No Nonsense Read online

  PSG’s other symbol of decadence, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, couldn’t wait to introduce himself. I gave away about six inches and four stone, so the responsibility of front-screening him required a little devil and a lot of concentration. My plan was to disrupt him by jumping early and inviting physical contact. Once I felt his arms on me, I hit the deck.

  The referee bought my ruse, and the Swede became increasingly irate. ‘You are shitting your pants, tough guy,’ Zlatan hissed, in heavily accented English. He called me a ‘pussy’, so I highlighted the size of his ski-slope nose. All a bit yah-boo-sucks-to-you, but the cameras caught my gesture. The media made a fuss, and the ultras loved it.

  Integration is a tricky process at any new club. You have to be aware of existing hierarchies in the dressing room, and make rapid judgements of character. Since I had a ban to serve when I arrived at l’OM, my initial impact would be through my work rate in training. Only Loic Remy could beat me in the timed runs, which were the biggest outlet for my competitive instincts.

  Training had greater subtlety than in England, increased intensity in short bursts because everything was geared to peaking on match day. Christophe Manouvrier, our head of football fitness, initially oversaw additional conditioning work for me since I didn’t have that release. He would be my unwitting ambassador, my link to the group.

  If he wanted me to do 10 uphill shuttle runs, I would throw in a couple extra for effect, knowing he had moaned about certain players who couldn’t, or wouldn’t reach his target. If he planned a 30-minute session, I’d stretch it to 45. The plan worked, because when Vincent Labrune, the club president, turned up, Christophe announced I was ‘not right in the head’.

  That was meant, and taken, as a compliment.

  Things had come together, personally and professionally. The climate was great, and we had a Californian lifestyle. Looking down wooded hillsides and out on to the sweeping curve of the bay from the terrace of our rented villa, the rat runs of St John’s had never seemed so remote. Yet the estate lived on, in my desperation to better myself.

  French football developed my game immeasurably. It was more technical, surprisingly physical. Each team had a Vieira clone, who would seek to intimidate through his power and presence. Roles were much more defined: I was part of the defensive unit, given the responsibility of shielding and assisting the back four.

  Playing slightly deeper, as a water carrier in the mould of Didier Deschamps, taught me how to read the game quicker in and out of possession. I began to see different shapes and angles, and learned to recognise small pockets of space in which to work. I even took perverse pleasure in helping to keep a clean sheet, something I thought only appealed to goalkeepers, centre backs and trainspotters.

  We led Ligue 1 for a while, and were on pace to qualify automatically for the Champions League. Meanwhile, QPR had sacked Mark Hughes and were being pumped on a weekly basis at the bottom of the Premier League. I was delighted. Take sides against me, when my back is to the wall, and you deserve all you get. Fuck you, if you are suffering. It’s your choice.

  The English scouts I met in Marseille told me Rangers were missing me, the sweet-talking bastards. I helped them facilitate meetings, and offered insight into both team-mates and opponents. I even acted as unofficial translator, since that embarrassing ’Allo ’Allo! moment – which reduced my brother Andrew and Tagger Taylor to tears of laughter – had improved my commitment to my French lessons.

  No one believes me when I say my Franglais was a misguided attempt to mimic the accent of my interpreter at that press conference. To be honest, having seen the video which went viral, I can understand why. It is just one of life’s little burdens . . .

  Ambition and avarice recognise no borders, so I became used to being approached discreetly by team-mates, attracted by the money and global exposure generated by the Premier League. The biggest initial English target was Remy, who refused to take a meeting with Harry Redknapp, the new QPR manager, until he had checked him out through me.

  In retrospect, I should have claimed commission, since he signed for a club record £8m, and used QPR as a shop window for subsequent moves to Newcastle and Chelsea. I preferred to count my blessings, because I loved the culture and had struck a chord with the fans. We finished runners-up behind PSG, so my ambition of playing club football at the highest level, in the Champions League, was within reach. I had left England under a cloud and saw no reason to go back.

