of driving, as I thought it would make a pleasant change, but after a couple of delays, three or four modes of transport and around five hours travelling, I was regretting my decision. My mindset was to go in, listen, hopefully accept their contract offer, get to the hotel, and start preparing for life back in the league.

  I walked in and was shown around, as is the norm. After a brief introductory chat, we came to their offer.

  ‘OK Chrissy, we like you as a player and are prepared to offer you three months for starters.’

  ‘I have just been on a five hour journey for that?’ I replied, with as much humour as I could, as I didn’t want to seem too egotistical. ‘I could have stayed at Hereford United on a two year deal, I have a baby on the way, and I was a couple of minutes away from having to get a rickshaw for the last mile of the journey down.’

  I knew they wanted me, and I knew money was tight at the club at that stage, but I couldn’t accept such an insecure offer. The next bit was a gamble, but I was mentally and physically prepared to do it.

  ‘I tell you what, I am going back to Birmingham to discuss it with my girlfriend; I’m going to bring my boots back with me and I’ll give you two weeks. If at the end of the two week trial you are happy and I am happy, then we can agree a deal I’ll sign.’

  A week later, after a pretty good few days of training and a fine match, I signed a two year deal and was ready for the season to start. Well worth the risk, I felt.

  I was given some accommodation with the young apprentices at the club, at a place called ‘the Lodge’. It was a big house a mile from the ground, and each player got his own bedroom and shared a lounge and kitchen. It was not exactly a luxury hotel, but was good enough for the time. Another lad, nicknamed ‘Flashy’, who was still on trial, was also in the house. This was great as it gave me some company. He had been at Man United as a kid, and was also trying to get his career back on track. We ate out at the Barbican most nights, and talked about football, the amount of crisps he had eaten that day (usually four or five bags), and his latest girl troubles (again, usually four or five a day). Flashy didn’t end up getting a proper deal with the club, which was sad; he had consistent knee trouble, got no real care, and, as is also the norm at clubs, he basically got shat upon. There is a saying about those unfortunate souls who just seem to have a nightmare whatever they try to do – ‘It’s job night in the paper this Thursday.’ No, it’s not that really; it is ‘A player is often like a mushroom, kept in the dark for most of the time, picked every so often, and shat on twice a week.’ I think that applied to Flashy.

  We did make some good memories together, though, especially the one of him trying to break the land speed record in his little Vauxhall Corsa on a Monday morning when we were late for training, and coming all the way from Birmingham! On another occasion, I nearly didn’t make it to a game one day, and it wasn’t the traffic, car trouble, or even girlfriend trouble. No, it was just simple plain old electrocution! I was attempting to make a milkshake, but we didn’t often use the kitchen at the Lodge, and I soon realised why. The sink was full, and as I put the metal whisk into the water I suffered one hell of a bolt and was thrown back against the cupboard. Flashy was in stitches laughing (not worried at all); I was in shock, had hair like Sylvester the Cat, and had thrown the milkshake all over the kitchen. It turned out the lead to the kettle had dropped into the sink, but was still turned on at the wall. (I swear it was Flashy and he, obviously, swears it was me.) After recovering I thought I would leave the milkshake alone. It was a good job I had rubber flip flops on, eh?

  The pre-season went really well and I was massively up for the year ahead. I still had slight back problems though, and they returned with a vengeance leading up to the first game of the season. I had trained in real agony the morning before the game, and I returned to my room that afternoon angry and frustrated about the pain and the persistent back trouble that
I had. I wouldn’t recommend anyone try this at home, but the next thing I did could have been described as a bit unconventional – and very reckless. A few months earlier I had watched a great programme about a guy in Russia who had been paralysed, but who had fought through terrible back problems to walk again. In his view this was all done through will power and determination. Now not for one minute am I saying that I nipped down to the local baths, put my trunks on, and walked on water while the blue rinse brigade complained that I was in their lane, but what I did say to myself was that I had to beat it.

