I was due to see a specialist about the groin problem the day after the club’s Christmas get-together in London. I had seen him a couple of times before, and his diagnosis and treatment had always been incredibly accurate and helpful. The actual test to diagnose a hernia is very unpleasant indeed – after making me run on a treadmill for a few minutes (to antagonise the problem a little bit more, which makes diagnosis easier), Ian carried out an odd procedure. Without going into too much detail, it basically involved a finger being inserted in the hole underneath your scrotal sack (enough detail?). If the muscle inside grips the finger, you are fine, but if the muscle is loose then you have a muscle tear, and usually need a hernia op. Mine was the latter, and I hated the test.
Before seeing the specialist, I had the Christmas party to get through, and before I continue, please don’t think that such official club celebrations were common, despite what I have written over the last few pages. They were few and far between, and at Brentford, Martin would always insist that our wives or partners be present at any function or night out. The reasons for this were twofold – he wanted there to be a family feel to the club, and he definitely didn’t want the lads gallivanting around London on their own. As much as I always loved being with the lads, I always hated the thought of Christmas parties. I have been at about twenty-two Christmas parties, which might seem to contradict my previous statement, but I have always tried to steer the lads away from the bad taste of fancy dress outfits. The last thing I want to do to celebrate Christmas is to walk down the street dressed as a Smurf, next to a drunken Mr Blobby and a Power Ranger. I just think it looks crap, especially if it’s in the town of the club you play for. You are probably conspicuous enough in that town or city without dressing up as Vicky Pollard, or half of Batman and Robin. If I’m a working bloke walking down the street and I see a Premiership player stumbling towards me in wig and tights, I’m surely not going to be happy. I still find it difficult to understand why managers allow their players to dress up and go out and get hammered, inevitably surrounded by the club’s fans.
For this season’s Christmas party, Fiona and I were staying over in London that night. As is typical in these situations, my wife needed ‘something to wear’. It was like a scene from The Italian Job, with me racing a little Mini around the centre of London for about four hours, until Fiona eventually emerged from yet another expensive-looking store holding an expensive-looking bag, containing an expensive pair of jeans, which, of course, she only wore the once! My wife recently sold that same pair of jeans at a car boot sale, and when the woman kept bartering her down and down to about one pound fifty, I just threw them at her, saying, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, just take them, it’s the worst one hundred and seventy pounds I have ever spent!’
I am now banned from future car boot sales.
We all gathered at the function in Scalini’s, a restaurant in London. We had a good time, eating, dancing and making merry. The team also had a good laugh at my comedy toe – I had broken it, and it had swollen to look like something out of a cartoon. Martin Allen chased me around the room and squeezed it, which didn’t exactly help the cause, but it did make everyone laugh – it was like a Benny Hill sketch. As much as I laughed as well, that toe would go on to cause me some major grief.
Leading up to that weekend I had played a night game – in fact, it was the same one when my car had blown up – my damaged toe was giving me a bit of discomfort at the time, and when I finally returned home after the game it was unbearable. After a couple of hours of tossing and turning I limped downstairs and went into the kitchen searching for some pain relief. With all supplies gone, I decided to drill the nail and release the blood behind the toe. I did the normal man thing and put the needle over the stove to kill any germs and then sank it into the nail of my big toe. It is an immense relief when you have pierced the nail and the blood comes out, your toe immediately stops throbbing. I don’t know if that incident made it worse, or put me in the position I ended up in, but it couldn’t have helped. During the night, after the club party, I was really struggling with the pain. My toe and foot were huge; I was shivering and felt horrendous. I even went to the all-night chemist (useless) and put my foot in the ice bucket for an hour. (OK, I’d had some champagne beforehand, don’t judge me!) None of it helped. When I went to the specialist the next day, for treatment for my groin, he said, ‘I think we may have a bit of trouble here, Chris.’
I asked him why and he replied, ‘Have you seen the size of your leg?’
I hadn’t really noticed, but it was huge. Within ten minutes, an ambulance had arrived and I was on the way to hospital. I had septicaemia and would be on a drip for the next four days. I think there are three lessons here: don’t drink with a bad toe, don’t stick a needle in your own toe, and don’t let your manager squeeze your toe.
When I went back to see Ian about the groin, since he’d been able to do nothing the last visit, because of the urgency of my toe, I was in for even greater pain than from the septicaemia. If I hadn’t experienced it, I wouldn’t have believed it possible. Ian tried a few things to sort it out. I went on a drip for a few hours, to have some sort of chemical released into my bloodstream to mask the pain, and also an injection, one which goes down in the records as the worst I have ever had. I have probably had a hundred or so injections over my career, some a tickle, and some that smarted a bit, but this bad boy was something else – clearly far too large for use on a mere human. It even came with its own metal holder and a nurse to comfort me!
As Ian drove this horse needle through my pelvic bone I really did wince (I was at this point squeezing the nurse’s hand, which she had offered me as if to say, ‘Brace yourself’). He inserted a second needle into the big daddy of a needle, and I really did hope it would work. It did for about three months, and in that time I didn’t feel any pain in my groin at all; we played in some really good games and had a decent cup run.
