No Nonsense Read online

  All too quickly, the credits roll. Everyone seems very happy.

  I’m talking to Piers, who is very accomplished, when Dimbleby asks me to sit next to him at the dinner. Shit. This must be the TV equivalent of being summoned to the gaffer’s office for a bollocking. He tells me not to be so daft when I try to apologise about the analogy. He thinks I came across well. My fears dissipate, because he has done this for years. He is a better barometer than Mr & Mrs Angry of Suburbia.

  It was only when I watched the show back that I realised the audience was not as hostile as I imagined. I wasn’t aware that the UKIP representative had stood for office in the Knowsley constituency, my neck of the woods. She took offence, and let herself down by coming out with the usual piffle about footballers’ brains being in their boots. Not quite Simone de Beauvoir, was it?

  If you’re asking for my match ratings, I’d give myself a solid eight out of 10. The papers were full of it. The programme had record levels of engagement on social media. I wasn’t custard-pied. I’ve been asked to do it again. I’ve no great yearning to do so, but will probably accept the invitation, because it was a great experience.

  I’m nothing special; anyone who prepares well, and is socially and politically aware, could do it. I’m a firm believer that anyone can do anything if they set their mind to it. My progress from a social pariah to someone who is at least respected for his sincerity might be extreme, but people surpass what others believe to be their limits on a daily basis.

  I am changing, as the world around me changes, but there will always be competing elements in how I am regarded. I was a terrorist in the eyes of people in positions of authority, such as the FA and football club board members, and a freedom fighter in the eyes of those fans who quite liked me for standing up for myself.

  It is probably easier to pigeon-hole me as a rabble-rouser, and avoid the reality that I have begun consciously filtering what I have said publicly, over the last couple of years. Very few people see that. I’m still passionate, and occasionally revert to type by responding on the spur of the moment, but I’m no longer the kid who neither knew, nor cared, about the short-, medium- and long-term consequences of his actions.

  I understand why many are waiting for the next explosion, the latest indiscretion. This book will probably be used as evidence for the prosecution, as well as for the defence. I’ve come to the conclusion that honesty is the best policy. Don’t laugh at the back, but I’ve noticed a slight softening in attitudes towards me, following my work as a football commentator.

  Radio is a fantastic medium, since it requires buy-in from the listener and gives me scope to share my enthusiasm for the game. It gives me the chance to look at things from a different perspective, and the process is surprisingly intimate. I was especially touched, during a co-commentary stint for the BBC at Leicester City towards the end of the 2015/16 season, to read a tweet from a blind listener, praising me for my insight. The thought that I had acted as someone’s eyes and ears was mind-blowing.

  I still have an awful lot of living to do, and have learned that influence is most easily extended when you are inside the system. I am a natural outsider, so my challenge is to instil trust in others, so they appreciate I am worthy of the privilege of that influence. That means taking notice of the tattoo I have on the back of my calf.

  It is of a wolf, in profile. I’ve always related to the mythology of the lone wolf, fending for itself. I recognise the strength of the pack, but like to know that I am capable of hunting alone, if necessary. The tattoo reminds me of the famous Cherokee parable, in which a chief tells his grandson about the two wolves that live within us.

  ‘A fight is going on inside me,’ he says. ‘It is a terrible fight. One wolf is evil. He is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, self-doubt, and ego. The other is good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too.’

  The boy asks the old man: ‘Which wolf will win?’

  The wizened chief replies: ‘The one you feed.’

  I am now more mindful of which wolf I feed. We all choose the wrong one, every now and again. We are all likely to make bad choices, fuel destructive attitudes and emotions. I am on patrol all the time, because I know the minute I let my guard drop and think I have both wolves under control, I will be vulnerable.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SWEET AND TENDER HOOLIGAN

  We were about 10 minutes from Queens Park Rangers’ training ground, where I intended to confirm my transfer, when Willie McKay’s mobile rang. Sitting alongside him, in the front seat of his car, I could not fail to notice digital confirmation of the caller. ‘Sir Alex’, it read, and after pleasantries had been exchanged, the agent motioned to me and said, ‘He’s with me now. I’ll put him on.’

  I was greeted by a familiar Govan growl. ‘How’s things? I’ve seen what you’re up to on Sky Sports News. Don’t go doing anything silly now. Why don’t you come here and we’ll have a conversation?’ Hallelujah! Finally a big club, and a great manager, had come to their senses. I would give Manchester United’s midfield a bit of bite, an injection of urgency.

  We spoke about my role, and the extent of my ambition, before he rang off with promises to sort the formalities. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I asked McKay, as I handed back his phone. ‘Turn the bloody car around.’ I expected him to be alarmed, angry, because he was representing QPR in the proposed deal. Instead, he speared me with a cheesy, triumphant smile.

  ‘You soppy bastard.’

  He couldn’t wait to tell me I’d been stitched up, good and proper. The call was from a mate of his called Joe, whose Fergie impression was close to perfection. There would be no curtain call at Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams. My destination was a run-down former students’ sports ground on the Heathrow flight path, and a club who thought cash would compensate for chaos. The next year would be carnage.

