He then stared at me for a while again, something I came to realise he would often do when assessing someone, smiled a little bit, then said, ‘Right, let’s get this tied up then, Justin.’
I don’t think I had said anything at all by this stage. He carried on, ‘I want you to do what you did at Northampton for me, and we will get promoted.’
I said, ‘I’ll do my best’, to which he replied with both a twinkle and a slightly psychotic look in his eye, ‘Yes, you fucking will my son. Yes, you fucking will.’
I immediately liked Martin Allen. I know he is not everyone’s cup of tea; he can be controversial. Some players, chairmen and fans have found his unconventional style a bit too much, but for me he is a top bloke with a large heart and a big appetite to win. He is also fair – if you try your best, and if you are honest, you will get on with the man; if not, well, expect the unexpected.
During my time at Brentford some crazy stuff happened, but it was all part of the PR machine, to get us doing well and to make the club noticed. We were pictured painting the club’s training ground in pre-season; it was all for show, but it certainly got the message across – Martin wanted to show that the team was determined and ready to work, and that we were normal, hard-working lads who weren’t afraid to get our hands dirty. It wasn’t his only odd training technique. A few years later, when I had joined Torquay United, a teammate of mine, Lee Hodges, told me what Martin Allen had been like at Reading as assistant manager. He said that one afternoon Martin had made the lads queue up at a snack bar at the ground. He then told each individual player to order an imaginary drink or snack. Hodgy took his turn, ‘I’ll have a steak and kidney pie, please.’
Martin, who was looking on, responded, ‘Shock, you fat bastard!’
He then led them to the stand and told them they were watching themselves in an imaginary game. He wanted them to understand the fans’ point of view. He even got the lads to shout abuse at themselves; Hodgy said it was hilarious shouting, ‘Hodges, you’re fucking rubbish!’ – instead of someone else shouting it.
Pre-season wasn’t as hard as I expected, although maybe it was down to the fact that I had expected a Martin Allen pre-season to be extremely hard, and so had arrived back super fit. Either way, it was OK. The best parts about it were the daily chats we would have with the manager. He was brilliant at motivating the boys, and there would be tears in his eyes during most of his speeches, such was his fierce determination. He would then just stare at each player and then slowly smile – as if he had assessed him and found him worthy. Despite his force and determination, he wasn’t always serious. He often had us in tears of laughter with his banter; he really could rip the boys to pieces, but not in a nasty way. On one occasion, towards the end of the pre-season, the club had a BBQ. I’d arrived late, so Martin chucked me an apron, leaving me to do the honours. After cooking the BBQ, in an apron complete with fake tits and fanny, I felt ready for the new season ahead.
I didn’t foresee any problems with driving to Brentford because I was so keen to play, but the four or five hour round trip each day would end up being a major issue. Moving to Brentford was just not possible; everything was so ridiculously expensive, and the children had just moved schools, so I would leave for Osterley, via Heathrow, where the training ground was, at 6.30am every morning and thunder down the motorway to join a full-on training session. I am not exaggerating when I describe those sessions as full on; if Martin said jump, you only asked how high. A slight bonus to the location of the training ground was its position under the Heathrow flight paths. A well-timed landing could easily drown out Martin mid-speech.
The club was tipped for relegation that season, but the mood inside the camp did not reflect this at all; we had our eyes on the division above, the Championship. Martin had signed some really good players and, together with those already at the club, we had a decent squad. We had experienced players such as Deon Burton, Andy Myers, Isaiah Rankin, Scott Fitzgerald and John Salako, and some good young players in Jay Tabb, Stephen Hunt and Andy Frampton. We had also signed a couple of decent centre-halves in Sam Sodje and Michael Turner. Sam went on to get a lucrative deal involving a move to Reading, and Michael is now an established Premiership centre-half. Stephen Hunt is also now playing regular Premiership football – I know you are still pinching yourself, Hunty! My fellow midfielder Stewart Talbot, and stalwart right back Kevin O’Connor, added to a solid team.
