Where's Your Caravan?

by Chris Hargreaves

  As we held the laughter in, Jenny ran up saying, ‘Oh dear, you might just have to have a quick duck under it darling, or leave it for tonight.’

  Kev was beside himself though. ‘Leave it? Are you crazy? I can’t do that!’

  After about ten minutes of screams and shouts of pain, we witnessed Kev trudging in looking as if he had spent a week on a sunbed. He was a sore shade of red. The sight that greeted Kev was even worse though – Jenny had brought some strawberries and chocolate sauce with her, and while Kev was screaming away, we had got to work on the forbidden food. It was Kev’s worst nightmare – me and his lovely girlfriend Jenny in close cahoots, chocolate sauce and no shower facility. It was hilarious, as over the course of the next few days Jenny or I would quickly switch the cold-water tap back on, run up for a shower ourselves and then shout back down to Kev, ‘You’re not going to believe it, it’s working now.’

  He would shoot up and take his gear off, ready and waiting for his turn, and when eventually he got in, I would then run back down and turn the cold-water tap off. He would have a few seconds of normal water and then he would be out, shouting down, ‘No, no, it’s gone again! I’m burning.’

  I swear I saw him close to tears one night. He ran a scalding hot bath only to have to wait forty-five minutes for it to cool down while doing doggies with a pan of cold water. He came downstairs a broken man, looking like an overheated Phil Mitchell, saying, ‘And now I have missed the football.’

  I couldn’t carry it on much longer; it was too cruel, and so after a week I eventually turned the cold water back on without him even having a hint of suspicion. I told him over a coffee about a week later, and, although he saw the funny side of it, he was deeply offended by Jenny’s involvement – hell, you should have seen her go with the strawberries and chocolate sauce when you were upstairs, mate!

  We both learnt quite a lot from those few weeks of living together. I learnt that being a nice person, turning lights off, closing doors, driving sensibly, not using foul and abusive language, and being fully clothed most of the time, was actually possible. And you will be pleased to know that Kev can now sometimes be seen late at night gorging on chocolate, swearing like a trooper at the TV, and drinking red wine, all this while completely naked with the house lit up like a Christmas tree. As you can see we both gained tremendously from the experience.

  The season started incredibly well; we were winning plenty of games and things were great around the club. Because Torquay was, and is, so far away from most players’ and their wives’ or girlfriends’ families, the friendships formed were pretty strong – they had to be a bit deeper than the normal football ‘ships-in-the-night’ friendships. We all got on very well and I’m sure that helped us on and off the pitch. The club provided a family room on a match day where the children could watch DVDs and play (and the mums could drink wine!), and on the field the players had an incredibly strong team spirit.

  Torquay United is also almost unique in that you can run from the ground down to the sea to have a swim. Most clubs have ice baths, whereas we could swim in beautiful waters down at Babbacombe Bay for free. It also gave us the chance to see the effects the cold water had on poor old Kev. To be fair to him he did offer to show us, and the sight that we saw convinced us he’d never be able to father children. (Sorry Kev, it’s just too easy!)

  Let me just get back to what I was talking about – I had to leave the laptop, and this, in a rush three days ago, and I haven’t returned to it since; my head has been buried in paperwork for sports shop suppliers, as well as wholesalers, designers, solicitors, accountants, and, not forgetting, the bank!

  We eventually left Toddy’s, mainly because there was nothing left in the house. Sky TV was the first thing to go, heating was the second, and the actual TV was the third thing removed. We declined Toddy’s kind offer of a couple more weeks in a cold room staring at the wall, so while he walked out with the sofa, Kev and I moved out ourselves. Fiona and the children were now ready to come down, and, by this time, I had sorted my family a nice apartment to stay at in Topsham, a lovely little port outside Exeter. I had also met the head teacher of a local school, Karen Hadley, who had been really helpful in getting the children places. The fact that she supported Torquay United didn’t do me any harm at all.

  Playing week in, week out at my ripe old age was enjoyable but painful, it required a lot of TLC, and, to be honest, it also requires a fair amount of will power to grind out a season in the Conference. With my back still occasionally playing up, through Stevie Woods, a fellow teammate who was also in need of the odd MOT, I met a brilliant chiropractor by the name of Richard Carr-Hyde – I have mentioned him earlier, in the context of AC Milan.