During that cup run I had one of those moments that will always remain special to me. We were playing Luton away, they were riding high and would end up being promoted that season, and, leading up to the game, there was a bit of needling (no pun intended) going on between the two teams and their managers. The place was packed, with two or three thousand Brentford fans crammed into the away end. It was a tight game, but halfway through the second half I caught hold of a volley on the edge of the box and scored. Little Jay Tabb, our enigmatic winger (he would drift in and out of matches; he could light a pitch up with his ability, but was quiet and unassuming off the pitch), sealed the game for us and afterwards we walked over to the fans to celebrate. I saw my family at the front of the stand and picked my little boy Cameron up out of the crowd and onto the pitch. He was only a little titch at the time, but as I lifted him up and showed him off to the fans it was great; he just beamed away, and the fans all cheered as if we had scored a goal. It was a lovely FA Cup memory for us – Cam has absolutely no idea what I am talking about now, but at least I remember. My wife was also there, but she swears she can’t remember the game!
The groin injection wore off; I eventually seized up and it was decided that I would have to have an operation: a double hernia and groin repair. It was gutting, because it was nearing the end of the season but, if it all went well, I would still have an outside chance of making the play-offs in three weeks’ time. The lads were all delighted as we had agreed (had our arms twisted) to Martin’s idea of us only getting a bonus if we reached the play-offs. I could smell the Championship, decent football, and the wage increase that would come with it.
I was lucky, the groin operation went really well and I even recovered fast enough to make the play-offs. The hardest thing about the operation was being picked up and driven home by Fiona’s dad. Iain is a true gent of a man, but though he had recently undertaken an advanced driving course his skills seemed to go the other way; feeding the wheel like a learner driver when on the M25 was always going to be terrifying!
We played Sheffield Wed
nesday in the play-offs that year, and although we had beaten them at Hillsborough and drawn with them at home in the league, it wasn’t to be. Roared on by twenty-five thousand Sheffield Wednesday fans, they beat us away, and we couldn’t recover enough to beat them at home. It was the one time Martin changed his formation and tactics before a game, and I know he still regrets that, but either way, the Brentford dream was over.
The away fixture was also my five hundredth league game, and the Sky pundit that night was none other than Garry Birtles, the player I had made my debut with seventeen years before.
Between these play-off games, I had also decided to get my hair cut. I had seen the first leg on Sky, and had thought I looked a bit like a Hell’s Angel. This was backed up by a phone call from my mum saying some of the girls at work thought it was ‘ageing’. In a fit of vanity I did the unthinkable, and got the lot chopped off. The result was shocking. They say Samson lost his strength when he had his mane sheared off; well, I can empathise with Samson. As well as looking like Andrew Ridgeley in his Wham days, I felt like I had sandbags in my boots in that second play-off game. I knew it was bad at the pre-match meal when Deon turned to me and said, ‘Oh my God, what have you done?’
I said never again to any haircut and, although my club sponsor a few years later at Torquay United was a hairdresser, even there, the closest I’d get to a short back and sides was two centimetres off the back, and a head massage.
I mentioned earlier in the book that I have finally cut my mane off for good. It was a moment of real clarity. My neighbour Amanda (whose house is home to our daughter for most of the time, as her boyfriend, Will, lives there) is a hairdresser, and after having a chat one afternoon, we decided it was time. I had finished playing football, and couldn’t get away with that haircut for much longer. Amanda did a great job with both the haircut and the therapy needed for me to go through with the procedure. I looked at a few old recordings of my TV ‘punditry’ stuff with my long hair and I was in shock at how bad it looked – I looked like Ozzy Osbourne. (Thank you, Amanda, for bringing me back to reality.)
It was yet another blow to lose the play-offs, and again I felt I had fallen short. My body had taken one hell of a beating, and the daily commute was a major problem. It wouldn’t have been that bad if there had been other people to travel in with; we could have split the journey, but as I was the only ‘northerner’ travelling and because the training was so full-on, I didn’t think that carrying on at Brentford was a possibility.
After vehemently saying no for a month after the season had finished, Martin eventually conceded defeat and agreed to let me go. I was now thirty-three and my body could not cope with the constant stress of the driving, and our way of playing and training. So, the year contract I had left was ripped up, and we said our goodbyes. I only have good things to say about Brentford; it is a tremendous club, with great fans. As for Martin Allen, I am equally positive – he is a fantastic bloke. Just don’t pull out of a tackle when he’s your manager.
One final memory from that season again comes in the form of an off-the-field incident. The club’s end of season awards ceremony took place at a nice hotel in London and, as my wife and I were given the go-ahead to attend (my parents were down providing a much needed and very rare babysitting service), we decided to stay over. With Fiona not having been out for a while and with me finally being able to relax after another hard slog, we did have a few drinks. After being asked to ‘throw over’ the signed match ball to the table who had given the winning bid, one of the lads teed me up for a header which I couldn’t refuse. This resulted in the destruction of an array of plates and glasses. Fiona hadn’t avoided commotion either – she had somehow managed to fall over the sofa in the bar area. We thought we had stayed up until about 3am until we surfaced for breakfast the next morning, and were told that we had ‘retired’ at half ten. Clearly, we were starting to feel our age.
