Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  We played really well that night, but by half time it was still level. I had missed a great chance just before the whistle, heading the ball wide from a cross. During the interval I couldn’t hear any of the team talk at all, I was just allowing myself gargantuan levels of self-pity while piercing a hole in the floor with my eyes and repeating, ‘For fuck’s sake, how did I miss that chance?’ a few hundred times.

  A changing room can sometimes be a very cold environment to be in; it can also be full of joy, heartache, laughter and tears, but more often than not, it is a place where your thoughts are your own, and where you have to find strength. Steve McCall patted me on the head and said, ‘Come on Chris, don’t worry about the chance.’

  I don’t know why, but at this point I could honestly have cried, such was my disappointment. I didn’t normally feel emotional at this point in a game, as I was usually too busy getting myself ready for the second half. The bell rang and we were soon out again. You can’t always remember how goals are scored, it is sometimes just a blur, and, having only scored sixty or so times in my career, in around seven hundred and fifty games, it is typical that that is my main recollection of goals. However, what you do always remember is joy, pure unbridled joy. I know many players say that scoring is better than sex; I’d say it is different, not better – but it does give you a massive rush that you cannot get in any other way.

  I highlight the difference between goal scoring and sex, because sex comes to you a lot easier than scoring a goal. (My wife will honestly kill me if she reads this, and if she doesn’t, someone is bound to tell her, so I could be in for one almighty barren spell.) Scoring is a moment that simply cannot be planned – I’m not saying that with sex it’s a case of ‘Right, it’s Tuesday love – you know the positions we’re after, now up you go.’

  But when that ball hits the back of the net it is unpredictable, and both a joy and a relief; joy that it is you who scored the goal, and relief that your team may win the game because of it. Add to this that with sex thousands of people don’t go wild when you do it, unless you’re into that type of thing, of course.

  Back to the night in question and, as you may have guessed from my above tangent, I scored and we won the game – a nutmeg on the edge of the box and a curler round the keeper, if you want the ‘technical’ terms. Plymouth Argyle always took a good following of fans to away games, and that night was no exception. We all drove home to Devon very happy that night, speculating about whom we would be pitted against in the next round. The answer was Reading, and we’d be playing away, in their brand new twenty-five thousand seat stadium.

  Having won against Brighton we were all really excited to be playing at Reading, and none more so than I. Unfortunately, during a league game shortly after the win against Brighton, I landed really awkwardly, hurting my shoulder. Our ‘Fizz’ at the time, Paul Maxwell, sort of manipulated it and I was able to play on, and score, in that match, but for the next few games I was in absolute agony. ‘Maxi’ had tried his best to put it back in place on the day, but with neither of us having had experience with a dislocated shoulder, it was a case of ice it, grin and bear it, strap it up, and play on.

  ‘Maxi’ was brilliant, an absolute diamond of a lad, but, at the time I was there, he hadn’t completed his physiotherapy qualification, so wasn’t allowed to run onto the pitch to help any of the players. Until he was fully qualified the club had to get a local physio in on match days in case someone got injured on the pitch and a physio needed to run on.

  Maxi was more like a player than a physiotherapist; he wore the brightest boots, had the biggest tan, and dressed in the tightest spray-on T-shirts. He also thought he was better at playing than most of the lads. He had been on the books at Plymouth Argyle as a young lad, but injuries (and maybe a lack of talent, sorry Maxi) meant that his career took a different turn. What a great lad though. He was constantly pouring his heart out over girl troubles; he came out with us on all nights out; was convinced that he was, in fact, the real Elvis Presley, and did more weights workouts than all the lads put together – in short, the best physiotherapist in the country (his words!). He is now plying his trade with Tony Pulis at Stoke; check the boots out on Match of the Day.

