No Nonsense Read online

  I was devastated, but tried to think as he would have thought. When I spoke to his mum about him I used another of his analogies, about life being a bus journey. Each of us has an individual bus stop, where we are destined to disembark. We share the journey with special friends; some get off sooner than others. For some, seeing the bus disappear into the distance is a blessed relief.

  I took solace in the knowledge that Pete knew where he was going, and when he would get off. I sensed he knew that life wasn’t going to get an awful lot better for him, because of his health. He had almost died on the operating table 30 years before. He was told he’d be lucky to live for another five years, and had finally reached his bus stop. Had he remained on board, deteriorating to the point of complete dependency, he would only have suffered.

  I still felt his spirit. I wasn’t ashamed of crying, but something asked me what I was crying about. I realised it was a selfish act, a concentration on my own sense of loss. What about the positive energy Pete left behind? It was right that we should mourn his passing, but the more I thought about it, the more I felt his life should be celebrated.

  I have no rational explanation why, a little later, I chanced upon a letter from Pete while clearing out the locker at my golf club. It was dated Friday, 16 May 2008, four days before I was due to be sentenced. The best way to gauge its emotional impact and its cherished symbolism is to reproduce it here, in its entirety:

  Dear Joey,

  Tuesday is approaching. Your immediate future will be decided by a court and a judge. I wanted to write to you, explaining that for me Tuesday’s decision and verdict is rather immaterial, in as much as it doesn’t change who you are.

  As you are aware, I have much love and respect for you, and know the man you are. I also know the struggles you have endured in finding out who you are, your values, hopes and aspirations. Regardless of what occurs on Tuesday I would like you to know how proud I am of you, and of the mature being that you are turning into.

  I am happy you are a part of my life, and hopefully will always be so. You have qualities that I seek for myself and search for in friendship. I will stand by your side, speak up for you and support you as long as you are willing to do these things for yourself. Your true character has emerged through all this adversity, and I believe, as I know you do, that everything happens for a reason.

  Please remember this in times of trouble or trauma, and use the word ‘God’ in a way that suits you. For some it is from the Bible, others the universe, or from some form of life force which is present within them. Whatever suits you and reaches your spiritual side. The important thing to remember is that we are not God, and there is something out there more powerful than us.

  In actual fact, as you know from your own experience, when you let go of a situation, keeping only your side of the street clean, amazing things happen and peace prevails. I truly respect you and believe in you.

  Here the letter changes from elegant handwriting, in black pen, to capital letters, in red:

  Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be so?

  You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do.

  We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us all. It is not just in some of us. It is in everyone, and as we let our own light shine we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

  It is signed ‘Peter’, in black pen, almost as if it had been scribbled in haste. A coincidence that I found it when I did? I wonder . . .

  Pete died soon after Grandad, who kept everything in. His generation was influenced by those who went into hospital, like his brother, and never came out. He insisted he didn’t need a doctor. He showed no emotion. Don’t worry about me. I’ll crack on. That indomitable spirit, that dignity, was his legacy to me, and the rest of my family.

  Pete’s legacy is everywhere, captured for posterity in stories that can be kept as cherished secrets, or shouted from the rooftops as statements of intent. He left marker posts in the ground for me to map out my own journey. What could I be? What could I have done differently? What will my legacy be? What will my history say about me?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THIS MATTERS, NOW

  Just before Peter Kay died, I showed him a letter from a QPR supporter, which remained unsent for more than a year because the writer needed time to work through his disgust at my meltdown at Manchester City. Dr Raj Sehgal was finally ready to introduce me to the philosophy degree course he ran at Roehampton University.

  Pete was so enthused he suggested we study together. It was the sort of extracurricular activity he relished, because it fitted his grand scheme of diluting football’s dominant influence on my life. He recognised that the game stirred dangerous emotions, and believed in the perspective of a fully engaged mind.

  His cremation, on one of those musty mornings that signal the arrival of autumn, was sad even though I had a sense of a life well lived, and a man well loved. Pete Townshend of The Who sent his condolences. My mentor was a firm friend of his, and had even helped design his kitchen. Such touching vignettes emphasised the void left behind him.

  I spent an hour circulating at the family reception, where I spoke to Charlie Lesser. We had become extremely close, because of the impact Pete had on our lives. I told him I intended to do the course, because it was what our friend would have wanted. Charlie offered to be my companion, for a similar reason. I spent an hour with Raj that afternoon, and agreed to sit at the back of lectures for first-year students.

  I took notes and was immediately drawn into the subject. It wasn’t a dry academic exercise, pontification for pontification’s sake, but a living, breathing topic. Historical figures had modern relevance. Beliefs could no longer be blind, because they were examined minutely. I understood why, in the original Greek, philosophy translates literally as ‘love of wisdom’.

  Raj thought I had been ambling along, intellectually. He surveyed the battlefield of my Twitter account, and recognised someone flirting with self-improvement through informal education. It was a clever analysis, since I had started to lose myself in bookshops; I loved their intimacy and anonymity. Whenever an individual or issue captured my imagination I would follow up recommendations, seek out as much information as possible.

