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Authors: Paul Gascoigne
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kicked every bit of furniture. Stupid, I know. It’s hard to describe what happens in those moments on the field. It’s a cliché but a red mist really does seem to descend, clouding the big picture, making you unable to stand back and consider the likely consequences of your actions. All you see is what has upset you, and you lash out.
Because of suspension and injury, I missed quite a few matches at the end of that season. Unable to play, I grew depressed and started pigging out again. I had too much time on my hands. I went out with Jimmy a lot, or played snooker with all my old mates. We got ourselves involved in another motor accident when a bloke ran in front of my car. It was his fault, and I couldn’t avoid him but, panicking again, we drove away at top speed. I hadn’t realised that someone had taken a note of my registration number. I was tracked down and fined for failing to stop after an accident, failing to report an accident, and other stuff. The club was furious with me. They said I was tarnishing their good name.
Newcastle finished only eleventh in 1985–6, but it had been a great season for me personally. I had played thirty-one league games, even though it was only my second season in the first team, plus four Cup games. With nine goals, I was top scorer after Peter Beardsley. I’d also acquired an adviser, Alastair Garvie, who had been assistant secretary at Newcastle before setting himself up as an agent. He was also looking after Chris Waddle, among others.
In the first team, I was playing against many famous footballers, people I had only previously seen on television. I was also playing on famous pitches, hallowed turfwhere the greats of the past had performed. I remember, when I first played at Old Trafford, sitting on a toilet and wondering how many idols had sat there before me. Would George Best ever have sat on this very seat? It was all quite hard to believe.
The established lads had been so helpful, right from the beginning, when I was only on the fringes of the first team. John Bailey may have been a joker in the dressing room, but he was kind to me and gave me good advice. When Tony Cunningham arrived for training in his BMW, I would call out, ‘Can I park your car?’ and he often let me. Both on and off the pitch, Glenn Roeder was probably the greatest support to me. ‘You’re doing well, keep it up,’ he’d say to me all the time during games. And when I was still quite young, he took me home with him, to where he lived in Essex, for a bit of a holiday. While I was there, he drove me past this big, posh house. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing it out to me. ‘Trevor Brooking lives there. One of these days, if you work hard, keep at it, and don’t get distracted, you could have a house like that.’ I was dead impressed.
At the end of the close season, Willie McFaul called me into his office. I thought I was in for a bollocking for some crime I had forgotten, but instead he said: ‘Here, I’vegot a present for you.’ He’d got an advance copy of the 1986–87
Rothman
s
Football Yearbook
. I didn’t twig why he was giving it to me till I saw the cover. The photograph on it showed me beating Mark Lawrenson of Liverpool. I appear to be pushing him off, bashing him on the face with my left arm, but, of course, I’m not – it’s just the camera angle. It was sheer skill and determination.
I look so young. Chubby cheeks, floppy hair. But then, I was young, I suppose. It had been a very good beginning.
“ He can be a loony with a fast mouth. He’s either going to be one of the greats or finish up at forty, bitter about wasting such talent. ”
John Bailey, former Newcastle colleague, 1988
“ George Best without brains. ”
Stan Seymour, Newcastle chairman, 1988
“ He is accused of being arrogant, unable to cope with the press and a boozer. Sounds like he’s got a chance to me. ”
George Best, 1988
6
GRABBED BY VINNIE, BUT NOT BY FERGIE
The 1986–7
Because of suspension and injury, I missed quite a few matches at the end of that season. Unable to play, I grew depressed and started pigging out again. I had too much time on my hands. I went out with Jimmy a lot, or played snooker with all my old mates. We got ourselves involved in another motor accident when a bloke ran in front of my car. It was his fault, and I couldn’t avoid him but, panicking again, we drove away at top speed. I hadn’t realised that someone had taken a note of my registration number. I was tracked down and fined for failing to stop after an accident, failing to report an accident, and other stuff. The club was furious with me. They said I was tarnishing their good name.
Newcastle finished only eleventh in 1985–6, but it had been a great season for me personally. I had played thirty-one league games, even though it was only my second season in the first team, plus four Cup games. With nine goals, I was top scorer after Peter Beardsley. I’d also acquired an adviser, Alastair Garvie, who had been assistant secretary at Newcastle before setting himself up as an agent. He was also looking after Chris Waddle, among others.
In the first team, I was playing against many famous footballers, people I had only previously seen on television. I was also playing on famous pitches, hallowed turfwhere the greats of the past had performed. I remember, when I first played at Old Trafford, sitting on a toilet and wondering how many idols had sat there before me. Would George Best ever have sat on this very seat? It was all quite hard to believe.
The established lads had been so helpful, right from the beginning, when I was only on the fringes of the first team. John Bailey may have been a joker in the dressing room, but he was kind to me and gave me good advice. When Tony Cunningham arrived for training in his BMW, I would call out, ‘Can I park your car?’ and he often let me. Both on and off the pitch, Glenn Roeder was probably the greatest support to me. ‘You’re doing well, keep it up,’ he’d say to me all the time during games. And when I was still quite young, he took me home with him, to where he lived in Essex, for a bit of a holiday. While I was there, he drove me past this big, posh house. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing it out to me. ‘Trevor Brooking lives there. One of these days, if you work hard, keep at it, and don’t get distracted, you could have a house like that.’ I was dead impressed.
At the end of the close season, Willie McFaul called me into his office. I thought I was in for a bollocking for some crime I had forgotten, but instead he said: ‘Here, I’vegot a present for you.’ He’d got an advance copy of the 1986–87
Rothman
s
Football Yearbook
. I didn’t twig why he was giving it to me till I saw the cover. The photograph on it showed me beating Mark Lawrenson of Liverpool. I appear to be pushing him off, bashing him on the face with my left arm, but, of course, I’m not – it’s just the camera angle. It was sheer skill and determination.
I look so young. Chubby cheeks, floppy hair. But then, I was young, I suppose. It had been a very good beginning.
“ He can be a loony with a fast mouth. He’s either going to be one of the greats or finish up at forty, bitter about wasting such talent. ”
John Bailey, former Newcastle colleague, 1988
“ George Best without brains. ”
Stan Seymour, Newcastle chairman, 1988
“ He is accused of being arrogant, unable to cope with the press and a boozer. Sounds like he’s got a chance to me. ”
George Best, 1988
6
GRABBED BY VINNIE, BUT NOT BY FERGIE
The 1986–7
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