The season went well; we were winning games and, through Martin, the club was getting some very good publicity. During our cup runs he decided that, to draw attention to us, him and the game in question, he would jump into the river of every city or town where we had a cup game. In any TV interview he agreed to do, he would promise to get in a word that he would ask us to suggest to him the day before. Instead of subtly fitting in the word ‘banana’, for example, he would just pile in. If the interviewer had asked, ‘So, what did you think of the first half, Martin?’ he would reply, ‘Well, banana, it was a pretty average affair, banana, banana.’
He was just as unpredictable in the changing room, regularly making the lads do press-ups during games. He once made John Salako give him twenty-five of the best of them at half time, and this a guy who had played for England, but you just didn’t argue with Martin Allen. To be fair though, Sal deserved them for missing a penalty in the first minute. Joking aside ‘Sal’ was a really great lad, and a top class player. He could have a laugh with the best of them, but, as far as training and looking after his body was concerned, he was first rate. It was brilliant to see such enthusiasm from someone who didn’t have to put it in, or who didn’t need the money – something he ‘accidentally’ reminded us one day when Martin had arranged for his mate to come in and speak to the lads about mortgages. When the guy introduced himself as a mortgage broker Sal interrupted him and said, ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll need to stay for this then, mate; I haven’t got one.’ He smiled at the lads and left. Chin up lads!
There was a massive range in the finances of the lads at Brentford. A few of the boys didn’t have a ceramic recepticle to piss in, but the car park did give an indication of there being some serious money about; a clear sign that some of the boys had played at a decent level. Andy Myers rolled up every day in his obscene forty thousand pound American jeep, Deon Burton arrived in his seventy grand Range Rover, and Sal came in any one of several sixty grand motors. The credit crunch hadn’t exactly arrived at this point.
I had to laugh when Andy Myers came in one morning and asked the lads to look for an earring he had dropped in the car park. I told him to chill out and not to worry about it, to which he replied, ‘It was three grand, mate.’
Hell! It was worth more than some of our cars. After three months of driving the Jaguar I had recklessly bought, I had to get rid of it, and I wasn’t the only one. I said to Deon one morning, ‘That car has to go; it’s costing me forty quid a day to get in to work.’
He replied, ‘I know, I’m putting seventy a day in mine.’
I don’t think he missed the seventy quid though; I think he just found it a pain in the arse to keep having to fill it up.
I bought an old Renault Laguna and drove that instead. It’s funny really, what with the image of footballers as it is, and feeling you ought to live up to it, you tend to want to keep up with the Joneses, but once you’re all on the same pitch it doesn’t really matter. I remember driving that old Laguna to a televised Sky game one night, thinking that I should really be in a shiny flash new motor. I parked it around the corner, rolled into the club, gave it the large one, and picked up the Man of the Match champagne – presented by Sal, which was all the better as he had, of course, thought he had won it – and drove back to Northampton. I know the idea ‘if you feel good, you play well’ can have some justification, but it’s all bollocks really – it’s all in the head. Knowing that didn’t stop me buying Fiona a brand new Mini Cooper – at least one of us could feel good about what we drove.
I did som
e serious mileage that season; I succeeded in blowing two cars up. The second, and newer Laguna, gave in late one night, just outside Northampton. As I was nearing home, I pulled off a slip road and the engine just kept revving. I stopped in a lay-by and watched as the engine seemed to explode – there was smoke everywhere. It was lucky, and unbelievably coincidental, that a fire engine happened to be passing at the time. It pulled over, the lads sorted it out (by filling the car with foam), and then one of them said, ‘I hope you have a warranty, pal.’
I stood in the lay-by that night at about 2am, thinking three things: was I doing too many miles? did I have warranty? and please, Carl, be in!
