Harriet will still be excited this year, but the older two are ten and twelve years old and may now be having some doubts about Santa’s authenticity. That said, Cam did actually put his hands over his ears and shout, ‘La la la la, I can’t hear you.’ when his mum told him that the podgy man with the beard didn’t actually exist – we had thought it best for the poor, as it was his first day at secondary school.
Yesterday, Hattie took part in her pre-school nativity play titled Wriggly Nativity and what a show it was. Harriet had been singing the songs all week and after every one she would do a twirl in true Michael Jackson fashion, grab her crotch and shout, ‘Chicca, chicca, owwww.’
This was a very, very worrying sight. We persuaded her not to do that in front of the other parents, so it was a relief to see the show go smoothly, especially as during last year’s production she left the stage and ran to her mother shouting, ‘I don’t like it, Mummy.’
I bet there have been plenty of performers who wish they could have done that over the years, and at times I could definitely have left the field of play shouting the same thing!
It will be a sad day next year when Harriet does her school nativity play, as it will be the last such performance a Hargreaves does for a long while. Any grandchildren will be a while off; Cam currently claims he hates girls, and I won’t be letting any boys near my little girls until they are both at least thirty-five. I would have more children if Fiona would let me, but I think we are stopping at three.
Those last few hundred words were written pre-Christmas; I was due to crack on and complete the book (or at least writing about the next club) before the New Year, but some sort of freakish computer virus took hold of my laptop, which saw my writing curtailed for a couple of weeks. It is now sorted, so whoever was hacking away in his bedroom trying to get hold of my bank records has failed. I am slightly disappointed about this though, as had he seen the state of our current account, he might well have slipped me a few hundred pounds to tide me over. Our financial worries, of course, didn’t stop us (my wife) attacking Christmas as if it were her last. It was, as I think I have mentioned before, my first Christmas off in a long, long time, and so we (my wife) decided that we would be heading up north for the Yuletide period.
Already filled with a heavy heart knowing that I wouldn’t be sliding around in mud on Boxing Day and New Year’s Day, I did wince a bit at the prospect of a ‘family’ Christmas. You know what it’s like: the kitchen reaches about three hundred degrees by eleven o’clock, such is the power needed to cook a thirty pound Turkey, the kids are feeling ill by 9.30am having destroyed their selection boxes, and the atmosphere between long-lost family members is of Antarctic quality proportions. Thankfully (only joking) we were trapped in Devon for an extra few days, as the big cold snap of 2010 brought with it two feet of snow and a blocked road. We seized this opportunity to go sledging with the children, and followed this up by eating, drinking, and being merry with Amanda and Paul next door. It’s always an added bonus when next door have a wee dram of something to warm the cockles, no swinging involved, just good clean fun.
After digging a trench out of the village and wheel spinning for the first mile we eventually made it to the motorway. The car was, as usual, packed to bursting point; we had shoes and boots under our feet, the glove box was full of ham sandwiches, and the children were barely visible, but after a mammoth five and a half hours, three stops, four arguments and forty quid’s worth of service station crap, we made it to Fiona’s parents.
All my worries about a Christmas away from football subsided as Joan and Iain looked after us brilliantly, although I did dip in and out of a mild depression a few hundred times after seeing, hearing about or watching any football. It did help that Fiona’s parents live in a village called North Cotes where people are sometimes never seen again, and that they have a garden big enough to get lost in. Visiting my parents, Martin and Averil, and seeing a few old mates in Cleethorpes did evoke a few memories.