  With the Reading game closing in, Maxi was creating more and more complex strapping for my shoulder. He was weaving masterpieces just to keep it in place. It was the same routine as the Brighton match on the day that we played Reading. An army of Plymouth Argyle fans had made the trip down to the Madejski stadium to watch us, and after Maxi had rigged my shoulder up to play, I had a quick look outside at the crowd. It was a great sight. Just then was also the first time I had come across Martin Allen. ‘Mad Dog’ was Alan Pardew’s number two at Reading, and he just stared at me as I walked past the changing room, with no top on and my shoulder strapped up like Tutankhamen. Our paths would cross much later in my career, but on that day he certainly made an impression on me, as he does with most people.

  The first half of the game was a real bombardment of attacks from the home side. Reading took the lead and could easily have made the game safe, but we hung on in there and, with about ten minutes to go, were still in the game. I was in real trouble though, even in the first half I had nearly put up my hand to say ‘enough is enough’, but I didn’t – the bench just kept shouting to keep going, and, somehow, you get through it. Adrenaline is a very powerful persuader, as are several thousand fans, but it was fair to say that I was having an absolute and utter stinker that day. My brother had come to watch, along with around four thousand Plymouth Argyle fans, and here I was having a crap match – brilliant.

  As the minutes ticked away we were getting desperate, and really had to have a go. With a couple of minutes to go Paul McGregor hung up a deep cross which was headed down on the angle of the edge of the box by Martin Gritton (a top lad who had a penchant for student clubs and Marlboro Lights). The ball took an eternity to land, but the next moment was one of ‘those’ moments when as soon as you have struck the ball, you know it’s in. I caught the ball on the half volley and it thundered into the top corner. Never have I seen a set of fans go as crazy as the Plymouth Argyle fans did that day. Maybe it was the brand new stadium, maybe it was because it was so late in the game, or maybe it was because it was a twenty-five yard screamer. It was a moment I will never forget …

  I’ll think I’ll just stop reminiscing soon, as my wife has just stormed out in a huff, and I have to pick the children up in half an hour …

  … I’m back. As that ball hit the roof of the net I just ripped off my shirt and ran around the back of the goal to the fans to celebrate, waving my shirt above my head. I looked like a crazed Neanderthal man, with my long hair, newly grown beard, psychotic eyes and half strapped-up shoulder. My brother said it was the best game he had ever been to. He said to see his brother smash one in in the dying minutes of the game, and to be jumped on in the process by a Plymouth Argyle fan wearing a Hargreaves shirt, was a pretty good feeling. I agreed, and at least one Hargreaves shirt had been sold that season!

  I had scored a very special goal. It wasn’t a goal in a cup final, it wasn’t in the top flight, or for England, but it was a career goal that I could look back on and say, ‘That’s the best goal I have ever scored.’

  Not the most important, just the best.

  Winning that game gave us a feeling of total and utter relief. That was also the day that Dan McCauley, our chairman, decided that he too wanted a bit of that atmosphere for his club.

  The replay was at Home Park and was won convincingly, a double by the lad on the other side of the wing, Paul McGregor, seeing off Reading and putting us through to the fourth round. We eventually ran out of steam against Derby County. Seventeen thousand Argyle fans turned up to cheer us on, but a combination of too many of their players being better than too many of ours, and a bad day in front of goal, meant that our cup run was over. We had certainly caused a bit of a stir during that cup run though, and a few of us were now making links with
other clubs.

  We had such a laugh that season. Me, Gibbo, Macca and our Elvis impersonating physio, Maxi, were thick as thieves on and off the pitch. We even had a few Saturday night trips to London that year. Admittedly, it was a bit of a trek but it was always a very lively night once there! The first time we ventured into the capital together pretty much summed up how things were going at that time. As we approached a notoriously hard to get into club, I decided to go for the confident approach. I walked past the queue (please believe me in saying that this is not something I would normally do, but you know while in Rome and all that) and headed towards the bouncer, not having uttered a single word. Incredibly, he summoned me over, saying, ‘Come straight in mate, your table is ready.’

  It was hilarious really. I waved the lads through, and we were soon sat down at our roped-off private table, complete with a bottle of bubbly.

  I have absolutely no idea who he thought we were, or, more to the point, where the lads had got to who were supposed to be at the table that night, but I do know one thing – the many genuinely famous footballers preening themselves in the club were mightily pissed off that a group of lads dressed like Oasis and laughing their heads off had the best table in the place.

