Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  While writing this book, it has been hard to remember all the games I have played – after seven hundred or so, and probably two hundred more reserve games at Grimsby Town, many just seem to mingle into one. There are some exceptions. I do actually remember playing against Blackpool four or five times, with different clubs – some won, some lost, and some when I could easily have sat with the St John Ambulance men and women, and not be missed, such was the lack of activity down the left wing. I suppose it’s easier to remember games against Blackpool because it’s always freezing cold, and you can always see the tower as you drive into town.

  As I type away now, looking back on where they were, it seems incredible that Blackpool are playing in the Premiership. Ian Holloway has done a miraculous job with the team, and it makes a refreshing change to see a manager do post-match interviews which actually tell it how it is. He has been brilliant for the Premiership and if he can keep them in it this season it would be an even greater achievement – watch this space.

  Anyway, a Tuesday night game for Northampton Town in the 01/02 season that I will never forget was playing Middlesbrough away. I had played at the Riverside Stadium a few years earlier with Hereford United, when we were completely battered by Ravanelli, Juninho and Emerson for ninety minutes. Surely that was, and will be, their finest team ever, but the fact that some of our lads were more interested in getting shirts that night than actually playing football didn’t half piss me off – they were all told this in no uncertain terms at full time by an irate long-haired and exceedingly tired midfielder.

  This time, Northampton Town were drawn against them again in the Carling Cup, and the lads were really up for it. However, the previous weekend had seen me witness the death of a good friend of mine. Northampton Town had played on the Saturday against Colchester United, and, although we had lost, I had managed to notch my first goal for the club, which always gets the monkey off your back. The next day the family were planning to watch my mate ride in the preliminary rounds of the British Motorcross Championship. Kenny Wyatt was a brilliant Cleethorpes rider who had made a return to racing after a turbulent few years away from the sport. He was due to watch me play on the Saturday but was running a bit late so we agreed that I would just see him at the track, which was just outside Oxford, the next day. When we arrived, Kenny had already completed one race but was having pain in his groin. While, in a childish way, such injuries can be funny, I could totally empathise with his condition. It was also an injury that is made worse by racing, since you are constantly gripping onto the bike with your legs. I suggested that he put a couple of ice blocks on both sides before his next race, and raided the children’s pack-ups to get some for him. Before the next race, Kenny asked me if I thought he should ride. I said that he should only do it if he felt right, but that if he felt OK, ‘Then go for it.’

  I keep thinking back to that question and know that, even if my answer had been negative, it would probably have made no difference whatsoever. Because of the type of lad Kenny was, he was always going to race. If he had had a proper team, including medical staff, around him at the circuit, then maybe he wouldn’t have ridden in that second race. It was hard for riders like Kenny who were trying to compete with the big teams, and the set-ups and bikes that they had. To even stand a chance, such riders always had to push it to the absolute limit. As we saw Kenny battling away in the race, you could tell that the bike was struggling to keep up with the front-runners and that he was a bit out of sorts. When his bike failed to appear on one of the laps and I saw some dust in the distance, I immediately knew something was wrong. I left the children with Fiona and ran over the brow of the main hill at the track. Kenny’s bike was flat on the ground; he lay beside it, motionless.

  The next thirty minutes were a blur. People were milling about trying to help Kenny, but the medical team seemed to take an eternity to arrive. I can’t say whether swifter action would have saved his life, but he seemed to lie there so long on the cold track that day. I can’t help but feel that proper help did not arrive quickly enough. I wish now that I had moved the people out of the way who were trying to help, but were actually doing little other than panicking, and had tried to do something for him myself. At the time I just felt helpless, and stood with Kenny’s mum and his bike man and good friend, Alfie, not knowing how to help. My young children were now wondering what was going on and my wife was doing her best to distract them, but the whole situation was just terrible.

