‘I just thought she had a trendy hair-do, it was all swept over to one side, and it was dark in the club. I had also battered about ten bottles of beer down my neck.’
We were all in tears in the changing room, but Hunty was unrepentant, and just said in his deadpan Derby accent, ‘I said “good morning” back to her, but then asked her why she hadn’t told me about her glass eye. She said I didn’t ask, and that surely I’d noticed on the dance floor.’
We were all in pieces at this stage, so I asked him how it had ended with her.
‘Well, we stayed in bed for another half an hour or so, you know the score lads, but afterwards I told her that I couldn’t see her again.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t the eye. I just didn’t like her hair-do.’
Hunty and I had the same sort of approach to the game – we both wanted to do well, and were up definitely for the battle. Some managers liked this approach and some didn’t. Eventually, James Hunt left to sign for Oxford United, after failing to agree terms at the ‘Cobblers’, and he was certainly missed by the team on a Saturday. A few seasons later, he also got his own back for the Plymouth Argyle incident. I’ll tell you about that when we get to it, but it was impressive.
My debut for Northampton went pretty well, setting up the equaliser for Jamie in a 1–1 draw against Brentford, another team that I played for later in my career. That first season at Northampton Town saw me play in an unaccustomed left wing-back role. I got through it and quite enjoyed it really, but it was in central midfield that I would end up playing most of my games for the club.
I’m sitting here now looking through a programme from that season and Stoke were in that division back then, as were Wigan and Reading, all teams who would soon taste life in the Premiership. There were also two teams in League One that season who would soon taste life in the Conference. Football is a funny old game, constantly changing.
After a decent start, we faltered towards the end of the 00/01 season. There were some good teams in the division and we had just been promoted, so it wasn’t too bad a result. I played about thirty-five games that season, and was really enjoying my Northampton Town career until a reserve game, in which I was coming back from a slight injury, pretty much ruled me out for the rest of the campaign. I had torn meniscus cartilage in my right knee, and would have to have an operation to sort it out. Still, it would now give me plenty of time to enjoy tea and cake with our new friends, Ken and Vera, eighty-five and eighty-four, respectively. To be honest though, being injured at Northampton Town was not a good move. The rehab workouts and full days put on by the then physiotherapist, Denis Casey, were legendary. It would be a 9am start, and a 4pm finish. Nearly a normal day!
The rehab sessions were incredible. I am surprised some of the lads didn’t take up careers in cycling after their training schedules with Denis. It would be cycling for breakfast, lunch and dinner, with a side salad of weights, swimming and jogging. I have to give Denis his due though, there weren’t too many players wanting to be injured at Northampton Town, apart from Duncan Spedding that is!
I will come back to Ken and Vera, and life in a little village called Mears Ashby, later, but for now it’s back on the phone and back on the emails. It is twelve o’clock and the house needs tidying (I have taken on the role of Mrs Doubtfire now Fiona is back working full time), the pots need washing (we have stopped using the dishwasher in these tough economic times, although I have been meaning to google how much a dishwasher cycle actually costs to run compared with the sink water used), and I need to get ready to coach the young lads at Exeter City (my only real source of income now, at around two hundred pounds a week).
I have recently put my name forward for the Hereford United manager’s job – Simon Davey was sacked last week – and will wait and see what happens there. It is a club I used to play for and know well, and I would love the challenge of managing them, but with so many managers out of work it may go to someone more experienced.
Other than all that, I did return to the jungle yesterday (Carol’s house) for a Tarzan-style cameo. I strimmed, sawed, hacked and dug my way through eight hours of hard graft. I got through ten litres of petrol, two ham sandwiches and about four hundred obscenities, and again, with all the bramble and hawthorn scratches, I looked as if I had been self-harming. Times may be tough at the moment, but I have yet to reach that stage.