  One of the more famous football lads recognised me, and he must have been scratching his head wondering how the hell a group of Second Division footballers could possibly blag a table like that. What made it all the more galling for him was the rest of the people in the club keeping on asking what band we were in, which made it even funnier. Our group just replied that it wasn’t about the fame, and that we just wanted a quiet night. If I remember right, Maxi even pretended not to speak English – which, to be fair, wasn’t hard for him anyway. With Macca and I having uncomfortably long hair, and both of us looking like Vivienne Westwood with our bizarre clothing, and with Gibbo and Maxi both having had very long sun bed sessions that week, it was slightly plausible that we looked like a band.

  The Vivienne Westwood phase was brought on by the sheer volume of the clothes bought by Macca, all at a substantial discount from his mate Lee. Lee was a lovely lad who probably owned more clothes that Vivienne herself. The first time I met him was in a hotel room, and it was the first time I had seen spending on such an epic scale. I think we were playing York City away, and since Lee was running the Vivienne Westwood shop in Leeds just up the road, he had popped in to see Macca. During the next forty-five minutes, items of clothing were strewn all over the room (again, if my wife is reading, there were no girls involved, and for the rest of you, none of that!). Macca gave a simple yes or no to the items shown. Hell, it was as if Elton John was in the room.

  When all the picking had been done, Lee said calmly, while bringing his mobile credit card reader out, ‘That’ll be three grand, Mac.’

  No emotion shown, Macca just swiped his card and carried on. When Lee turned to me and asked me what I wanted, I immediately started sweating like a drug smuggler in a Bangkok jail. I told him that I would see him next time, complete with credit card, but if I could just take a sample for now, that would be great.

  Even though I joke about it, the dreaded credit card craze really had reared its ugly head at that time. A letter would come through the post, and you would suddenly believe you had ten grand to spend. I have actually seen a lad naïve and irresponsible enough to try to buy a twenty grand car on his credit card alone. In Birmingham, I had an American Express gold card that was so easy to use it almost dragged your hand into your wallet for you. I maxed it out, of course, and then very nearly needed hospital treatment at the end of the month when I saw the statement ‘TO BE PAID IN FULL’. It is so irresponsible of the people doing the spending, I know, but how the firms in question get away with offering such murderous amounts of credit in the first place, knowing that it will be damn hard to ever pay it back, is far more worrying.

  I had caught the Vivienne Westwood bug, and although I could already spend money as if it were growing on trees, I took it to a new level and now spent money as if I only had a week to live. Cars, clothes, meals out, holidays, it was all done without a thought. Now, I so wish I had at least bought a house earlier than I did, but as this is not a book about self-help, or the housing market, I shall continue leaving my monumental slice of melancholy to the side.

  The king of blowing money had to be Gibbo though. He was the lad I talked about who tried to buy a car with his credit card … say no more.

  The four of us had such a ridiculous sense of humour that I think people really did believe we had a screw loose. Everything at the time had to be sung in a high-pitched voice, whether it be in the changing room – ‘I’m going to the toilet and I won’t be long’ – or in a bar – ‘You’ll have a beer and I will too.’

  I have no idea how this started but, before long, all the lads at the club were doing it. It must have driven people around us bonkers.

  The worst offender was Macca and he took it to a new level one Saturday afternoon. We had always carried this ‘sing-along’ into the tunnel before games, with the opposition teams not sure whether to laugh along or not. A nervous look was normally the best we got. But when a long-haired weirdo sings at the top of his voice, ‘I love cheese, and I love it up my bum’, even some of our team looked nervously at him. He just chuckled away and looked at me saying, ‘Yes Greavsie, come on.’

  He definitely loved cheese I know, but the second part of that statement was something I was not prepared to witness.

  I had ended my trips to Birmingham to see Tony, which was hard. He was, and still is, a rock of a man who, without a shadow of a doubt, got my career back on track. We both had a goal we were striving for, and although the Promised Land wasn’t quite reached, the amount I learnt from Tony about life, and about discipline and desire, would stay with me for ever.