By Christmas we were in a play-off position, and Martin decided it was time for us to have a break. We had really been pushing it, training and playing at one hundred per cent. I had even managed to play with a torn calf muscle. It is amazing what you can put your body through, especially when you have a manager telling you he ‘needs’ you to do it. I got through that particular game, a third round FA Cup tie, with the help of a few sessions in a hyperbaric chamber, aided by some serious will power and a manager who could talk you into most things. Wayne Bridge was in the same chamber having the same oxygen treatment for his broken leg. It is a popular form of treatment at clubs for rehab purposes, with most American football clubs having their own chambers on site. It is also a very important and beneficial form of therapy for people with far more serious injuries or debilitating illnesses. It is a bit embarrassing though, when you see what injuries and illnesses other people have who use the oxygen treatment, especially when you are in there with them.
I was in the oxygen tank one day, and it was full – there were about eight people in there. Before long, the subject turned to ‘who had what’. At this point I started to feel slightly ashamed. Each person took a turn explaining what had happened to them to make them end up there, whether it be multiple sclerosis, or cancer, or, in one case, a guy had had his foot amputated. Then the time came for me to explain my horrific injury. I was dreading my turn but I introduced myself and said, ‘Well, I have torn my calf and my club want me to be fit to play on Saturday.’
There was a slight silence, and then everyone just burst into laughter, me included. Everyone saw the funny side of it. It was incredible to see how positive people were, even those who had suffered awful pain and injury. The therapy is not actually officially recognised by doctors, and so getting treatment is hard. Apparently there is no clinical evidence that it works, but you try telling that to the guys I spoke to, certainly those who had MS. They said that it was a vital part of their lives, not only as a treatment, but also as a way of meeting, talking with and helping each other. As far as injuries are concerned, the theory is that it helps by sending more oxygen to the area of trauma enabling it to heal faster. As far as calf strains are concerned, it did enough in a week to enable me to hobble onto a pitch and play football.
Brentford’s overnight stays at hotels were a big event. The players would eat their evening meal and then head off to their respective rooms. I shared with Stewart Talbot, and, after around an hour of us being in our room, there would always be a knock on the door. In would walk a waitress with four pints of Guinness from the manager (in this case Martin) and a note. The note just said, ‘Keep it going, you old bastards.’
Let’s just say that the management team would also make the most of their overnight stay, and they didn’t have to worry about playing the next day. It’s the same at most clubs, and I can testify to it being the same at international level as well.
On one occasion while at Brentford we had all been given a weekend off as we had no game, and so my wife and I decided to meet up with Daryl and Katrina in Manchester. They were staying in a hotel called the Lowry, and after a bit of internet searching, we got a room at the same hotel and headed up there. We checked in, our bags were dispatched to the room, and we were then accompanied to it by a member of staff. As we entered the lift, we were joined by a lady whom I sort of recognised, but couldn’t put a name to. We said our pleasantries and waited for the lift to get to our floor. As it did we stepped out, along with the lady whom my wife had now subtly informed me was Nancy Dell’Olio, Sven-Göran Eriksson’s girlfriend. All four of us walked down the corridor, and at the same time as the concierge opened the door to our room, Miss Dell’Olio knocked on the door opposite ours. I let Fiona go into our room first, and as the door opposite opened for Nancy, who should be standing there, complete with white robe? None other than a surprisingly small-looking Sven-Göran Eriksson. He saw me, we both said hello, and then both doors were shut. Fiona and I immediately took turns to look through the small hole in the door to see what activity would happen opposite. Wouldn’t it be funny if he had done the same, just to check out what was going on? I somehow suspect he didn’t, though. Fiona and I got ready and headed up to Daryl and Katrina’s room to tell them about our neighbours, and to raid their mini bar instead of ours.
After having a nice meal and a bit of a night out, we headed back to the hotel. We walked into the bar expecting it to be quiet, but there were still quite a few people in there. The entire England coaching staff was in there, with a table full of drinks, a few hangers on, and definitely no sign of Miss Dell’Olio. Talk about making the most of it!