2001/02
The previous season had ended very disappointingly with an injury and subsequent operation, so to cheer us up, Fiona and I treated ourselves to a short break in New York. The trip to the Big Apple was a quality four-day blast of sight-seeing, spending, eating and drinking. We had no children with us, which was a rarity, but after only twenty-four hours of relaxing with no crying or noise, it got almost too quiet. Still, it was a brilliant trip, and we took in some amazing sights. We went for a helicopter ride down the Hudson and climbed the Statue of Liberty. Such was Fiona’s fear of heights, she had to be gently coaxed up and down the spiral staircase, and being the caring boyfriend that I was, I grabbed her ankles every so often, scaring her half to death. We did all the tourist things that you imagine when seeing New York on the TV. We also ate at a restaurant on the top floor of one of the World Trade Center towers. Little did we know that, only a few months later, that same 1,362 feet tower would be gone, and many of the sight-seeing tours we had done would soon be banned for fear of another terrorist attack. As we ate in the south tower that night, able to see across New York to the ocean in the far distance, it was inconceivable that these vast structures would one day fall. The restaurant staff were so incredibly kind and friendly, I cannot bear to think of what went on in that restaurant the moment those planes came into view on 11th September.
A few years after Fiona and I visited New York, we found an old camcorder film that we had thought lost. It showed footage of us flying around the Statue of Liberty and then circling the World Trade Center Towers. Watching it was surreal; it was a poignant reminder of how New York had changed for ever, and how this event had global implications with an impact that continues even today, a decade later.
The last time I sat down for a session with the old lappy, Northampton Town had just pulled off a famous victory, beating Liverpool in the cup, at Anfield (on 22nd September 2010, if you want the details). Only a couple of weeks have passed since then, but, as is usually the case in football a couple of bad defeats mean that both these clubs and their managers are now under huge pressure. As well as losing to the ‘Cobblers’, Liverpool have just lost the Merseyside derby and are lying second from bottom in the Premiership – their lowest league position in fifty years. (‘Statto,’ I hear you say.) At the weekend, Northampton Town lost a real six-pointer against another one of my former teams, the currently manager-less Hereford United. Out of the jaws of victory, they snatched defeat – Northampton Town had been three nil up at half time. They are also second from bottom of their league. My old mate Ian ‘Sammo’ Sampson will have been getting through teacups like guests at a Greek wedding during his post-match talk/bollocking, and I’m pretty sure that, after the derby match, Liverpool’s manager Roy Hodgson may have had a few words to say in his team’s dressing room, despite his public show of solidarity. Who knows what fate awaits both clubs and their respective mangers? We may well know by the end of this book!
I mentioned I put my name in for the Hereford United job, and I haven’t heard anything back yet, but with results like they had at the weekend – a 4–3 comeback after being dead and buried at half-time – their stand-in manager, Jamie Pitman, again a former teammate of mine (there is a running theme here!), may get the job. It’s funny how players who hang on in there at clubs end up getting a job when their playing days are over, either in coaching or management. Having had ten clubs, and never wanting to be one of those players who hung onto the rock face, clinging on rather than progressing, I have realised I may have to do it the hard way. I know a lot of players that were surplus to team requ
irements at a club, but who settled for not playing and instead stayed sitting on the bench, sometimes for years, in the hope that they might get a gig at a later date. Many of these players are now managers, so, if that is a player’s goal rather than actually playing football, it’s a good tactic.
Maybe I’m the one who got it wrong. I am sat here drinking my coffee and staring out of the window, as everyone else toddles off to work. However, it was never a choice for me; being a spare part at a club was just never an option. I’m not saying that’s the case for Jamie Pitman, he is a great lad who did it the hard way – on retiring, he got his qualification as a physiotherapist and earned his place managing the team. However, there are plenty out there who seem to have been frightened to death of moving from one club in case they might have to prove themselves somewhere else, and have chosen instead to cosy up to the management and bide their time.