  At one point, Kenny moved his leg, which we thought was a good sign, and when the ambulance eventually arrived and Kenny was driven off to hospital, we still had hope that he would be OK. However, as we followed the ambulance, it suddenly stopped in a lay-by en route – I knew then that it was something extremely serious, and he must have taken a turn for the worse. The ambulance took off again, and after parking our car and quickly sorting out the children, I ran down to the A and E entrance. As I was approaching the entrance, all I saw was Kenny’s mum walking out in floods of tears. She looked up at me and cried, ‘He’s gone, Kenny’s gone.’

  I put my arms around her, and then could only watch as Kenny’s family hugged in grief and disbelief.

  I felt sick as I walked back to the car to see Fiona and the children; I phoned my dad, who had helped Kenny with his bike for years and who was very close to him. I just said, ‘Kenny’s died, Dad, he has died.’ I don’t think my dad could actually take it in – his son telling him that Kenny, someone he had helped for years, and whom he was so fond of, had died on a track. A brilliant and charismatic young lad had tragically died, and I had lost a good friend.

  On the day of the game, I was still in shock at Kenny’s death, and so had travelled up separately that morning. I got to my hotel room, made a cup of tea, sat down on the bed, and turned the TV on. In the early afternoon of what was already a very surreal day, something else had happened that would change the world for ever. As I turned on the TV and looked at the screen, the first thing I saw was footage of a plane crashing into the side of a skyscraper. It didn’t take long to realise it wasn’t a film, and it looked as if there had been a terrible accident. I turned the TV up, and there was confusion everywhere. The camera suddenly switched to another shot and showed another plane ploughing into another enormous skyscraper. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and was glued to the screen as the events unfolded. I don’t think anyone immediately understood the magnitude of what had happened, but the devastation was horrific. I’m sure that for anyone who was watching, the sight of those towers tumbling down was something that would be etched in the memory for ever.

  I was on autopilot as we played that night, as were a lot of the players. Thoughts both of Kenny and the day’s events raced through my mind. After leaving my boot in Dean Windass’s head (we were old mates from Hull!), and playing very well but losing, the game was over and I could finally reflect on what had been one hell of a few days. Our assistant manager, Russell Slade, pulled me to one side after the game and said, ‘You were magnificent son, a different class, well done today.’

  The fact that the pitch was like a bowling green and that I wasn’t even thinking about the game may have helped me to play well, but losing meant the day was definitely a bittersweet one.

  It was sad to see Willo go. He had done a really good job for the club in gaining promotion, and then keeping them in League One, but with relegation on the cards, the decision was made to relieve him of his duties. Kevan Broadhurst replaced him that November (unofficially, Kevin Wilson left in September). Kevan was another decent fella, and although I had a few disagreements with him about performances and tactics, I could recognise that he was a good coach – he just didn’t like my style (of play or of character!). Northampton Town were getting sucked into a relegation fight, and, with only a few games to go, we had to win our home game against Wycombe Wanderers to be able to survive.

  The season had gone very well for me, and I was beginning to get a lot of stick from the lads as they were convince
d my dad must have been voting for the man of the match every week. I assured them that my dad was hardly ever present and that I would gladly share the champagne. (I lied about the second part.) I even won the champagne after a game in which I had played like my Auntie Margaret (I never saw her play, but I suspect she might not have been a natural). When the announcement came that the sponsors had voted for me, I was almost embarrassed to go into the sponsors’ lounge to accept the award. I felt even more embarrassed when some of the sponsors told me they had meant to vote for Marco Gabbiadini, but that some of their number 10 votes were mistaken for number 20. However, they said I was, nevertheless, welcome in there, and joked that they hadn’t seen me for a whole two weeks! I accepted with dignity, and walked passed ‘Gabbers’ with ‘his’ champagne and a wry smile.

  The game against Wycombe at home (on 6th April) was, as is usual for a relegation decider, a tense affair, but I was quite relaxed going into the game. I had arranged a bit of a party for Fiona that Saturday night for her thirtieth birthday, so the night before the big game I was rushing around making sure that everything was in place. It was the right decision to be relaxed – after being 1–0 down, I managed to score the equaliser, following up with another header to make it 2–1. We ended up winning 4–1 and survived the drop. The night went pretty well too, I picked up the club’s Player of the Year award at the annual award ceremony, and then rushed to Fiona’s party. After scoring a couple of goals, picking up the Player of the Year award, and then getting together a load of our closest friends for an almighty knees-up, I felt that the day had gone as planned!