We went to my mum and dad’s for Christmas dinner; my brother Mark and his son Harvey joined us, and we all ate until we felt very ill. My parents’ hospitality knows no bounds, my dad would give you (if he liked you – he would also never speak to you again if you crossed him) his last fiver, and my mum would rustle you up a bacon bun in three minutes flat, after being woken in the middle of the night, such is her kindness and generosity. My dad has seen a few tough times with his business, but even in the dark days he would never give up or show weakness. Times were extremely tough when we had to move houses and business premises in the eighties, and I remember my dad walking back from his workshop every day, for what seemed like a few years, to rustle up an omelette for us boys at dinner time. He still had oil on his hands from mending bikes, but he never moaned – neither did we by the way, as telling Dad the omelettes were getting a bit monotonous after a few months would not have been the best idea in the world! My mum also worked full time and never moaned, even though she hated some of the jobs she did. We were pretty oblivious to all this; I was too busy chasing girls and kicking a ball about, and Mark was too busy being in a strop, but I know it must have been hard for them. Seeing them this Christmas, having struggled a bit with finances for my own family, just made me appreciate this all the more.
Our New Year’s Eve was spent at Fiona’s parents, and, as Iain is Scottish, we went full tilt and had haggis, bagpipes and plenty of tartan. All in all it was a great break, and although there were a couple of tense moments, it was nice to be with our folks for once. It gave me the opportunity to realise that Fiona and I are pretty damn lucky down here in Devon; we are still together, we have our children with us, and, within reason, we are free to do what we want. After seeing the problems faced by my brother, and Fiona’s sister Becky regarding broken relationships – what with who has the kids when and where – I am relieved that we have what we have. I am also mightily relieved that I didn’t run off with Sticky Vicky, although she would have come in handy for storing extra bits and bobs when packing the car.
With the play-offs fast approaching, I was rested for the last game of the season, against York. It can sometimes be good to play in the last game, but with two games in three days coming up, it probably wasn’t wise. I could so easily have missed all of these games though, not through injury – this time it was a bigger scare. Towards the end of the season we were heading to an away game on the team bus, nothing unusual there, and the journey was entirely as normal – normal being playing cards, abusing each other, and constantly eating. We sort of took turns to heat our food up in the microwave, which was in the middle of the coach down some steps, opposite the toilet. During a break from a marathon game of cards, I nipped down to check my food. Barry Quinn and Jordan Milson were also down there preparing to nuke their meals. We had a bit of a chat about something (probably Rob Duffy cheating at cards) when suddenly the middle door of the coach, and the one that I was leaning on, gave way. It flung open and I was clinging on to anything I could grasp to stop myself from hitting the white lines on the tarmac below, which were flying past at one hell of a rate. Miraculously, Quinny grabbed the front of my T-shirt, while I had just my fingertips on the outer edge of the door. I didn’t even dare to move; it was like a scene from Lethal Weapon, until fortunately, Jordan and Quinny managed to pull me in.
After they pulled me in, the three of us had a hug, as if we all knew the possible gravity of the situation. I ran up the stairs and down to our lovable driver, Nobby, and said, ‘Fuck me, Nobby, that door has just flung open and I nearly ate fucking cats’ eyes back there!’
He replied, ‘Yeah, I must get that door checked out, it’s been a bit ropey recently.’
No shit, Sherlock! I walked back down the coach, huffing and puffing about my ordeal.
I had to laugh the next day, while I was talking to Alan Hodgkinson, our goalkeeping coach, football legend and official top bloke, because he let on what Jim’s reaction to this had been. As news of what had happened filtered th
rough to Jim, he chuckled and said to the coaching staff, ‘Fucking hell, that’s a blow. That could have been just what we needed to get old Greavsie out.’
It wasn’t much better on the day either, I returned to my seat to tell the lads exactly what had happened. They sort of raised an eyebrow, then Rob Duffy said, ‘It’s your deal.’
What a bunch of wankers! Thanks again to Barry Quinn and Jordan Milson whose help definitely enabled this book to be written.
We were due to play Exeter City over two legs and, even though we were a bit hacked off about losing out on automatic promotion, and were still putting up with Jim consistently howling at us and telling us we were useless, we were excited about the play-offs.