As you can probably guess, seeing players acting like that really irritates me. But it’s not just players – it also drives me mad when I see coaches on the touchline, or in the dugout, who have their tongues firmly wedged up the manager’s arse, who only two weeks earlier were doing the same to the previous manager! Then there are the pretend theatricals from the mountain of staff on each club’s bench when the game is going on – it’s all just too much for me. It’s the same at international level as well. I think what I am trying to say, to all coaches and staff out there who are serious ‘yes’ men, is just, ‘Stand up for yourselves, for Christ’s sake, and don’t be such total fucking sheep!’
Wow, and breathe Mr Hargreaves! I have no idea where that rant came from, but what the hell, it’s staying in.
Well, as I said, everyone has popped off to work, and, as I have a morning off to myself, I will crack on with writing this book. At home, life is as hectic as ever. Fiona is now working full time, and, only a month in, she is showing early signs of a total breakdown. I am coaching part-time five times a week, and earning a quarter of what I used to earn when doing half the hours. I am also starting to get a few stares at the school gate when I do the drop every morning – people know I have retired and are obviously waiting for me to get a ‘proper’ job. Perhaps they think I’m just lazing around, but I can reassure them that I would like that to happen as well, and, after the fiftieth time of being asked, ‘What are you doing now?’ my reply has changed.
‘Well, I’m just selling vibrators at the moment; it’s decent money and the hours are really good.’
It actually goes down well, with most people responding, ‘Oh that’s nice.’
They’re not listening, so what I say really doesn’t matter!
Still, as much as the adults in the Hargreaves household may be showing signs of stress, the children are keeping us well entertained. At the weekend, our elder daughter Isabella wanted me to do some hill running with her; she is ten and says she is heading for the Olympics – we did twenty hill runs, you know, pushy dad and all that. My son Cameron had a break from playing football to go to an ‘Ultimate Frisbee’ weekend. How times change eh? A Frisbee used to be for the beach and the beach only, and now it’s a real school sport. Finally, Harriet, our younger daughter, future stand-up comedian and cream-tea-eating champion, took me swimming. She forced me to buy her some goggles, as she said she could now swim, and then went on to sink at least ten times, all while beaming away and looking like a young Alan Carr. As ever, in this beautiful county we live in, we made it to the beach and then to the ice cream shop. The only difference from our previous routine being that this time we parked a fair distance away and walked to the ice cream shop – cost of parking nil, but trek to the cheaper ice cream shop immense.
My second season at Northampton Town was certainly a memorable one. Life was brilliant off the field with our two little babies in tow. We had moved to a lovely little village called Mears Ashby, and had made some great friends, none better than Ken and Vera, our neighbours, and newly ‘adopted’ grandparents. I first said hello to Ken while walking Cameron around the village, and before long I was invited in for a cup of tea. It soon became a bit of an afternoon routine. While Isabella slept in her pram, and Cam played with crayons and watched TV, we had a good chat about life (usually Ken’s latest illnesses and Vera not being able to hear the phone), and we had a real laugh with it. Although Ken was eighty-five he had a wicked sense of humour, he loved a bit of ‘smut’, as he called it, and he really enjoyed talking about the ‘footy’. Vera loved showing the children her latest paintings or walking them around their lovely garden. I think you can sometimes be more honest with friends than you can with family, and with Ken we could talk about anything without bias or judgement. He was definitely a grandfather figure to me, but was also a real good mate with it.
Those afternoon teas were always accompanied by a huge slice of cake. Ken and Vera also invited us to many a meal at their house but with the modern body as it is, our constitutions weren’t really up to the task. By that, I mean that what Ken regarded as fine to eat may not have passed today’s stringent food safety ‘tests’ – for example: you could be almost certain that the milk, which he’d be about to put in the tea, had been out for four or five days (and, after my salmonella bout, I had become a tad more careful about what I ate)! Still, we went to a few meals, and from proper suet puddings to stuffed peppers, the meals were certainly memorable, in more ways than one. It always made us laugh the following day, when we would visit Ken and Vera, Ken would say, ‘I’m really not feeling the best today; it’s just oozing out of me, it really is oozing.’