  In the two and a half years I was at the club I saw Richard nearly seventy times. These visits would not be funded by the club, but I saw it as well worth the money. It meant I was able to play football and earn money, and the mission I had given myself, to see Torquay United promoted, was still in sight. It is the same at any level and at any club. More often than not, the club physio doesn’t really want you seeing anyone outside the club. For one it makes him look bad (when really it shouldn’t, if these people are specialists in their chosen fields) and, second, the physio finds it very hard to persuade the club to fork out for any ‘outside’ treatment. Some players have the attitude of ‘well, fuck it, it’s up to the club to get me fit’, and that is fair enough if they are willing to rot in the treatment room for weeks, if not months on end. However, most players want to play and to get fit as quickly as possible. For me, Richard was instrumental in that.

  He wasn’t your conventional back cruncher, as his CV indicated, and with his involvement at AC Milan and their brilliant rehabilitation and fitness record, the depth of knowledge he had was excellent. He was also a man who understood football’s ups and downs – of which he reminded me every time I saw him; it must be hard being a Bristol City fan. I still need to see a cheque come through the post from Richard though, namely for all the commission I should have had for recommending him to friends, players and family alike, never mind the fact that I persuaded him to learn Italian and to move out to Italy to work in Milan full time. Richard, if you are reading this while sat by Lake Como drinking your cappuccino and soaking up the atmosphere … I hope you fall in!

  Everything is a hundred miles an hour in the Conference, and time on the ball is at a premium. It may sound unbelievable, but playing against a Premiership or Championship club sometimes feels like a training session, where you can spend time on the ball and actually enjoy playing. The crucial difference in the higher leagues, from the Conference, is in the finishing, and with the speed of the players when attacking; it is also in the fact that any mistakes made are pretty much always punished. The Conference is very different, for most of the time anyway. Unless it was a game between some of the top teams who really liked to play football, such as Exeter City, Aldershot Town or Burton Albion, the ball would spend a lot of time in the air.

  Torquay United were also quite direct in that first season, but we could play when called for, and for us, most of the 07/08 season was spent in first or second spot. Aldershot Town were pushing us all the way, and a home game against them was the decider as far as the title was concerned. The game was televised – the introduction of Setanta Sports GB was brilliant for the Conference, and for a club like Torquay United. In the two years that Setanta covered the Conference, we were the featured game around twenty times – incredible when you consider that many Championship clubs didn’t get half as much coverage as that. I got on really well with the Setanta gang and commentated on a few games myself. It’s a shame that part of Setanta went into administration, especially considering I had just been offered a job as a presenter!

  We played really well against Aldershot Town that night; it was actually an excellent good game of football. Unfortunately for us our keeper, newly recruited on loan from Reading, had a ‘bit of a nightmare’, to say the least. After drawing leve
l early in the second half, and then really pushing for the victory, we ended up losing the game. They scored the winner in the last minute of normal time. I was a bit harsh after the game; I went mad at the keeper, calling him ‘chocolate wrists’ and telling him my twelve-year-old son could have saved the last minute strike that he let in. Although that was very true, I should have been a bit more understanding; he obviously hadn’t meant to make a mistake, and me telling him wouldn’t change that fact, but I was just so tired and pissed off that I just let rip. I then had a go at Mark Ellis, our young centre-back, for being too weak, and not talking more. Mark, or Dingle, as we affectionately called him, was a really good lad, but I wanted him to know that these opportunities didn’t come up very often in football, and that he had to realise how fucking important it was. Dingle used to get some hellish grief from the lads, mainly for looking like Sam Dingle from Emmerdale, but also because he was very quiet and would just sit at the front of the coach playing Football Manager for the entire journey, and very occasionally talking to our coach driver, also called Dave, and also a proper space cadet.

