No Nonsense Read online

  What I am saying, without being self-righteous about it, is that we have to be more mindful of what we leave for others. I’m not advocating the collapse of capitalism, but the imbalance between the accumulation of obscene wealth and the wider benefits of social progress is intolerable.

  Look at the publication of the Panama papers earlier this year. That exposed the elite as venal, fearful people who will do anything to preserve their wealth. The rich are becoming richer. At least Lord Derby, their antecedent, did something positive with his money. He helped build the cathedral in which he was laid to rest.

  Mike Ashley will argue he has spent a lot of money on Newcastle United. But he is a businessman, who has made it known he will sell it for the right price. I stood my ground against him, after effectively telling him we didn’t need a manager, didn’t need his lapdog Llambias, and didn’t need him or his money. In hindsight, that was too much for him to take. It smacked of a peasants’ revolt.

  Had I known at the time that I was triggering the avalanche that would bury Chris Hughton I might have behaved differently. But Chris was doomed, in any case, because of the nature of the beast he was dealing with. Look at the incredibly ruthless business model Ashley operates at Sports Direct.

  He admitted to a panel of MPs that workers at the company’s Derbyshire distribution centre were paid below the minimum wage. He conceded that a policy of fining staff for being late was unacceptable. Union officials spoke of a ‘climate of fear’. An employee was said to have given birth in a toilet at the warehouse, due to fear of losing her job if she called in sick. Workers reportedly likened conditions to a ‘gulag’. To be fair, Ashley promised changes to what were described as ‘19th-century working practices’. But should I have stood up against him? Of course. I am proud of having done so.

  I didn’t want to leave Newcastle United. I loved it there. I loved living in the city. I plan to be back there in some capacity in the future, when Ashley has gone. The reaction when I returned to play in Steve Harper’s testimonial was ridiculously humbling, because I didn’t produce the type of performances in my four years at the club that would have justified the acclaim.

  Someone whose judgement and experience I trust told me I made a connection with the fans because I stood for something beyond my footballing ability. I was out of order several times. I said and did the wrong things. But my values were their values. I played, and knew what pulling on the shirt meant.

  Standing up for my principles has, without a shadow of a doubt, cost me professionally and financially. You can be a dickhead and use a pile of cash as camouflage or you can front up and push for something in which you believe. Given the value I attached to the zebra stripes, I’m black and white in more senses than one.

  Ashley’s choice of Alan Pardew to succeed Chris was cunning, because of his working-class, building-site background. He is one of the better managers I have played for, but I don’t feel the fans ever related to him. He justified their prejudices, because he looked like a stereotypical southern wide boy. He fancied himself a little too obviously for their tastes.

  The average Geordie who works his bollocks off can’t bring himself to give a good-looking Cockney lad the benefit of the doubt. He is much more comfortable with the grittiness of one of his own. That’s why Alan Shearer is idolised, and Pards was mistrusted. Rightly or wrongly, he was seen as Ashley’s ambassador and apologist.

  He wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms by the players. We were seething at the way they had got rid of Chris and, once we got wind of Pardew’s impending arrival, during an afternoon conditioning session in the gym at the training ground, there was a full-scale rebellion. We weren’t having him at any price.

  Llambias was responsible for an unforgettable ‘I am Spartacus’ episode when he swaggered into the dressing room. ‘I’ve heard a few of you have got a problem with our appointment,’ he said, with a confidence that suggested he considered himself the owner’s Rottweiler, rather than his poodle. ‘Who are you? Let’s be seeing you.’

  I stood up straight away: ‘Me.’

  Smudger was almost on tiptoe: ‘Me.’

  Harps did an impromptu impression of a Schmeichel star-burst: ‘Me.’

  The skipper, Nobby, wasn’t about to be left out: ‘Me.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Llambias, as it soon became standing room only. ‘What’s your problem?’

  I didn’t speak to him with the respect he obviously expected, as managing director. I treated him as a cross between an imbecile and a naughty child.

  Llambias was a cheeky bastard, and he was getting told. I could not have had less respect for him. I called him out as a casino manager who knew nothing about football. He thought he could treat people as playthings, just because he was given power by his mate. That’s not how my world works. In my world, you earn your stripes.

  He had sacked a noble man, who held himself with incredible dignity in the face of adversity. He had humiliated someone we cared about, someone who had conducted himself with an enlightened professionalism that contrasted with the malicious amateurism of his employers. Chris Hughton got them the promotion they needed to maximise their investment, and he was rewarded with contempt.

  Alan Pardew had done nothing to deserve his job. I went back through his career, recycled the rumours about his personal life which spread like wildfire on the network of friendships between players at different clubs. He was arrogant, a wannabe playboy in a toyboy’s Ferrari. I knew all this would get back, but at that point I simply didn’t care. Others piled in behind me, but mine would be the first name mentioned when Llambias scuttled off to tell tales.

  I admit I judged Pardew prematurely, superficially. No one who saw his excruciating dad dance on the touchline at Wembley, in celebration of Crystal Palace taking a lead they soon squandered to Manchester United in the 2016 FA Cup final, would ever accuse him of being shy and retiring. But there is a difference in substance between the private man and the public figure.