The first leg went successfully, we played really well, and beat them 2–1 away, helped by a few thousand Oxford fans who made the journey down and cheered us on. The problem was that we should have won by a lot more than 2–1. Unfortunately, our centre-forward Chris Zebroski missed two gilt-edged chances late on, and during Jim’s post-match TV interview it was almost as if he sowed the seed of defeat for the second leg. He said something along the lines of, ‘Well, it’s not over by any stretch. We missed a few big chances, and with our home form and how things are, you never know what will happen.’
It was a message that sort of summed up Jim for me. He was a great bloke and knew the game inside out, but he could never seem to turn a negative into a positive; there was always an undercurrent of dread. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t Jim who went on to the pitch, and he couldn’t be blamed for our failures on it, but his body language (and actual language) was often that of complete fucking annoyance at everything. Darren Patterson tried his best to rally the troops, but Jim was a big character, and always had the last word. Towards the end of the season Jim had lost his main allies and assistants, in Andy Awford and Shaun North, and I think he took it very hard. It wasn’t Darren’s fault, but Jim was clearly pissed off that he no longer had ‘his’ men with him. Andy was a decent fella, as was Shaun North, whose path I would cross again very soon, but it was felt by the powers that be that they were surplus to requirements.
After that first leg we returned to the hotel, which was Nigel Mansell’s Woodbury Park complex, in Devon. It was nice to relax before travelling back the next day to prepare for the second leg, but after a sleepless night in a hotel with no outside windows and very little airflow, and with only forty-eight hours to get ready for the next game, I was shattered. I still felt as if my legs were full of sand on the Sunday night, and I had a game the next day. As much as I tried ice baths, massage and tablets, I just felt crap. I managed to sort myself out for the Monday night and we did go for it, but an inspired Exeter City, playing really good football, were better than us on the night.
After taking a 3–1 lead, the second leg was eventually lost on penalties – our keeper Billy Turley missing the last, despite being by far the best penalty taker the day before. It was a bizarre end to an emotional two years at the club, and, as I entered the office to see Jim a few days later, I knew it was the end of my time at Oxford United. He said that I had been brilliant for him that season as a player, and as a leader, but that he couldn’t forget what had gone on.
To be honest, I had read the script and understood – all I had wanted to do was to help get the club back in the league, I honestly hadn’t cared about a contract or about the money, I just wanted to right a wrong that I felt part of, whether or not I ended up staying afterwards. I played football for people like Andrea, who made our food at the training ground and who loved the club, for Jordan, our fitness trainer who had been brilliant for us all season, and for Lindsey and the ‘Brothers Grimm’, Neil and Paul. They deserved to see a bit of success for all their hard work, which is why I dug in and played fifty or so games. I wanted to earn success for them and my fellow players, not for any contract at the end. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have refused one, but I had undermined Jim to the players the season before, and I was wrong for doing that. My job was to play football, not to tell other people about who should have done what. My comments about Jim had emerged from my frustrations, at what could so easily have been avoided, boiling over. There had been a few highlights and a few goals to remember from the 06/07 season, and I really did enjoy it. The Oxford United lads were a brilliant bunch to work with, and the people in and around the club were spot on, but it just wasn’t to be in the end.
Anyway, I shook Jim’s hand and wished him all the best, apologised about saying what I had said the season before, and said that I had always tried my best for him, whatever had gone on between us, to which he replied, ‘I know you have, son.’
By the end of this season I had a slight complex about play-offs; this had been my third in three years, and my fourth all told. How much disappointment can one person take?
Well, now that the post-Christmas weather and gloom has relented a little, we are gradually getting back into the swing of things. The morning school run is still epic. I peel myself off the bed at about 7am to start on the pack-ups, and to get the children’s breakfast ready, and Fiona drifts in and out of consciousness for about twenty minutes, while cursing about having to get up and go to work. Harriet can be up at any time, and be in any bed at any time, so that is always an early test. We must actually put a lock on the bedroom door, because if little Hattie ever happens to walk in to our room late one night during after-hours ‘activities’, the poor girl will be scarred for life – don’t get me wrong we are not swinging from the chandeliers every night, but for a little girl, God only knows what the repercussions could be! An old mate of mine once told me that his son had walked in on him and his wife while he was in a certain position. The little boy asked why daddy was kissing mummy ‘there’, and quickly received a shocked and flustered reply of, ‘Oh, no, I’m just kissing Mummy better because she has a poorly … um.’