  Maintaining my training with Tony, I did go religiously to a gym in Plymouth. The sanctuary of a ‘spit and sawdust’ gym meant that I could be on my own, and continue to focus on playing better, becoming stronger, and getting to the top. The gym in Plymouth is also where Gibbo and I met the ‘King of the Gypsies’, Pete Tansey. Pete was a Goliath of a man, who had forearms bigger than most people’s thighs, and a personality to match. He also loved football and was a huge Stoke City fan – I did get him tickets to watch a game once, but unfortunately he only lasted nine minutes – way too much aggression shown to the away fans.

  As well as regularly chatting away to Pete about football and fitness, one time we also helped him out with a boxing gig he had organised, by buying a few chairs for the punters to sit on and some prizes for a raffle. It wasn’t a big deal, and certainly didn’t break the bank, but Pete was at great pains to tell us how much it meant to him, and that he would call in a few favours to say thank you. Prior to this, he had asked us for a team picture, whichI had the lads sign, for a ‘special’ friend of his. We were just told that the friend in question was a bloke called Reggie. One afternoon, a few weeks after the boxing event, the phone rang.

  ‘Hi, is that Chris? It’s Reggie here, Reggie Kray.’

  At this point I was sort of laughing nervously, thinking it was a wind up.

  ‘It was a good thing you done for my mate Tans, you’re a good boy.’

  I was in shock, so much so that I walked away from the wall still with the phone in my hand. The wire unclipped from its connection, so not only had I been phoned by Reggie Kray, I had now cut him off! Fiona must have thought I had officially lost the plot as I fumbled around with the socket, shouting, ‘Fucking hell, I’ve cut Reggie Kray off! I’ve fucking cut him off!’

  Miraculously, he was still talking when I clipped the line back in. He mentioned that he would keep an eye on our results, and that he was really pleased with the signed team picture I had given him. After I had said goodbye and ‘all the best’, which was probably a bit optimistic, I put the phone down. Shortly after the receiver was down the phone rang again; it was Paul Gibbs.

  ‘Greavsie, you’re not going to be
lieve who has just phoned me.’

  The ‘nearly’ part of the season, the event that made it the closest I ever got to the top, came soon after the Reading game. I had scored three goals in as many games, two in the FA Cup run which had inevitably brought with it exposure for both the team and the players. My agent at the time was an ex-international who had played at the top, and who was convinced he could ‘get me a move’. I was very happy at Plymouth Argyle, and was glad to stay, but with the rumours of several clubs being interested in me now hitting the local papers and even some of the nationals, something seemed to be happening. It was a weird time really. Newcastle United had apparently enquired and were given a price (which was obviously way too much), and my agent had talked of interest from Man City, which was also well publicised.

  The lads even rigged up a top for me to wear in training one day, complete with black and white stripes. In the end though, after a lot of hearsay, I was told that a move to Reading was imminent. It was approaching deadline day, and I had arrived for training as normal. Kevin Hodges pulled me aside saying, ‘Chrissy, don’t train today; I’ve had Alan Pardew on the phone, and I think the two clubs have agreed a deal.’

  I was going to Reading, and, in exchange, Plymouth Argyle were getting one hundred and fifty thousand pounds and Andy Gurney, whom Reading had recently signed for two hundred and fifty thousand.

  As you can imagine, I immediately phoned home, telling my wife that I would be a step closer to ‘making it’. I hadn’t even considered that I had already made it as a footballer – to me, ‘making it’ was getting to the very top, and nothing less would do. I hadn’t even thought about the money, but my agent told me I would be looking at around three thousand pounds a week, which to me back then, seemed as implausible, and as impressive, a figure as a hundred grand a week.

  I drove home from training that day absolutely buzzing. Soon, I would be joining a club that had big aspirations of getting into the Premiership. I sat in the car on the drive, just thinking about what the future might hold, but as I got out ready to tell Fiona of my excitement, my mobile rang. It was my agent.