  He handled himself very smartly when he arrived. He visited Nobby and Harps, who were astute politically, in their homes. Smudger and I had intensive individual discussions for a couple of hours in his office. I levelled with him, told him what I thought of him as a man and a football manager. He spoke candidly and passionately about what he expected of himself and what he would demand from me.

  I was impressed. He had answered my assumption that he lacked substance. As I turned to leave, I told him: ‘I didn’t want you as manager. The group doesn’t want you as manager. We admired Chris, and respected his values. But you’ve been honest with me. I’ll give you the time of day. As long as you’re straight with me, you’ll never have an issue.’

  He shook my hand, and gave me his word. We never had a problem from that moment. I scored in his first match, against Liverpool, and dedicated the win to Chris and the staff who had lost their jobs. Pards understood the gesture and offered his complete support when we had to deal with one of those synthetic controversies that have punctuated my career.

  It was a niggly match, in which I had a running verbal battle with Fernando Torres. I motioned towards my groin and told him he lacked cojones, the bollocks to make the most of his talent. That impulsive act was wilfully distorted, so I had to answer baseless accusations of homophobic abuse. Welcome to my world, gaffer.

  I also used the Liverpool game to publicly criticise Ashley. It would have been easier to tug my forelock and turn a blind eye to the human wreckage he leaves in his wake. He obviously wanted me onside, and I could definitely have got an improved contract out of a bogus show of unity. But that isn’t me. It will never be me.

  Pards went out of his way to connect on a human level. His man management was excellent, and complemented by his coaching ability. His sessions were measured, interesting and intelligent. That combination of qualities translated into the development of a resilient squad who gave a fantastic set of supporters something to shout about.

  The disenchanted group that L
lambias tried to lecture would probably not have come back from 4-0 down at half-time, at home to Arsenal. I scored two penalties and the noise that engulfed us when Cheick Tiote equalised with three minutes to go was loud enough to be heard in Holland, across the North Sea. It was some goal, a 20-yard shot that fused power, timing and technique, and some celebration. We went nuts. Had the game lasted five more minutes we would have scored the winner.

  It was the perfect way to end a bittersweet week in which Andy Carroll was sold to Liverpool. The fee, £35m, was huge, but Ashley and Llambias couldn’t wait to cash in. It went against everything we had been told, about building a young and hungry squad. I was doubly annoyed because Andy and I combined really well.

  Andy was a local lad, well liked, and I very much doubt that he wanted to go. He asked for a new contract at Newcastle to reflect his importance to the team, and the financial deal he was being offered by Liverpool. He was rebuffed, and given little option but to make a transfer request. It was another reminder we all have our price, our limits of usefulness.

  I was playing really well, at one with the fans. I had 18 months remaining on my contract, one of those traditional bargaining points, and Llambias was eager to secure a deal that guaranteed my market value. My future paled into insignificance when I took a call from Georgia during winter training at a warm-weather camp in Portugal. She had miscarried in the early stages of pregnancy.

  It was one of those moments when football and life intertwine. It had been our secret, and so many emotions swirled around. A surge of grief and devastation was quickly consumed by worry. My instinct was to jump on the first plane home, a plan Pards fully supported. Georgia insisted she was fine, getting all the support she needed from her mum. She persuaded me to stay on.

  I felt powerless and it was only when I got home that I realised I should have been more insistent about returning to be at her side. The fear of not being able to have children was immediate and understandable. We were both ready for kids, and saw the doctor, who explained it was one of those things rather than the precursor of serious problems. We agreed that whenever she was ready we would try again.

  How she had stayed with me was a source of wonder, given that our first date – a meal as part of a bigger group of friends – had to be abandoned when I got into a fight with a cokehead, who cold-cocked me with a punch to the face when I walked back from the toilet. The dispute, believe it or not, was triggered because he insisted our tables were too close together.

  He was a huge lad. I managed to get him in a headlock and we spilled out into the street. I steered him into the shadows, out of sight of any CCTV cameras, and knocked him down three times because I turned it into a boxing match rather than a brawl. He ran away, promising to return the next day to shoot me, a plan he revised when he received a call from an old friend suggesting it wouldn’t be in his best interests to do so.

  Some of the lads on the estate told me later they had promised to intercept him. I laugh about it now, but, to them, that sort of threat was normal, rational. They became involved out of a strange loyalty to me, as one of their own. They were in their early twenties, and had been using knives since they were 15 or 16, so the mind boggles about what they intended to do to him.

  Georgia had obviously gone by the time I returned to the restaurant. I thought I had blown my chances, but I am nothing if not a trier. She was attractive, intelligent and funny. I hung in there until we clicked. We moved in together and she transferred to Newcastle University, where she got her degree in fashion design, when I moved to the Northeast.

  Nan is a great judge of character, and she fell for her almost as hard as I had. Georgia was nervous about meeting her for the first time, justifiably since I had told her all about the family’s queen bee. Nan weighed up everything, from the modesty of Georgia’s car to the values of her family, and the respect she showed in making a point of not staying overnight with me in her house.

