the fuck I was. He was standing by a post at the time, waiting for a corner to come over, concentrating hard, so he wasn’t too pleased with me rabbiting on. We got a draw that day, which was good, considering that Liverpool went on to win the league.
Although I was playing regularly, I was still struggling to keep my weight down. Perhaps I’d grown over-confident, having established myself in the first team, or so I thought. In any event, I’d lapsed into my old bad eating habits. The gaffer threatened to fine me forevery pound I was overweight, so I went on the bin-liners again, trying to sweat it all off. I found not eating at all for a few days was the best way to lose it, and I managed to shed half a stone.
Against Man United at home, Remi Moses was marking me, following me everywhere. To annoy him, I said to him, ‘Man U don’t need you,’ because that was all he was doing, nothing else useful. But not all my chat in that match was designed to needle the opposition. They got a penalty, which Bryan Robson took. I was so thrilled to be playing on the same pitch as a world-class player that after he scored from that penalty and was walking back, I said to him: ‘Great penalty, Bryan.’ If the Newcastle fans had heard that, they would have lynched me, particularly as we lost 4–2.
In a game against Everton, I took the ball into the corner flag and shielded it for about ten minutes while Peter Reid tried to kick me up in the air. He’ll deny it was ten minutes, of course, but it was a very long time, and he was getting mad with me, a young kid doing this to him. Thanks to all the weight training, my upper body was strong enough to keep him off.
I had no fear of anyone, even people like Terry Fenwick, who could be pretty hard, and clever with it.He marked me when we played Spurs, but I still scored. Of the hard men, Mick Harford was probably the toughest I ever played against. We had one very tough player of our own at Newcastle called Billy Whitehurst. He was a really physical tackler. In training one day I beat him by putting the ball through his legs and he grabbed me and said, ‘Whoa, son – do that again and I’ll break your fucking jaw.’
I didn’t actually mean to do it again – I wasn’t that stupid – but a ball came to me very quickly and bounced off me and through Billy’s legs. Billy hit me which made John Bailey laugh and I said to him, ‘You’re a has-been, John.’
In the dressing room afterwards, when I was putting my clothes on, John came up and thumped me. I went home in tears and stayed there for the next three days.
It was all part of growing up, finding out how things worked, how to behave. Perhaps I had been a bit cocky, taking the piss out of senior players. I soon realised that was a bad thing to do and I came to respect them, as I have always done since. They have been there, done it and survived, so you have to respect them.
Between December and April I had a run of seventeen games in the starting line-up and my game improveda lot. I was much more consistent, and scored the odd goal. I was still trying too hard, of course, and attempting too many tricks. I once caught the ball on my shoulder, but the ref couldn’t believe it and declared it a handball, which it wasn’t. The other side got a free kick out of it all the same. John Anderson, our full-back, gave me a right bollocking for that, telling me I had been stupid. I told him to fuck off.
But the team wasn’t doing so well after its decent start, and we were sinking down to mid-table. We’d bought nobody, apart from our hard man Billy Whitehurst, from Hull, who wasn’t exactly the best striker in the country.
In a game against Birmingham City, I seemed to be getting whacked all the time. I finally saw red and punched Robert Hopkins, right in front of the ref, and got myself sent off for the first time in my career. I ran off the pitch crying. I went straight past the bench and into the dressing room, where I
Although I was playing regularly, I was still struggling to keep my weight down. Perhaps I’d grown over-confident, having established myself in the first team, or so I thought. In any event, I’d lapsed into my old bad eating habits. The gaffer threatened to fine me forevery pound I was overweight, so I went on the bin-liners again, trying to sweat it all off. I found not eating at all for a few days was the best way to lose it, and I managed to shed half a stone.
Against Man United at home, Remi Moses was marking me, following me everywhere. To annoy him, I said to him, ‘Man U don’t need you,’ because that was all he was doing, nothing else useful. But not all my chat in that match was designed to needle the opposition. They got a penalty, which Bryan Robson took. I was so thrilled to be playing on the same pitch as a world-class player that after he scored from that penalty and was walking back, I said to him: ‘Great penalty, Bryan.’ If the Newcastle fans had heard that, they would have lynched me, particularly as we lost 4–2.
In a game against Everton, I took the ball into the corner flag and shielded it for about ten minutes while Peter Reid tried to kick me up in the air. He’ll deny it was ten minutes, of course, but it was a very long time, and he was getting mad with me, a young kid doing this to him. Thanks to all the weight training, my upper body was strong enough to keep him off.
I had no fear of anyone, even people like Terry Fenwick, who could be pretty hard, and clever with it.He marked me when we played Spurs, but I still scored. Of the hard men, Mick Harford was probably the toughest I ever played against. We had one very tough player of our own at Newcastle called Billy Whitehurst. He was a really physical tackler. In training one day I beat him by putting the ball through his legs and he grabbed me and said, ‘Whoa, son – do that again and I’ll break your fucking jaw.’
I didn’t actually mean to do it again – I wasn’t that stupid – but a ball came to me very quickly and bounced off me and through Billy’s legs. Billy hit me which made John Bailey laugh and I said to him, ‘You’re a has-been, John.’
In the dressing room afterwards, when I was putting my clothes on, John came up and thumped me. I went home in tears and stayed there for the next three days.
It was all part of growing up, finding out how things worked, how to behave. Perhaps I had been a bit cocky, taking the piss out of senior players. I soon realised that was a bad thing to do and I came to respect them, as I have always done since. They have been there, done it and survived, so you have to respect them.
Between December and April I had a run of seventeen games in the starting line-up and my game improveda lot. I was much more consistent, and scored the odd goal. I was still trying too hard, of course, and attempting too many tricks. I once caught the ball on my shoulder, but the ref couldn’t believe it and declared it a handball, which it wasn’t. The other side got a free kick out of it all the same. John Anderson, our full-back, gave me a right bollocking for that, telling me I had been stupid. I told him to fuck off.
But the team wasn’t doing so well after its decent start, and we were sinking down to mid-table. We’d bought nobody, apart from our hard man Billy Whitehurst, from Hull, who wasn’t exactly the best striker in the country.
In a game against Birmingham City, I seemed to be getting whacked all the time. I finally saw red and punched Robert Hopkins, right in front of the ref, and got myself sent off for the first time in my career. I ran off the pitch crying. I went straight past the bench and into the dressing room, where I
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