  I wish I had been a bit more relaxed with my football during my career, because I do think it brings the best out in a player. By relaxed, I obviously don’t mean not trying or not being bothered; I just mean approaching games and seasons with a bit less tension flying through the system. In comparison to a lot of lads, I’m not too bad; I have witnessed pre-match rituals including players saying prayers in the toilets, some having several tots (glasses!) of whisky before a game, and one lad even pretending to eat a bag of peanuts before every game. (He mimed the process. Everyone who saw it was curious as to how this particular ritual had come about, but no one wanted to ask him, for risk of putting him off his game.) Still, whenever I have felt relaxed, I have enjoyed playing a whole lot more, and tended to have played better too.

  Fiona and I had decided to get married that summer, and what a day it was. It was 1st June, scorching hot, we had secured the use of Ripley Castle, on the outskirts of Harrogate, and I was marrying my childhood sweetheart. I can think of worse ways to spend a summer’s afternoon.

  My stag do was another memorable affair. My brother Mark organised a little break in Prague for eight of us. It hadn’t become the stag destination of choice it has now, so it still had that bit of mystery. The people in the group just made it even better. As well as my brother, the Birmingham contingent of Wayne, Paul and Andy came, as did Chatty Chapman from the northern section, leaving Paul McGregor, Daryl Burgess and myself to make up the football part of the squad. Normal stag do shenanigans soon began. Being naked but for a pair of sunglasses, with two beautiful girls for company, should conjure up a pleasant image for most men, but with the lads looking on, ten other girls present, and a room full of odd looking ‘regulars’, it did have its drawbacks. Yes, we did frequent a few places not in the official guide-book.

  We had a brilliant time though, drinking absinthe and beer in the day, followed by absinthe and beer at night, but some of the best laughs were at the most unexpected times. It was torrential on one of the days, but we decided to do a bit of sightseeing for an hour or two. The sight of eight hungover lads in luminous waterproof tourist jackets walking through St Vitus Cathedral must have been hilarious. Our group comprised two lads with hair down to the shoulders, three mean-looking black guys – one with dreadlocks down his back, a dead ringer for David Walliams, but fatter, a young Bruce Forsyth, and a double for Vinnie Jones. What goes on on tour does have to stay on tour, but we were relatively well behaved, and the only thing we brought back with us from that trip was (a few bottles of) absinthe. This is the stuff that, infamously, drove Van Gogh to part with his own ear. It has been watered down no end since his time, but still packs one hell of a punch.

  A few weeks after returning from Prague, my brother Mark, who was staying with us for a while, Duncan Spedding, who had bottled the stag do big time (sorry Dunc, but you know you did), and I decided to reminisce, assisted by a few shots of the green stuff. One thing led to another and before long the three of us were in trouble. Dunc was ill for three days afterwards, Mark couldn’t even get into his work gear the next day, and I actually fell off the treadmill at the club that morning. (My years of partying training had obviously helped somewhat.) It was evil stuff.

  The funny thing was though, I had bought my dad a few bottles of it on the journey back, more for the novelty factor than anything, and although he accepted them with good grace I thought that they would remain at the back of the drinks cabinet for the next ten years. But no, I phoned my mum one night and after chatting away enquired as to how Dad was getting on. She replied, ‘Oh he’s fine son: he’s just sat here having a glass of that stuff you brought him back from Prague. He has a couple of glasses a night with water!’

  Jesus – drinking the stuff is bad enough but prolonging the agony with water is just downright torture – northern grit or what? He certainly put his sons to shame!

  Despite the company, I survived the stag do – I was free, and alive, to marry. As a young lad, I really pushed the boundaries of our relationship to the limit, but we stayed together, just. I cannot put into words how much of a good person Fiona is – all I know is that having children with her and marrying her were the best things that I could ever have done. Had I not, I have no doubt that I would have drunk a hell of a lot more, would have slept with a lot more women, and would probably have been at many more clubs. Actually, when I put it like that … Joking aside it was definitely meant to be, although she may disagree with me after having being put through hell by me for twenty years, but let’s not ruin the moment!