  The philosophy course, which I attended at least twice a week after training, gave structure to that process. It offered the opportunity to follow Immanuel Kant’s advice: ‘Dare to think.’ Since I know such lines are foundation stones for the theory that I’m a jumped-up poseur, I’ll cite Cicero in my defence: ‘It is the peculiar quality of a fool to perceive the faults of others and to forget his own.’

  I find my faults unforgettable, since they are many and varied. They manifested themselves in the classroom, where I drove fellow students to distraction by extending debates way beyond their allotted times with my moral meanderings. Some aspects of discussion, like the intrinsic difference between subjective and objective judgement, were relevant to my professional life; others were intriguingly abstract.

  I was able to take a sniper’s approach to the framing of my arguments, as opposed to the carpet-bombing I had previously indulged in. Raj’s appraisal, based on grades over my first year, suggested a first-class degree was within reach if I committed to full-time study. That was obviously impractical, but we came to an understanding that my education will resume when I finish with football, or it finishes with me.

  The influence of the course was subtle. I didn’t exactly mellow, since I picked up 13 yellow cards over the season, but I saw additional sides of an argument. I n
eeded to, because implosion was imminent. QPR fell out of the automatic promotion places due to a run of only two wins in eight matches. A subsequent 2-1 defeat to 10-man Bournemouth brought matters to a head.

  Suddenly the unthinkable – failing to qualify for the playoffs – seemed very plausible. Leicester and Burnley were clear at the top. Derby and Wigan were seemingly irresistible. We were stalling, and vulnerable to late surges by the likes of Brighton, Reading, Blackburn and Ipswich. King-killers were on the loose.

  For a change, I wasn’t one of them. I respected Harry Redknapp for the respect he had shown me. He confided in me, asked for my views on personnel, playing patterns and tactical tweaks. In short, he was doing everything he should have been doing with his captain, Clint Hill. Harry was in danger of betraying his greatest gift.

  He will admit his strength is not in taking training, as Steve McClaren had done to such effect before leaving to manage Derby. It is in gelling a group, assembling the right balance of players and letting them get on with it. I began to room with Hilly once his best mate, Shaun Derry, left to manage Notts County, so was an obvious sounding board for the skipper’s disenchantment.

  He is a great lad, a stellar example to younger players through his work ethic. He will definitely go on to be an effective coach, perhaps a manager if he becomes more assertive. He resented Harry’s lack of inclusivity, and I couldn’t disagree when he complained of being disrespected. It was symptomatic of a wider issue, the negativity of players normally content to go with the flow.

  Players can easily get managers the sack. Margins are so fine that indifference or malice can be disguised. All it takes is fractional slowness in closing down a shot, the concession of a small amount of space at a set piece or marginal failure to track a runner. Players can train without due care and attention, or undermine the group by talking behind a manager’s back to easily led team-mates.

  I would never do that, even if I disliked someone with a passion. I still tried for Mark Hughes even though I suspected he was hell-bent on getting me out of the club. It sounds a bit trite, but I have a strong sense of duty. Something wasn’t right when I walked into the upstairs dining room at the training ground and heard a voice saying, ‘We’ve got to mug him off.’

  An entire table suddenly went very quiet. Interesting . . .

  Experience told me they didn’t want me to know the depth of feeling, because they feared the consequences if the manager discovered their identities. I joined them, and asked them to level with me. Perhaps my reputation for militancy counted for something, after all. They shared their concerns.

  Harry was too detached on the training ground. He was playing at it, going through the motions. He had his favourites, but no one really knew where they stood. His tactics were shite. These were the generic complaints of a team in turmoil, and I, in turn, risked a heart-to-heart:

  ‘You know what, lads? If I thought changing the manager now would get us promotion, I’d get in there myself. I’d tell him to his face to get out of the club. But that is not the answer. It doesn’t matter who we plug in at this stage of the season. Going up is the only thing we need to focus on. Whatever happens after that happens.

  ‘If we don’t get into the Premier League, Armageddon’s coming. Some of us will pack up and leave, but there is going to be a hole in a football club that has given our families a chance to live in nice houses. Whichever way we look at it, we are duty-bound to have a go for the fella, and for the generations of fans who will be here long after we have gone.’

  I thought I had talked them round, though I had no idea what was said when I left to sit and think in a mercifully empty dressing room. I was exposed, whether I liked it or not. There would be no names mentioned, but I had to communicate the level of hostility. I walked down the corridor and asked Caroline, who has been secretary to no fewer than 35 QPR managers, whether Harry was about. I knocked on his door, and entered his office.

  He was watching the Racing Channel, and it was pointless hedging my bets:

  ‘Gaffer, I need to speak with you. I don’t know how you’ve managed to do this, but everyone hates you. I’ve known managers polarise a dressing room, but I have never been in this situation, where no one has a positive word to say about you. That’s difficult to do, because even if a fella is a cunt there will be people who like him for his arrogance.