  I signed for Rangers on the rebound from Arsenal. Pat Rice, Arsene Wenger’s assistant, had told Peter Kay they fancied me. A meeting with me was in the manager’s diary for the first Tuesday of the new season. He had the perfect opportunity to monitor my form three days before that, in what was to be my penultimate appearance for Newcastle, a goalless draw against his team at St James’ Park.

  Maybe word of my potential move had filtered through to the away dressing room. They queued up to have a dig, and referee Peter Walton missed Alex Song’s stamp on me. If there was to be no red carpet, I made sure there was going to be a red card by going down like a sack of spuds when Gervinho slapped me. His outrage, on being sent off, was worth my booking.

  Rice sent Pete a text soon after: ‘Arsene says Joey will never play for this club.’ That was a shame, since Neil Warnock at QPR was in another, much lower, league. I know all players are Pep Guardiola incarnate at about half-five every Saturday, but the consensus of my new team-mates was that Warnock was a man manager, plain and simple. The only way he could have been classified as a coach was if you had taken his teeth out and installed a set of seats in his mouth.

  The manager was very much a junior partner in the negotiations, which resulted in a four-year contract worth £76,000 a week. I know, I know. It was silly money, but would you have turned it down? The deal was driven on a conference call from Malaysia by Tony Fernandes, who had purchased Bernie Ecclestone’s shares that summer and controlled the club with the Mittals, one of Britain’s wealthiest families.

  QPR had assembled solid senior pros, including Clint Hill, Shaun Derry, Brad Orr, Jamie Mackie, Heidar Helguson and Paddy Kenny, but Warnock allowed the group to be compromised by a couple of overindulged wasters. He let the mavericks get away with murder, ignored the lack of unity, and tried to rule the rest by fear.

  I hate such double standards, and the lads were all too willing to moan behind the manag
er’s back, but I decided to speak as I found. Warnock has cultivated a media image as the stereotypical bluff, straight-talking Yorkshireman, but I thought him much colder and infinitely more fragile than he intends to appear.

  He tried to get me onside by offering the captaincy, which I accepted with the proviso I would be in his face if I felt it necessary. The owners had great ambitions and grand schemes, which they seemed capable of financing, but it quickly became apparent that the club had tolerated second best for too long. It wasn’t fit for purpose in the Premier League.

  The physio was overworked, and there were long queues to see the solitary masseur. There weren’t even plugs in the baths. The manager was a peripheral presence on the training ground for much of the week, and his coaches seemed complacent, a self-perpetuating boys’ club. Very little work was done on the training pitches, even less on team shape or opposition analysis.

  The principal problem manifested itself in a 1-0 home win over Chelsea that was to become notorious for John Terry’s alleged racial abuse of Anton Ferdinand. I honestly had no idea of what had gone on until much later; I was too busy trying to ensure I stayed on the pitch after being one of 11 players booked in a match Chelsea ended with nine men.

  It was a nasty, niggly game, but no one, least of all Anton it seemed, had any inkling of the magnitude of the controversy until the following day, when Sky highlighted the incident in a manner which demanded action. As strange as it sounds, we were all initially preoccupied by the latest spat involving Adel Taarabt.

  He threw his toys out of the pram when I prevented him from wrestling the ball off Heidar, who won and converted the decisive penalty. It didn’t take a genius to work out why that upset him; it was a live TV game and he had a childlike need to be the centre of attention. Taarabt literally stood and sulked for 10 minutes. He used to do the same when others were given preference over free kicks.

  A key figure in the promotion season, he was given reason to believe his intermittently applied talent justified special treatment. His timekeeping was appalling, and his attitude towards the laundry lady was objectionable. He fiercely denied spitting at her, as she and some of the lads claimed, but he certainly tossed towels around the room when his kit wasn’t folded to his liking.

  It is easy to concentrate on the lowest common denominator, and accuse professional footballers of being pampered, but the vast majority of those I’ve played with and against down the years are respectful and grateful for the more menial work done on their behalf. Taarabt was a deeply divisive figure, and, as captain, I told Warnock his behaviour was unacceptable.

  Yet he turned a blind eye to his excesses, and resentment grew. Though his unpredictability made him an asset going forward, he was a liability defensively. The team could not afford to carry him against top-quality opposition. Taarabt pushed his luck too far when, on learning he would be on the bench for a game at Norwich City, he suddenly claimed he had picked up a back injury.

  He obviously spent his free weekend at Lourdes, since he was miraculously fit when he ambled out, five minutes late, for a 2pm start at training on the following Monday. He went through the motions, pissing about until the boys had had enough. Warnock showed no sign of intervening, so I decided we had to get him out of the group by any means possible.

  I made three ridiculously late tackles on him, enough to send the message the party was over. He hit the floor screaming and looked imploringly towards Warnock, who realised he had lost control and had his head down, studying his boots. The senior pros, who often joked that Taarabt must have had some dodgy photos of the manager in a safe deposit box in Hatton Garden, smirked.

  No one expected Taarabt to train the following day, and it only took one tasty tackle for him to walk off. Instead of confronting the issue head-on, the manager sent him to a fitness camp in Italy. The next thing we knew, the club received a letter from his solicitor, accusing me of attempting to end his client’s career.