  The day itself was crazy: Fiona stayed at the castle with friends and family, to be pampered (drink champagne) and preened, while I was at home at my parents’ house with our two little babies. I definitely drew the short straw there; in fact, on the morning of the wedding I got the kids ready, drove two hours to get there, and had a last minute shower and shave ten minutes before we met the registrar. Yep, get out the violin (speaking of which, did I mention the string quartet?).

  It was, however, a classic wedding day. The location was incredible, the sun was blistering hot, one of our friends sang our first song, Katrina (Daryl’s wife) fell over the chaise longue in the drawing room, some relatives didn’t even last till the meal (let’s call it ‘heat exhaustion’), someone got nicked on their way to the wedding, and my brother had a major altercation with his girlfriend. All in all, it was the perfect day!

  Having a two hour champagne reception in thirty-five degree heat was a major factor in some of the above incidents, but I quite like the fact that our wedding was eventful. Fiona and I had agreed that the speeches should be done before the meal so that everyone could enjoy it and relax, but by the time the ceremony had taken place most of the guests had already had six or seven glasses of champers. Seeing my Uncle Sid frog-marching one of the waiters back up to the castle for more ‘refreshments’ was a bit worrying, but it was only a bit of harmless arm-twisting. I was delighted that we had got all of our old friends and our family together, to share a great day. Fiona and I will always remember that day, for obvious reasons, but we look back with particular fondness on some of the wilder stuff that happened. I haven’t even mentioned the late-night chocolate cake/champagne/wedding dress combination, which, unsurprisingly, became very, very messy.

  I finished proceedings off that day by saying a few words – that the bridesmaids had really made an effort and it just
showed what a good make-up bag could do, and, of course, that I hoped everyone had been generous with their gifts. Then it was official, we had become Mr and Mrs Hargreaves, we were now husband and wife.

  Having our children with us did make the wedding a little more interesting. Bizarrely, Fiona and I actually ended up being married to our son Cameron. He had started playing up a little bit just as the registrar mentioned our names, so before Cameron truly exploded into tears, and ruined the service, the registrar said his name. However, it ended up, ‘Do you, Fiona, take Christian to be your lawful wedded husband, and … Cameron!’ Hell, it was like a wedding in the deep south of America! Even when Wayne sang our first song, brilliantly I might add, Isabella ran in screaming, so we scooped her up and she joined us for the first dance. It didn’t matter though, having our family included in our wedding only made it better. After several more hours of dancing and drinking, we were played out by Daryl, who had brought his decks and record collection for the night, bringing a bit of old school to a very old venue. Seeing my Auntie Maureen dancing to Cypress Hill takes some beating.

  We then had a short, but lovely, honeymoon in Sorrento. Swanning around the Amalfi coast for a few days topped off a brilliant week for us. I had wanted to keep it as a surprise for Fiona, but family friend Guy Allen bowled over to us both at breakfast the morning after the wedding: ‘When are you taking this lovely lass off to Italy then, lad?’

  What chance have you got? Guy was a one in a million though; he was generous to a fault, and always filled a room with his charisma and presence.

  That summer was pretty damn good really, if a little bit excessive, especially when it came to trips away. After our relegation escape, the football club had taken the team on an end-of-season holiday. We were delighted that the club was taking us away, although when we heard that it was to Benidorm, the image of handkerchiefs on heads, and of ‘Sticky Vicky’, immediately sprang to mind. Incidentally, we did see ‘Sticky Vicky’ and she was certainly entertaining. She entered the arena like a prize fighter, complete with robe and music, and, after seeing more household goods appear from you know where than you’d see at a Jamie Oliver party, we left the arena slightly bewildered and a little bit scarred. Even if they were the right kind of item, you certainly would not want to use the ones used that night while working through one of Jamie’s recipes and sipping on your Pinot Grigio.