  I came down for dinner late one evening at the hotel, and could see straightaway that the lads had stitched me up. They had obviously left Dingle and the driver together, with one seat remaining at their table, and no seats anywhere else. With the lads chuckling away, after my saying that the lads were wankers, and that I was more than happy to spend dinner with them (this while the rest of the lads laughed away even more), I sat down with Mark and Dave the driver. We sat there in near silence, broken only by my saying the odd thing and getting no response. When I asked Mark if he wanted any water, he didn’t really respond, but Dave the driver piped up with, ‘There’s plenty out there’, while pointing at the sea outside and laughing. We were in a hotel by the sea as we were playing Weymouth or Eastbourne at the time. I just looked at Dave in despair, while Dingle responded with, ‘Oh well, better see how my team are doing.’

  Fucking hell, he had only been down to dinner for five minutes, and was having withdrawal symptoms from his laptop. Dave was sat there in bits, laughing at his own joke, and when Dingle tried joining in with, ‘The jug’s empty. I’ll just nip over the road and fill it up.’ – which made Dave the driver nearly piss himself – I had to abandon ship. I got up and said, ‘I can’t do it, I’ve tried, lads.’

  While the rest of the lads were laughing away, I got up and walked over to an empty table at the other end of the restaurant.

  Joking aside, Dingle has been a really good player at Torquay United, and as much as he still doesn’t talk, I sort of took him under my wing a bit, partly because of the stick he got, and partly because he was a decent young player.

  The young lads probably got bored with me telling them to spend as long as they could on the training ground and not in the pub, but with the experiences I have had, I knew I was right. It always amazed me how quickly the lads wanted to get away after training; I had three kids and a wife, but I would still be last off the training field or out of the gym, because I knew it would help me. (OK, and I was a little obsessed.) The message did get through in the end though and, to be honest, the lads were brilliant. I hope that with me being so full on, it did help them. It was a breath of fresh air to be with such a good group of lads who both wanted to do well and were also a great laugh. I used to love playing head tennis after training, with Stevie Woods, Kev and Lee Mansell, or any other pretenders to the head tennis throne (Stevie and I were never dethroned by the way!), or hammering away in the gym with the lads. With Damien’s help in the gym, with boxing equipment, weights, and with his constant and hardcore banter, we had a really good place to work. In what was a pretty isolated training ground – we were right in the middle of Newton Abbot Racecourse, with a wind-chill factor of minus ten and a duck shit quota of almighty proportions – the feel of the club was spot on. I used to bring my boy Cam in to have a kick about with Paul Buckle’s lad, Johnnie, and it just felt right, how a club should be.

  The type of crazy gang spirit that saw Wimbledon to incredible success cannot be underestimated, and we had something similar. Now, we were never going to win the FA Cup, and as much as I have gripped a few balls on a football pitch (not for enjoyment before you say it, more as a defensive tactic at corners), I was no Vinny Jones, but we did make the most of our team spirit. We got up to all sorts in that first season. Tim Sills arrived for training one morning with a horrendous pair of trainers on show, and I just couldn’t resist the temptation. When all the lads had left for training, I hung back, and, armed with some paper and a box of matches, I set to work on the offending trainers. I managed to light those bad boys, but it was as if I was burning three hundred tyres, and within minutes it looked like Hiawatha was at work. Sillsy soon smelt a rat (and his burning trainers) and ran over, and while we were all in pieces laughing, Tim was desperately trying to dampen the flames with his energy drink. The tread on those things was thicker than on some tractor tyres, and, incredibly, despite burning for around five minutes they survived. Not only did they survive, but Tim wore them for the rest of the season, burn marks and all!

  As well as hanging any of the lads clothing that we deemed unacceptable (usually Kev’s or ‘Lamb’ Mansell’s) from the ceiling, we also wore some of the more gruesome clothing on show underneath our training tops. We managed to get through an hour and a half session one morning while swapping over one of Toddy’s many vile jumpers, each taking a turn to put it on. By the end of the morning it was soaking, and had stretched so much that Toddy could have worn it as a dress. He was gutted when we eventually revealed it, but we did him a favour really. It’s just a shame we couldn’t get hold of his purple velour tracksuit, or one of his diamond-encrusted ‘designer’ belts. All the old tricks that go on up and down the country in changing rooms are just part and parcel of football banter, and Torquay United was no different. You just had to keep on your toes. If you had a pair of dodgy trainers on, you were well advised to put them in your bag, because if you didn’t, nine times out of ten you would return to find the tongues cut off or the laces gone. The same applied with socks, which could be cut up or filled with shower gel.