  I couldn’t really bend at all that day, but I was so annoyed and angry that I jumped up as high as I could, and sort of landed in a ball, gripping my ankles, and nearly ploughing through into the room below at the same time. And guess what, I could now bend. Fair enough, I could have displaced a disc and been on a hospital ward for the next month, but I hadn’t, I wasn’t, and it had worked. I don’t know if it was tension, muscle spasms, or what, but I do know that the pain had gone, and pretty much ever since then I have been OK. Don’t get me wrong, I have still seen plenty of chiropractors over the years, and I have taken more happy pills than Shaun Ryder and Bez put together, but at least I have been able to sit on the sofa. By ‘happy pills’ I mean legal drugs taken by most players (old ones anyway!), and given out by physios at clubs across the country to keep players going. We are talking Ibuprofen or Voltorol or Tramadol. (I actually took three one morning after a game and felt like I was at a rave – I was, in fact, in the garden centre with the family!) The usual scenario is the physio walking down the team coach on the way to a game giving out tablets to anyone who has a nagging injury, or, on any given day, a player walking into the physio room before training and saying, ‘I’m in bits; I need some drugs.’

  Anyway, the next day I made my debut, had a blinder, got the champagne, and drove home a happy man. I remember commenting to the young lads at the Lodge that morning what a beautiful day it was, and what a great job it was to be doing, and that I intended to have a blinder. The power of thought, eh?

  My new teammates at Plymouth Argyle were a real bunch of characters, such as Ronnie Mauge, who had been in prison for nothing particularly serious – just taking someone hostage on Dartmoor and holding a gun to their head for a couple of hours! Despite this, Ronnie wasn’t really a bad lad, and I got on really well with him. Lee Power (or the ‘Face’ as he liked to call himself) was another funny character, although not as extreme; he was totally broke when he left Plymouth Argyle, but, incredibly, he turned up at a game when I was playing for Northampton Town a few seasons later, as the club’s new chairman! We also had Micky Heathcote, a hard-core centre-half who spent forty-five minutes rubbing Deep Heat into his back before every game, and who also once, on the dance floor at Paul Wotton’s wedding, spent a whole hour doing exactly the same dance move over and over again; Martin ‘Chopsy’ Barlow, a great little midfielder who had an acid tongue and drank like a fish; and John Sheffield, a goalkeeper who hated football and, more worryingly, hated goalkeeping.

  That first season I also became great friends with Paul Gibbs, a bleached blond-haired, big-chinned (my words), big-nosed (my words) legend (definitely his word). ‘Gibbo’ was, and still is, a brilliant lad. We shared a few passions, football being an obvious one, the other two being lifting weights and spending money. At this time, Gibbo was seeing Helen Chamberlain, who had just started her rise to fame on Soccer AM. Helen eventually saw the light and dumped the loser (only joking, mate) but they, and we, all remained good friends. Helen is a bloke’s dream, she loves football, loves cars, loves a gamble, and is a good laugh, and the last time I spoke to her she was single. Hurry up lads – it won’t last long. Helen had a house in Torquay and supported Torquay United, a club where I would end up many years later; it was good to have a friend already in the area.

  The first few months I had a great time; I was playing well and enjoying life in Plymouth. I got on with the boys and really liked the manager, Kevin Hodges, and his assistant Steve McCall. Kevin had taken Plymouth Argyle on as his first job in management, and as with all managers I have come across, he had a massive amount of nervous tension before a game. One particular game away against Darlington was a prime example of this. His mind must have been absolutely racing at the time, because as he was standing at the side of the pitch he clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Come on Darlington!’

  You can imagine the look on the Darlington players’ faces, and what chance did we have if he was shouting for the other team?

  Fiona soon moved down and we rented a lovely place on the water in a village called Oreston. Stupidly, again, we didn’t buy (those properties went up in value about a hundred grand in the two years we were there but, you know, let’s not dwell on that). Instead, we rented. The footballer’s mentality of ‘something may change in the summer’ always sets alarm bells ringing about settling down, which is foolish.