Brentford were sponsored by Qatar Airways at the time, but it was still a big surprise when we were told that we would be having a Christmas break in Abu Dhabi. It was an even bigger surprise when the manager told us we would be travelling there First Class and that the management team would be in standard. It was typical of Martin Allen to do something like that though – the same way as it was typical to put us in standard on the way back, and himself and the management team in First Class. A good lesson in there somewhere.
The trip was fantastic, to have a bit of sunshine on your back in winter is a good feeling, and the team spirit was, understandably, high. Abu Dhabi is a strange place, so much luxury in such desolate surroundings, and so much industry going on to make it bigger and better. It is incredible to see the progress that has been made there, on what was just a desert a few years ago. The latest F1 Grand Prix has just been held there, at what must be one of the most incredible circuits in the world. Everything in Abu Dhabi, and at its neighbour Dubai, is geared to being the best in the world and the attention to detail is phenomenal. I know the property bubble may have burst in Dubai at the moment, but drinking a few cold beers and smoking a hookah pipe with Martin Allen and the Brentford squad certainly goes down as one of my better trips abroad with a team of players. There are no nightclubs allowed in Abu Dhabi, but what you will find underneath most hotels in the region is something that is very, very similar. The only difference being that you don’t pay to get in and the clientele are mostly ladies who are doing the ‘night shift’.
During the 04/05 season, I was really putting in a shift myself both on and off the field of play. My body was being battered by the amount of second balls I was attacking. Our main tactic was for Stuart Nelson, our goalkeeper, to plant the ball high and far to Deon Burton, our striker, to knock it down to the midfield; we would then attack it as if our lives depended on it, ‘encouraged’ by Martin’s constant shouts of, ‘Second ball!’
Let’s be honest here, there are plenty of clubs in the Premiership who win games doing exactly the same. The tactic was very effective and, although it meant a few cuts and bruises, and ten bookings for me by Christmas, it worked.
We were given a few days off around Christmas and, to be honest, I wish we hadn’t been. I had arranged to meet up with Stuart Talbot and Scott Fitzgerald in Windsor for a bite to eat and a few drinks. As you can guess, knowing my history, the food part soon disappeared and the ‘few’ drinks turned into a ‘few more’. I had stopped drinking lager years before, and, to be honest, I hardly drank anything at all at that point, but as the lads were sinking them quicker than you could say, ‘I’m gonna regret drinking ten pints of “wife beater” big time in the morning.’
I joined them for a few gallons of the fizzy stuff. Unfortunately, after several pints, the evening became a bit blurry. Here I was trying to enjoy myself on a now rare outing to the pub, but I had now (according to what I was told) turned into a complete nutter. After inviting myself to sit with a few couples having a quiet night out (please don’t ask me why), telling the bouncers they were a bunch of fairies (they saw the funny side, fortunately for me) and giving a lad five pounds to ride his BMX to the next pub (great initiative shown from the lad in question), my friends said my behaviour just got more random (hell, and I thought that lot was random). The last time they saw me, I was trying to show off by doing bunny hops on this poor lad’s BMX – a proud moment in one of England’s finest historical towns.
To cut a long story short, I ended up ringing my wife (so she tells me) and asking for a lift, which, considering she was in Northampton, was a big ask. I eventually ended up sleeping in Fiona’s Mini (I had borrowed it) as I couldn’t find Stu’s house. (The car was parked only just around the corner.) We always learn lessons from our mistakes, and you could make a rule book from my mistakes in Windsor alone, but I did learn three things in particular from this experience: don’t drink lager (especially Stella), don’t visit Windsor unless it’s with your wife, and take a bigger car to sleep in.
It was during this part of the season that I was getting some really bad pain in my pubic bone and groin area (sorry to give you such detail). This was the result of a combination of playing and training hard, exacerbated by being in the car for five hours a day. The area that was injured is called the ‘pubis symphysis’ and such injuries can cause a really nasty and very lengthy problem. I cannot totally explain the pain; I’m nervous about comparing it to childbirth, in case I get abusive letters, but I was in excruciating agony. It must have been worse than childbirth (much worse!).
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