  Showering was also a risky process. If you were ever having a serious discussion about football while showering, there was always a high chance your leg was being pissed on by the lad asking the ‘caring’ questions. Add this to the loosened salt and pepper pots at pre-match meals, and who needs enemies, hey? The physio wasn’t safe either, so for us Damien was a great target. The car park at the racecourse was being used as the start for the Devon rally one morning, with lots of car enthusiasts revving around and admiring each other’s cars. While Damien was treating one of the players, I took his keys and drove his car right into the middle of the waiting cars. With Kenny Veysey as my right hand man, we got hold of some blank paper, and carefully put the number 69 on both sides of the car and on the back, and with some of Damien’s white treatment tape we made up ‘Davey’ signs to stick on the car. We then left the keys in the ignition and waited. Kenny was nearly on the floor and I was having stomach cramps, we were laughing that much. The stewards then began walking around, checking out the cars, but when they got to a ten-year-old silver battleship of a Merc, with Davey 69 plastered all over it, they didn’t know what to make of it.

  The boys had all gathered around and we got one of the lads to go and tell Damien that someone was injured outside. It was truly hilarious when he came rushing out, to see his car missing, and then spotted it in the middle of a grid. The best bit was that when Damien eventually got his head round the situation, he ran back into the treatment room, to reappear five minutes later in an old all-in-one sub’s suit, and a homemade racing balaclava – made out of Tubeyigrip pulled over his head, with the eyes, nose and mouth cut out. He got into his car, revved the engine and shouted to the stewards, ‘When does it start? Come on, I’m ready, let me go!’

  At this point, the stewards ordered him to move his car. We quickly presented Damien w
ith a mock award, in the form of a silver tray, for best car in show, then ran off to train. It was a brilliant time to be at the club, and, I have to say, a brilliant stage of my career.

  Here we all were, playing at Torquay United for whatever reason, and we were giving it a right good go. Towards the end of the season we signed Stevie Adams, a great lad who had been a youngster at Plymouth Argyle when I was there, and who fitted in straightaway. The only problem for Stevie was that after being nicknamed ‘the ghost’ at Plymouth Argyle, due to his translucent skin and skulking demeanour, we nicknamed him ‘the ghoul’ at Torquay United (without even knowing his previous nickname). From a ghost to a ghoul in the space of a couple of days, how’s your luck. He was also on the receiving end of one of Bucks’s rants (all managers do them). As usual, Stevie was totally innocent but as Bucks was shouting away, the morning after a home defeat, Stevie tried to butt in with something along the lines of ‘Yeah gaffer, but that’s not your fault. We have got to do better.’

  Poor old Stevie only got to ‘but’, when Bucks stopped him in his tracks and shouted, ‘Shut up Stevie, just shut up and do your fucking job would you? You’re so fucking negative.’

  The lads couldn’t help but chuckle away. It was even funnier knowing what a good lad he was, and that he was actually trying to stick up for the manager a bit. That’s what you get for arse licking – we didn’t mention that much afterwards either. Suffice to say he didn’t bother again.

  We had good runs in both the FA Cup and the FA Trophy, the latter a competition that at first we dismissed, but, as more games were won and with Wembley in our sights, we then took a little more seriously. The season was coming to an end, and we were still in with an outside chance of automatic promotion, but the reality was probably going to be more play-offs, and for me, the fourth I would be involved with in the last five seasons. Football has a funny way of throwing up the inevitable, and with our local rivals Exeter City finishing the season really strongly – this after trailing us by nearly twenty points at one time – our remaining results meant that we would have to meet each other in the play-offs. It was an incredible situation for the team, as not only were we to play Exeter City over two legs, but we had also reached the final of the FA Trophy. This meant that we would be playing at Wembley once, if not twice, in the space of a few weeks. We had beaten York City over two legs in the semi-final of the cup, which was a great achievement for Torquay United, and had been a great chance for the players and fans to go to the national stadium – we had also flown to York, which saved us a ten-hour journey.