  Marseille wanted me to stay. I had dinner with Vincent, the president, and agreed a two-year deal worth 32,000 euros a week, provided I could come to some form of compromise with QPR, who were committed to paying me £76,000 a week over those two years. You don’t ever ‘earn’ that type of money, because it is so unreal, but I was never going to walk away from my original contract, which was Tony Fernandes’ solution.

  We were at an impasse. Vincent tried to sweeten the pot with European bonuses and, more importantly, he promised me scope to move into coaching, initially through the academy. At some clubs such promises are empty; I had huge respect for him, and trusted him implicitly. He, in turn, recognised my wider importance, because of my popularity with the ultras.

  Fernandes was playing the long game. I had to seek him out on my return to England, following a brief holiday, since there was no official correspondence regarding my future. He refused to budge on his negotiating stance even though, logically, my wages would be unsustainable in the Championship. Logic, I was to discover, was conspicuous by its absence from QPR’s business plan.

  He insisted he was happy to take the financial hit. I countered by pointing out the impossibility of returning to a club where the fans hated me. He sent me a series of texts along the lines of: ‘Come back and lead us. It’ll be a great story.’ My replies were blunt, and to the point: ‘Why? You backed Mark Hughes and fucked me off to France. Why should I save your arse now?’

  I knew returning to Marseille wouldn’t be an easy option. You get a sixth sense for teams on the turn; a few small cracks were beginning to emerge, which would result in l’OM finishing bottom of their Champions League group, and only sixth in Ligue 1. I never got a chance to prove my theory that I could be a galvanising figure in a transitional dressing room, since Vincent tired of waiting and recruited Dimitri Payet and Florian Thauvin.

  I simply became less of a priority. Vincent kept me on a string for a while, but gradually it loosened, and eventually became limp. My chance had gone. That hurts, but that is football. It has a nasty habit of reinforcing your relative insignificance. I was back with the bomb squad at Harlington, checking out the liveries on the tail wings of the planes descending into Terminal 5 at Heathrow.

  You don’t even have the dignity of being invisible in such a situation. People used to go out of their way to avoid me in the training ground, as if I carried a fatal virus. Conversations would be cut short as I entered a room. Staff members would dive into the Portakabins when they saw me walk across the car park. Harry spoke to me briefly before the first-team group went on a pre-season tour, but managed to avoid me whenever possible.

  I largely kept myself to myself, and operated a watching brief. My best relationship was with Steve McClaren. Mercifully, he had come in to help with the coaching after being sacked in his second spell as manager of Twente, whose board had revealingly short memories since he had led them to their only Eredivisie title.

  Steve, oblivious to the force field of negativity, had an obvious affinity with me as one of the few English players to attempt to make a go of it in exile. He had a sharp football brain and an enquiring mind, which was a change at QPR. I sensed he was not a natural front man, and his sensitivity to public scorn was obvious when we spoke about interpretation of our ‘foreign’ accents. He couldn’t laugh at his, as I did at mine.

  It was cards-on-the-table time. I calculated that my stock would rise at l’OM if they stank the place out that season. I had maintained my personal relationships by acting correctly, showing appropriate respect
to the club and supporters. A return remained on the agenda, at a date to be decided. No bridges had been burned, which was probably a first for me.

  I had to make football’s fickleness work in my favour. Invariably, you become a better player when you are not around and things go wrong. It wouldn’t take a lot to turn the QPR fans in my favour, provided I put in the effort to get them promoted. I made that familiar journey to the manager’s office, even though Harry hadn’t spoken to me for three weeks.

  ‘This is where it’s at, H,’ I said. ‘The Marseille deal is dead in the water. I’ll stay here for another year. You’ve got two options. You can isolate me; make me train with the reserves. I promise I won’t interfere or give you a problem. Or you can let me play football, and I will give you everything I’ve got. I’ll help you get where you need to go.’