  In that first season, an old mate of mine, Tony Ford (same name as the fitness trainer I met at Hereford United, but a different fella; this Tony Ford had been a fellow player at Grimsby Town), was due to be given an award, as this game against us was going to be his one thousandth game. It was a magnificent achievement, and one that naturally had required massive dedication, an iron will, and, I’m sure, plenty of ice – that much football would have earned him a lot of aching muscles. Tony was presented with the award before the game, and, after I had set about destroying him at right-back, with a nutmeg, a goal and a smile, I think Tony was just happy to have got the one thousandth game out of the way.

  The December of that season we had an early Christmas present, as our son Cameron was born. Fiona always ribs me about the day of the birth – she had complained of a few pains in her stomach in the afternoon while shopping and asked if we could get home, but, as I really wanted to see a car I was keen to buy, I asked her if we could just nip by and take a look before going. Her ‘death stare’ and answer, ‘Get me FUCKING home, NOW!’ quickly spurred me on to drive back and ring the nurse. When I talked to the nurse about Fiona’s contraction times, she just told me to make Fiona a cup of tea and to let her relax at home for a few more hours. I walked through to explain this to Fiona but decided very quickly that I was taking her in immediately, without waiting. Within an hour and a half of being in the shops, Fiona had given birth to our first child, with no pain relief, and no long labour (now that’s a good old northern lass for you). However, the big girl’s blouse with her (that being me) had to have a few paracetamol, as, much to Fiona’s disbelief, my back wasn’t half playing up while she was on that bed.

  There was another aspect of that birth that Fiona likes to remind me about. I had forgotten to tell her that the local paper was turning up with a scarf and a shirt for a ‘say cheese’ shot. The Herald sports reporter (Chris Errington) had phoned to congratulate me about the birth, and had asked if the paper could come over to the hospital to take a picture of mother and father with child. Fiona was in a ward called the Argyle ward – so there was even more of a connection with Plymouth Argyle. I had agreed to the photo, but neglected to mention it to Fiona. When we were leaving the hospital, and she was in her ‘I’ve just had a baby, I’m tired and I’m in my dressing gown’ mode, ‘Smile please’ did not exactly go down well. The picture was on the back of the paper the next day, and I was in the doghouse for a good week. Anyway, we took our little parcel home and laid him on the bed. We turned to each other, laughed, and said, ‘What do we do now?’

  Fiona had really gone through the mill at the hospital but not, as you might expect, during the birth. Instead, it was the after care and the breast-feeding that was the problem. The nurse ‘helping’ Fiona was a real Hattie Jacques type, a Dickensian matron who demanded that the ladies get their breasts out whenever she said, and that they ‘pumped’ at regular intervals. Hell, it was like being in a dairy. Fiona wasn’t exactly a Friesian (I’m tempted to add all sorts of insults about that nurse, but it’s just not the time or the place)
. All that Fiona really gained from the unnecessary length of time she had stayed in, and the forceful care she had received, was a bad case of mastitis, and the knowledge that any future children would be spending their first night at home on the bottle.

  Our family were five hours away, so the first few months were tough but nonetheless very enjoyable. I couldn’t wait to get home from training and pick my little man up; I used to put him on my chest and we would go to sleep for an hour while we sat listening to the water outside. (The house was by a tidal lake, Hooe Lake, which meant you could always listen to relaxing water sounds.) It was bliss. Twelve years later and he is still my little ‘man bear’ and I will still be hugging him for as long as he will allow it. (I probably have around a year left.) It was a lovely place for us to bring a child up and as Cam grew a little older we would all explore the beaches of Devon and Cornwall together. Cam often wondered what I was getting up to, and would just look up and say, ‘Daddy, doing?’

  Many people watching me play football also wondered that, but that’s another story entirely.

  Although he was a little beauty, the night-time routine was hell; we basically didn’t sleep for two years. In fact, after four or five months without decent sleep, my parents rescued us, and told us to get away for a break. We did, went abroad for a few days, missed him like hell, and ended up making sure that very soon there would be another member of the Hargreaves family arriving – that bloody sangria! I always say that the first child was an accident, the second was just irresponsible, and the third was just showing off, but as none our children has actually been planned (well, not to my knowledge anyway) each one has been an incredible surprise. They are far and away the best things ever to have happened to Fiona and me. I am saying all of this without Fiona’s consent or agreement by the way – the births were a piece of cake really!