As the season had ended, and my contract had been torn up, I was starting to get a little bit concerned. While not yet a regular occurrence, my season had ended with my third play-off loss. That summer was spent on a beach, and, as usual, on the phone, trying to sort out my next club. I managed to whip Fiona off for a little break to Madrid, which basically involved rushing past masterpieces at a rapid pace. What a great city it is, but trying to cram everything in was hard, and all too soon I had to return to the UK to work out what was going to happen with my football career.
2005/06
The Hargreaves have had some success this week in the form of CH junior. Last night Cameron picked up an ‘Excellence in Exeter award’ at Exeter Cathedral for artistic and sporting endeavour. It was nice to see him rewarded for all his hard work. It’s incredible really, but he hardly has a night free what with the amount of sport he does and after school clubs he attends. He does cross country for the school and trains with the Exeter City academy three nights a week. As well as playing football for Exeter City on a Sunday, he also plays for the school football and rugby teams, and plays Ultimate Frisbee.
He is achieving high grades at school, but I know Cam would love to play football when he is older; in fact, I think he would love to play any sport, so long as it was at a professional level. However, for me, unless he plays at the very top, I would rather he found a career in something else. I hope that doesn’t sound ungrateful or elitist, but he is an intelligent boy and he loves engineering, and if you asked me whether I would rather him design bridges or play Second or Third Division football, the answer is simple, ‘Bye bye football.’
I want Cam to have the power to decide what he wants to do, and getting an education will give him that, playing lower league football won’t. Whoever said knowledge is power was spot on. It may sound ruthless, but it is true. I know parents sometimes want to live their lives through their children, but so what if they do? Yes, I want my son to play at the top level, and yes, I want him to get a good education, because as we all know, both scenarios will give him a comfortable life.
One thing for sure is that if he does go into football, Cam will not be taking the bullshit that I took as a young player. He also won’t be allowed to piss his chances of making it up the wall either.
As far as my girls are concerned they will not be allowed a boyfriend until at least twenty-one (I laugh as I type that – I think that might be wishful thinking – I know I have no chance, especially considering that Harriet is four, and already says she has a boyfriend).
In true CIA style I intend to get the playroom completely hooked up with the latest CCTV technology (maybe with a camera looking through my eye on a family picture). I want my girls to be able to spend time with friends without having to roam the streets, but I’ll be monitoring the situation from my control room with cigar in mouth and News 24 showing. If any Justin Bieber wannabes even try to go near my princesses, I will be in there like a flash and Mr Bieber will be out on his ear. Controlling, you say? Never – just protective!
The business model I had in mind has now changed, in so far as what I will be selling has now altered. I don’t know enough about the industry to go into a coffee shop or eatery, so I now have my eye on opening up a sports shop. An existing sports shop is available in Sidmouth and, with a big refit and some fresh new brands in there, I really think it could be a great business.
I am also eyeing up a job with BBC Radio Devon. It will probably go to a young student with no experience, but who has a massive armament of qualifications, but we shall see. Having made the decision to hang the boots up, it’s obvious that I have discovered finding work outside of football is tough. To earn the same amount of money as I have been used to is not a possibility, unless I retrain and become a doctor, or get a job as a club manager. Getting such a role could take three months, six months, even a year – maybe never – so until then, I have to do something constructive, otherwise I will go mad.
I have made the decision to pull some of my pension money out; this is something I didn’t want to do as that money had bee
n collected over twenty years of blood, sweat and tears, and was really for when I can’t work at all, or a severe rainy day. The fact that it is currently absolutely pissing down on the pension front is a parallel that cannot be overlooked, though; I have three hungry beaks looking up at me, Christmas is fast approaching, and my wife is so stressed I swear she’s moments away from a seizure. I have always had a pretty philosophical view of life, and I do believe that my time will come again. I also believe that I have already been one lucky boy. However, earning two hundred pounds a week for the part-time coaching, with an odd few hundred quid here and there for occasional TV work, is not going to keep the wolves from the door for ever; hence an emergency fund needed.
It does amaze me how some people plead poverty, and yet can’t be bothered to get off their arses and look for a job. I am generalising, and I do accept that for some people it is much harder than it is for me, but for many, watching Jeremy Kyle and smoking fags all day seems to be an OK way to live. Where do they get the money for the fags is the first question I ask? The second is why are some on the dole earning more than me for doing bugger all? The third question is how on earth can someone with no job afford to buy the latest PlayStation game on offer? The queue at the supermarket the other day to buy Tour of Duty was ridiculous. The government has got it all wrong. While I am in top rant form, how on earth have we found eight billion pounds to send over to Dublin, when the poor sods over here who have been swindled out of their pension monies and savings are just abandoned? Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Where's Your Caravan? Page 24