He still has nightmares about it (the dad that is!).
Cam is up around 7am. He shovels his Coco Pops in, throws his pack-up in his bag, and is off on his bike for school at around 7.30. The children’s pack-ups are all a little different – I know this is a football book, but I feel I have to share this with you as much in a plea for sympathy as anything, and also in case any of you reading can say, ‘It’s just like that in our house.’
Cameron, who is twelve, is eating adult-sized amounts of food, so his box contains about four cereal or chocolate bars of different varieties, a bag of crisps, two ham or cheese buns (or bap, cob or roll, whichever lingo you prefer) and an edible piece of fruit – to Cam, edible means an apple or banana only; any other fruit triggers his gag mechanism, which we blame on the organic chocolate puds we gave him as a baby. Isabella and Harriet have similar, although Issy doesn’t really like bread and Harriet asks for a cheese and ham bun, without the bread, and then asks for a separate bap/roll/cob. Finally to Fiona, who astounds me with the complexity of her food regime. Her pack-up, if she chooses to eat anything at all during the day, consists mainly of fresh air, but may sometimes have in it, in no particular order, some lettuce, some meat (if there is any left after the children’s survival packs have been done) and a ninety-nine point nine per cent fat-free yoghurt. Yummy!
My philosophy on food has always been the same, to eat pretty much what you want, in moderation, but to exercise a lot. Fiona’s mentality is a bit more simplistic: not to exercise and not to eat; well, at the moment it is anyway, because the amount we both consumed over Christmas, and, in fact, last Saturday night alone, would have frightened even the most hardened of foodies into dieting. We have also been having regular ‘cook offs’ with friends of ours, Jason and Sarah, and the standard has been getting higher and higher, to an extent where Jason and Sarah hosted a night in a Moroccan den complete with hookah pipes and a lamb tagine. We topped the evening off by dressing up as if we were on the set of the Arabian Nights, complete with belly dancing outfits and Moroccan hats. God knows what the neighbours thought when Fiona arrived dressed as a belly dancer,
and I was made up like Omar Sharif – swingers who dress up, eh?
Recently though, with the financial climate as it is, a budget bag seemed a bit more appropriate – the whole meal had to be done for ten pounds. Incidentally, our menu was tortilla chips with melted cheese to start, followed by pea soup, followed by homemade burgers with chunky chips and relish, finished off with a chocolate torte. Regrettably though, the budget was blown down at the local pub where we had far too many pre-dinner drinks, and returned home to burn almost the entire first and second courses.
I have definitely eaten a lot more since I have stopped playing, and much to my wife’s annoyance I have actually lost weight – it must be the stress!
In the mornings, when the food is done and Cameron has shot off on his bike to meet his mates, Fiona leaves for work, or I drop her off if I need the car (the BMWs went a while ago). I then rally the remaining troops and we head off for school. Harriet either goes in smoothly with no resistance, or, in her words, she ‘cries her eyes off’ and begs me to stay. I almost don’t want to correct mistakes in her speech because at the moment ‘basagne’, lunch ‘botch’, ‘basghetti bolognaise’, and ‘basgusting’ are just too cute. Add to that her constant shouts of ‘God almighty’, and ‘Come on, darling’, and I am always laughing too much to say anything. I had never heard anything like it when she was looking for her boots one morning. She must have overheard Fiona rushing around, because as we were sorting out stuff for the school run, we heard Harriet shout, ‘For God’s sake, where are my fucking boots?’
Where's Your Caravan? Page 28