  All he needed was a vodka tonic, a camel-hair coat, and he’d have been back in the Winchester with his alter ego, Arthur Daley. ‘Brilliant, Joe,’ he said. ‘Happy days. Good to hear that. If I was you I would have gone back to Marseille, but you’re staying. You might as well join back in with the first team then.’

  That was that. The following day he asked me if I fancied playing with the kids against Leyton Orient reserves, to get in a bit of match practice a week before the start of the season. He started me in the opening Championship fixture, a 2-1 win against Sheffield Wednesday at Loftus Road, and carried on as if nothing had happened. Harry’s ability to move on, without regrets or grudges, is one of his great strengths. I was on a charabanc ride that was to end at Wembley.

  To get there, I had to get the fans on board. The reaction to my return, against Wednesday, was mixed. Some booed, hopefully out of habit, and others were more sympathetic. That was vital, since I would have had little option but to head of out of Dodge had the reaction been overwhelmingly negative. At least I had the opportunity to shape my own destiny.

  Peter Kay used the analogy of me as a car, to stress how I needed to keep working, not just in football but in life. Take your foot off the gas, he reasoned, and with the best will in the world you will be pulled back into bad habits. Stay on top of things, with a little low-key maintenance and the occasional oil change, and you will save yourself the expense and inconvenience of an engine replacement.

  Pete knew all about writing off cars, metaphorically at least. He had been drink and drug free for more than 20 years, helping countless people in his sobriety. But who helps the helper, when the demons return? I did my best, because I would have done anything for a man who was a phenomenally positive influence on my life, but I’m haunted by my inadequacy and ineffectiveness.

  I began to worry about him soon after I returned from France, when he confided he’d lost a lot of money gambling online. He knew I couldn’t legitimise his lapse by simply paying the debt out of my own pocket, because that was contrary to his belief in actions and consequences. It was a moment of the harshest truth, which remains imprinted on my brain.

  We are sitting on a bench in Richmond Park. He listens to me working through a minor problem, and suddenly announces he can no longer look me in the eye. ‘I’ve got to tell you everything that has happened,’ he says. ‘I can’t live with myself if I don’t.’ For the next half an hour his story, of creeping desperation in the face of another addiction, tumbles out.

  I tell him to share with other people in his circle. I tell him we will work something out. I am humbled, because for me he is still on a pedestal. In my eyes he is infallible. He is confessing to being very human. Roles have been reversed, and I must do justice to his guidance by seeking a position of safety, if not serenity.

  The footballer’s pragmatism kicks in. I ask Pete about his assets. It turns out he has a riverboat, which I buy for way above the odds. I don’t like sailing, and I’m easily seasick, but this reduces his expenses and gives him a chance to stabilise his life. It is only after his death that I discover he has also sold the deeds of the boat to another friend.

  I will laugh at his subterfuge, because it doesn’t interfere with the sanctity of his memory, but before then there will be many tears.

  I stayed with him on and off for about five weeks, dividing my time between his flat and Georgia and the family in Liverpool. Pete continued to give his external lectures, and I began to pick up the rhythm of English football once again. I was playing well, and winning hearts and minds at QPR without it being a preoccupation.

  I was fully aware of Pete’s issues because he had basically drunk his pancreas away as a young man, but something wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, other than sensing an atmosphere whenever I returned after a weekend away. By the Tuesday or Wednesday he would be back to normal and ready to share his insight. The fluctuation in tone and mood was unsettling.

  On this particular evening, returning from a long weekend on Merseyside, I arranged to see him in a restaurant in Richmond. He was very rarely late, so when he was overdue I called him to check he was all right. He made absolutely no sense, and was in a dishevelled state when he eventually turned up. He claimed he had crashed his car, but it looked as if he had been in a fight, or the bushes.

  Everything told me he was pissed, but I could smell no alcohol on him. He began telling me of blackouts, of losing three hours at a time. He had been changing his medication, and thought his new tablets didn’t agree with him. I was scared, because he refused to go to hospital, insisting he would sleep it off.