  ‘I’m in the middle here, H. I like you. I actually like you. You have been fair with me. You have done well for me when you could quite easily have bombed me out. When you put me back into the group I promised you I would give you everything I’ve got. I’m here now because of that promise. It is easy for me to buy into what is going on, go with the flow, and down tools, but that is not me . . . ’

  It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the solitary window, at the back of the room. Harry sighed, and looked suddenly weary. ‘Joe, Joe, Joe,’ he repeated. ‘You’ll know this one day. When you sit in this chair you will know what I’m up against. It is part and parcel of being a manager.’

  The words came quickly: ‘I swear to you, gaffer, I don’t see how it is. It can’t be because this is a horrible place to be. I’d hate knowing people feel the way they do, when they talk to me about you. I’d absolutely hate it. Surely, after everything you have done in your career, it can’t be like this all the time.’

  We spoke about how to improve things, quickly. I asked him to Google Steve Black, a motivational speaker and fitness consultant who mentored Jonny Wilkinson. We had been working together privately, away from the club for a couple of weeks, and I was convinced his positivity and sensitivity would create the best environment for a promotion push. I thought my optimism had registered when I turned to leave, but as I was about to open the door I heard an exasperated cry of ‘Fucking hell . . . ’ It was Harry’s way of telling me to fuck off.

  I understood, but also appreciated Blackie’s relevance. He is a very special man, unique. I’d watched Jonny play for Toulon when I was at Marseille, and marvelled at how self-contained he was in a combustible environment. Eddy Jennings, one of my closest friends, raved about Blackie’s work with Freddie Woodman, a young goalkeeper at Newcastle.

  Eddy arranged for us to meet in a bookshop near Leicester Square. We realised, instantly, how similar we were, and a half-hour’s chat over coffee turned into a five-hour heart-to-heart. Blackie had an energy and a serenity that really registered, but I wasn’t prepared for what hit me when we next met.

  I expected an amicable meeting over lunch, airily discussing life, yet Blackie pushed my buttons for the first time. I gave a stereotypical football answer when he asked whether I thought I could improve. I told him I was in a toxic situation at QPR, concentrating on trying to stop the inevitable decline. I was 30, and honestly felt my best years were behind me. You hear it so often, from the media and even the clubs, that you blindly believe it.

  Blackie didn’t mince his words: ‘How much better can you get? If you don’t think you can get better, day by day, you might as well stay at home. What’s the point in turning up if you don’t think you can improve?’

  There was no point in working with me if that was my attitude. I’d talked about my ambitions to coach and manage, but Blackie insisted I had to concentrate completely on becoming a better player. I was taken aback because no one had challenged me in a professional capacity with such force.

  He wasn’t aggressive, but I couldn’t avoid the reality of what he was saying. I went for a walk along the Thames, to a prearranged meeting with Sir Clive Woodward, and couldn’t get it out of my mind. He was talking common sense, but not common practice. I had talent, and needed to work on my strengths. If I worked to my weaknesses I would be mediocre, at best.

  Blackie is a proponent of kaizen, the principle of continual improvement developed most prominently by Toyota in Japan. The aim is to improve incrementally, on a daily basis. Every action leads to review and reflection. Lessons are drawn from every experience. It has formed the basis of everyt
hing I have done in the last three years and will underpin everything I do in the future.

  Blackie’s impact on me was immediate. He spoke of me as a true alpha male, strong enough to acknowledge a soft core. He saw someone prepared to lay himself bare, and identified a pressing problem by referring to energy vampires, players who suck the lifeblood out of a team. They take many guises, but are uniformly dangerous.

  He sent me into QPR, where loyalties had been abandoned or at the very least stretched, to deliver a direct message: ‘Is your attitude worth catching? Infect the group if it is. If it isn’t worth catching, because it is harmful to the group, then fuck off. We don’t want vampires in the building. We don’t need you, because what we are trying to do is hard enough as it is.’

  Phil Beard, the chief executive, evidently had an efficient intelligence system. He learned of the sourness of mood, called a meeting of the senior pros, and asked what was going on. Even the quieter members of the group were straight in, leaving him in no doubt about the strength of feeling. I saw an ominous look of alarm spread across Phil’s face and realised I had to front up:

  ‘It’s too late to change. We could bring Mourinho in, but we wouldn’t go up. Any upheaval at this stage of the season and it will all go down the tubes. We can work this around, but we’ve got to be in it together. We’ve all got to step up. Being a good leader is not just about reacting when you’re asked for an opinion. It is not about criticising, but about having solutions. It is providing an example everyone can follow.’

  I mentioned Blackie’s inspirational qualities again. Phil met him in Middlesbrough, and offered him a short-term consultancy role without Harry’s blessing. The manager didn’t even acknowledge his existence for the first week. It took a mad 5-2 home win over Nottingham Forest, which I missed through injury, to tip the balance.

  I was at the mouth of the tunnel when I bumped into Jamie Redknapp, who was obviously and admirably watching his dad’s back. I had noticed him in the directors’ box, sitting next to Amit Bhatia, and explained the origins of the wobble while introducing him to Blackie. Whatever was said must have had an impact because by Monday morning Harry had done a 180-degree turn.