  Nonsense, of course, but it enabled me to thrash out the problem with Warnock and Phil Beard, the chief executive. I sensed their weakness, since instinct told me they felt threatened by the possibility of Taarabt going public with his unhappiness, but was enough of a pragmatist to realise that he needed to be reintegrated into the group, on at least a superficial level.

  The price of the players’ co-operation – the employment of an additional masseur – was eagerly accepted without changing the dynamics of the situation. We had reached that mythological point about which everyone outside football speculates, but very few understand. The manager had lost the dressing room. The slow degradation of trust and respect had become critical.

  That happens at different rates to different individuals. Think of judgement on a sliding scale, between one and one hundred. Each manager is quietly given a nominal number by his players when he joins a club, dependent on reputation and achievement. An ex-England international, with a good coaching background, would come in at 80. A relatively unheralded lower-league manager, arriving at a big club, would slot in at around 20.

  Each day is an examination of leadership, endeavour and character, which might just be the most important attribute of the lot. I tend to agree with one of the most famous observations made by legendary US college football coach Lou Holtz: ‘You can tell a lot about a person’s character, not by the mistakes he has made, but by how he has handled those mistakes.’

  Let’s look at our two imaginary examples. The upwardly mobile manager isn’t intimidated by the scale of his new surroundings. He communicates well, builds his credit on a daily basis with the thoughtfulness of his sessions and the thoroughness of his preparation. His team thrives. He might have come in as a 20, but his score soon soars, to 80 and beyond.

  Meanwhile, the celebrated former player speaks down to his staff. His players see him cowering, or making bad decisions. They start chuntering among themselves when they notice him picking on the younger, weaker members of the group. The team underachieves. He slides down the scale, consistently, until his score reaches the point of no return, let’s say from 80 to 20.

  A lot of players are sheep. They want to turn up and be told what to do. The best groups have five or six real leaders, who set the tone. One outstanding example was set by Jose Mourinho’s first Chelsea team, and their so-called Untouchables – Ballack, Cech, Cole, Drogba, Essien, Lampard, Makelele and Terry. They were fantastic players, who knew how to handle the levers of power.

  Rafa Benitez lost the survivors of that group, who responded to the more conciliatory style of Guus Hiddink, just as an earlier generation had to Roberto Di Matteo. I was as surprised as anyone when Mourinho failed to absorb an enduring lesson; he was an alienated, distracted and self-destructive figure when his second spell at Stamford Bridge ended unceremoniously.

  Many managers make a point of throwing their arms around their players, but it is not just about being a nice guy. That might be enough to keep someone in a job in the short term, because the players are placed in a form of suspended animation by the lightness of the mood around the place, but it merely creates an illusion of harmony and efficiency.

  Sean Dyche, at Burnley, rates highly on my scale. He’s a man’s man, who demands as much of himself as he does of his players. He makes small incremental improvements in those around him, on a daily basis. He might slip down a couple of points if he started banging tea cups at half-time, but they would soon be recovered because of the intelligence of his strategy and the depth of his character.

  Players lead in certain ways. A good dressing room is big enough for the quiet, urgent type and the alpha male who feels the need to strut and shout. Bad teams tend to force people to the front, because they usually contain too many players who are content to live a quiet, comfortable life, regardless of the consequences.

  My leadership was at the aggressive end of the spectrum. No shit Sherlock, I hear you say, but I made mistakes because of that. My mantra was that of one of my mentors, Arthur Cox: if it is going wrong then work f
ucking harder. It wasn’t that simple. I learned through bitter experience the delicacy of the balance I needed to strike between being a strident voice and a source of measured advice.

  Decisions about managerial futures are much more clinical these days. Chief executives and chairmen at modern football clubs are little different from their counterparts in other industries. They are answerable to investors, slaves to the share price, determined to avoid damage to the brand. They have no compunction in consulting senior players; their doors are ajar, if not obviously open.

  Others had obviously been in before me when I was asked to see Tony Fernandes and Amit Bhatia, the vice chairman. The detail in their questions suggested they had been briefed beyond the usual tittle-tattle. They wanted my insight as captain, which I offered honestly, without malice or exaggeration. It felt like a considered process, rather than the random assembly of a firing squad.

  Warnock obviously felt differently when he was sacked following a run of eight league games without a win and a scrambled FA Cup draw against MK Dons. He suggested he had been ‘slowly poisoned’ by shadowy figures inside and outside the club, who supposedly ‘manipulated’ an inexperienced board through social media.

  He has his press pals, and said all he needed to say by pointedly refusing to talk about me. They did the rest. I returned fire on Twitter, likening him to Mike Bassett, star of the mockumentary about a tactically inept England manager who quotes Kipling and tells puzzled players ‘just do whatever you want’.

  To give him credit, Warnock at least answered the phone when I called to clear the air. I wasn’t about to disagree when he insisted he had placed too much faith in his coaching staff. He stressed he was finished with football, but was out of the game for only 41 days before he became manager of Leeds United. That might give you a hint as to why we were destined never to see eye to eye.