We would laugh, at the description of Ken’s ailments as much as his belief that it was anything other than a pepper, laden with hot cheese, and suggest that maybe it was something that he had eaten. Ken would always reply, ‘Nonsense, I must have caught a bug. It’s that bloody doctor’s surgery; it’s a minefield for illness.’
So, was the Edam left on the side for a week, Ken?
But you have to admire that generation, there’s never any waste, and all vegetables are still grown in the garden. Ken even fattened up six turkeys for Christmas that year; little did I know how much involvement I would end up having in that little Christmas surprise.
The whole Hargreaves family would all pop over on a regular basis to watch the chicks growing into big old birds, and it was quite exciting for the children to see what would soon be on the Christmas table. As it approached Christmas Day, I assumed that Ken would soon be taking the turkeys somewhere to be ‘prepared’ for consumption, but no. One afternoon, there was a knock at my door and it was Ken.
‘It’s time.’
‘Time for what?’ I asked.
Ken answered, with a smile on his face, ‘It’s time you and I sorted those big birds out.’ And he didn’t mean in the lay-by near the local reservoir. He must have been close to bursting into laughter when he saw my face drop, but he kept it together and walked me over to his house. I had no escape route, as my wife and children were out, so I walked over with him, not wanting to ask the inevitable, ‘What are we going to do with them, Ken?’
As Ken opened the garage door, the answer was clear. It was like a scene from the film Reservoir Dogs. There were hooks everywhere, plastic sheeting in place, and a definite sense of fear in the air. For a moment I thought Ken might suggest we do Vera in, such was the grisly scene on show. In a flash Ken had collared one of the now freakishly large birds and was handing it to me, ‘Hold it still, man, and when I say pull, pull hard and quick!’
Hell, five minutes earlier I was scoffing some Quality Streets and watching GMTV, and now I was with a psychotic, eighty-five-year-old butcher, killing a twenty-two pound freak of a bird. In the end, it wasn’t that bad, of course, but for someone who had never had to kill his own Christmas dinner before, I was slightly disturbed.
As I grabbed the first bird and held it aloft, Ken got hold of a big metal pole and put the bird’s head in between the pole and some sort of specially prepared breeze block trap. He then shouted, ‘Pull man, pull!’<
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I lifted this flightless heavyweight up and, as commanded, pulled; it was like a crime scene, but with feathers and shit flying everywhere. When the turkey had eventually stopped moving I put it down and said to Ken, ‘Jesus, Ken, that was a bit hardcore! I’m pleased that’s over.’
He replied, ‘It’s not over, man, there are five more in there that need sorting out.’
After twenty minutes of leg-grabbing and neck-pulling, it was finally over and I could relax. Well, almost. As we walked further into the garage with the birds, Ken smiled at me and said, ‘Now we have these six big juicy birds to pluck, have you got enough stamina?’ – He had more banter than some of the lads in the changing room! We laughed for a long time about that experience. Ken said that he would make me gut them ‘next time’, but that I needed a few more hairs on my chest for that. It was traumatic enough to have to eat one on Christmas Day – I’m sure I saw it move!
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a next time, as Ken, God rest his soul, had a couple of pretty bad strokes and eventually died after a year and a half of being in and out of hospital and then a nursing homes. Even in hospital he would play up and keep the nurses on their toes, but for Ken, not being able to walk, drive, or have any real independence was so debilitating that I think the fight and spirit in him just faded away. As much as we would have a laugh on the ward, and then in the home, he knew that the end was in sight. I was devastated when he passed away. Still, I always smile when we have turkey at Christmas.
The 01/02 season was another one where early promise petered out, to be replaced with end-of-season nerves. A few things changed that year, with manager Kevin Wilson, Willo, being sacked and replaced by our former assistant manager, Kevan Broadhurst. Off the field, the club was also in a transitional phase; it wouldn’t be long before a lack of money would become a real issue.
Where's Your Caravan? Page 18