  She announced herself satisfied that Georgia was not a ‘sunbed clone’, to use her phrase for some of my previous girlfriends. It is wonderful to watch them together with Cassius and Pieta, and Nan never stops telling me how good she is for me. She’s right, as she so often is.

  Football, like many businesses, operates on the assumption that it exists in isolation. I was being pressurised into signing a new contract, but the original offer of a two-year extension, on the table when we were dealing with the miscarriage, was resubmitted towards the end of the season, with a wage decrease factored in.

  I was settled, privately euphoric and simultaneously petrified. Georgia was pregnant with Cassius, and we were trying to protect ourselves from further devastation by keeping the news to ourselves. This was our chance to put down roots, to plan family life from an unusual position of certainty.

  I was ready to give Newcastle what theoretically would be my best years, and would have taken less money had Llambias made the conciliatory gesture of making it a three-year deal. When he refused, I decided to see out my existing contract. I wasn’t stupid, since I knew I would be a decent proposition as a free transfer. This went down predictably badly.

  Pards managed the situation as best he could, but was pressurised from above. Matters came to a head during the summer window, when Nobby Nolan dropped a division because Sam Allardyce gave him a five-year deal at West Ham. His departure could only have been a business decision, since he was a brilliant captain, a unifying force in the dressing room who had scored 30 goals from midfield in the two previous seasons.

  Nobby had two years left on his contract, and Newcastle preferred to receive around £4m instead of paying him what he deserved. He told me he had felt disrespected because a contract offer from Newcastle had been withdrawn. He was a calming influence on me, and I was his deputy. When Fabricio Coloccini, who spoke little English, was named as Newcastle’s new captain I knew my days were numbered, and that the club was changing around me.

  I was officially recognised as vice-captain, but when Coloccini missed a pre-season friendly against Leeds United at the end of July 2011, I was overlooked again. That was a deliberately provocative act, since it belittled me in the eyes of my team-mates. I went mad, told Pardew to fuck off, and refused to shake his hand before the game. He took offence, and everyone else took to the trenches.

  I was ordered to train alone, and made available as a free transfer. Derogatory stories mysteriously began to appear in the local press. It bore all the hallmarks of the sort of campaign that drove Kevin Keegan out of St James’ Park. I know people think my skin is tougher than tungsten, but it is a basic human instinct to want to be appreciated. Being the victim of character assassination is unpleasant.

  I know what I am about. I know why I am portrayed as I am. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve turned up to do interviews, where people are seeking soundbites to justify what they intended to write about me in any eventuality. I understand that is the way the media works, but it gets to me occasionally because I know it does not provide a true representation of who or what I am.

  I’m not saying I didn’t help them put me in the box they assembled for me. There are elements of my character that enabled them to construct the caricature. But an easy angle should not excuse distortion. I’m seen as a one-dimensional thug when, like all of us, I am a multifaceted individual. There’s a lot more than meets the eye.

  As a footballer, I can control things by how assiduously I prepare, and how well I perform on the pitch. As a man, a human being, I have minimal influence on the image of me, created by passing strangers who have access to a public platform. Peter Kay taught me to deal with the frustrations of that so vividly I can recall his advice in its entirety:

  ‘Look. You can be the nicest person in the world, and try to please everybody. There will always be someone who turns around and calls you a shit. All you can be is yourself. People are going to judge you because you are vocal and opinionated. When you say something, it reverberates, so you must expect to be judged.

 
‘You can either say, “This is the price I must pay for the path I have chosen”, or you say nothing. If you take the latter option your life will be easier in one sense, but much more difficult in another, because only you will know, deep down inside, that you have chosen to cower.’

  I wasn’t going to bow and scrape to the likes of Llambias and Ashley. I was at war with them, and had the means to answer back on my own terms. Newcastle United sent me a legal letter, warning that I would be in breach of contract if I used my Twitter account to comment on club affairs, but it was too late.

  The genie was already out of the bottle.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE MEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE

  The first telephone call, made by Alexander Graham Bell to his assistant on 10 March 1876: ‘Mr Watson, come here. I want to see you.’

  The first words recorded on the phonograph, an invention announced by Thomas Edison on 21 November 1877: ‘Mary had a little lamb.’

  The first song in space, whistled by cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin aboard Vostok 1 on 12 April 1961: ‘The Motherland Hears, the Motherland Knows’.

  The first message transmitted from the surface of the moon, by Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin on 20 July 1969: ‘Contact light . . . OK, engine stop.’

  The first tweet by @Joey7Barton, at 9.20am on 26 May 2011: ‘This is the 1st official tweet by me. I know a few have tried to be me but this really is . . . ’

  Doesn’t really have the ring of history, does it? It barely deserved the response, of 52 retweets and 16 likes. One tart observation, ‘Who would want to be you?’, set the tone for the madness to come. I have in excess of 3 million Twitter followers, though if I described that term as slightly Orwellian, given its implication of slavish devotion, I’d probably get slaughtered as a pseudo-intellectual.