  I took him to see his sister Naomi, who lived nearby in Petersham. He was adamant he didn’t want immediate treatment, so I monitored him overnight, before she took him to see his doctor the following morning. When I returned from training, his medication had been amended, and he had been ordered to rest. Over the next three days he slowly improved, without regaining his sharpness.

  He enjoyed watching us beat Ipswich Town 1-0 with a goal in added time by Tom Hitchcock, the son of Kevin, our goalkeeping coach, but it was a brief respite. He was struggling, so I decided to stay down in London, with Georgia’s blessing, in the week leading up to our next home game against Birmingham. He had been there for me when I needed him most. I would be there for him. It was the least I could do.

  I am not really spiritual but I had a premonition on the Thursday night, the sort of feeling that stops me from being a full-blown atheist. Pete was perched on the window ledge of his flat in Kingston, chain-smoking, while I sat on the couch. We spoke for a good six hours, fuelled only by the occasional cup of coffee and an inexplicable desire to share.

  Pete spoke to me, for the first and only time, about the pain of his recent divorce, and the difficulties of a new relationship. He was frustrated by his health problems, aware of his increasing lack of focus. He was proud of his intellect, stressed out because his memory was beginning to betray him. It was as if he was determined to make the most of one last burst of lucidity.

  Our conversation ranged from the importance of reliable male role models to the political jigsaw puzzle of Winston Churchill’s life and times. We discussed our strengths and our vulnerabilities. He planned to write a book, this book, and outlined where he saw me in the future, as a leader of men. We hadn’t communicated on such a deep level for years.

  I told him that, all being well with his health, I would have him in my first management team. He had the ability to make people feel more comfortable in their own skin. That would lead to them doing their job better. His skills were needed, because footballers are emotionally stunted, and liable to struggle in an environment that demands constant improvement and self-justification.

  We spoke about where we had come from, what we had overcome. We expressed our pride in one another without embarrassment. We hugged before we called it a night and went to bed. Typical Pete, that. He used to laugh about how uncomfortable that made me when we first met. He explained the psychological aspects of the gesture and the cultural reflexes that made me recoil. It became a symbol of the bond we had created.

  I played well in a 1-0 win
against Birmingham, hitting the post and delivering the half-cleared free kick from which Charlie Austin scored his first QPR goal. I texted Pete after the game, and didn’t get a reply until the following day. I decided to travel down to London first thing on Monday morning, go straight to training, and then stay with Pete after a meal in Knightsbridge with Ian Montone, a good friend who was over from America.

  I got off the tube at South Kensington, and noticed a missed call from Naomi, Pete’s sister. No worries, I thought, she was probably wondering if I fancied a cup of tea. When I got through to her she spoke haltingly: ‘I found Pete dead this morning.’ Boom. The weirdest thing was that I was so shocked I never cried. It took me about three days to process the news, emotionally, until I did so. Numbed, I just wandered about aimlessly for an hour.

  Surely, it could not be real? I thought back to Thursday night, and that last embrace. I remembered Pete’s ability to move from a search for the deepest meaning to ridiculous, close-to-the-bone humour, almost in the same sentence. I had this image of a smiling man, whose ability to remember people’s names made them feel as if they were at the centre of his universe.

  It’s funny how grief makes the brain work. I could not get another image, of Pete at a supermarket checkout, out of my head. I was with Mash, one of my mates. We didn’t know where to look when Pete started to ask the checkout lady whether she had kids. In a matter of seconds these passing strangers were swapping stories like old friends. He had this amazing knack of disarming people, bringing lightness into their lives.

  I knew I had to remain strong for Pete’s family, his mum, brother Alan and Naomi. They were struggling to make sense of it all. I had spent the most time with him in the last couple of months of his life, so it was up to me to share, as Pete had done with me. They cried and laughed, as we told tales of his random nature.