Bend It Like Bullard Read online

  Di Canio took his clothes very seriously. He would usually be dressed in tight jeans or trousers, pointed shoes and a funky shirt. I often sat next to him and I would never dream of touching any of his gear. So when he saw his shirt had been moved he went apeshit.

  ‘Who put my shirt up there?’ he roared as we pissed ourselves laughing.

  ‘You fucking bastards! Don’t show me disrespect like that!’

  He marched off upstairs to Harry’s office and made the gaffer come down to the changing room to resolve the matter. He didn’t calm down until the culprit was found, an apology was made and he had made sure no-one ever touched his clothes again.

  ‘If anyone ever does that to me again,’ he seethed, ‘I’m not playing.’

  A minute later, the nutcase was in the shower, dancing and singing away.

  It was the same during training as Paolo hated to lose and would often just walk off the pitch if things weren’t going his way, especially if he was on the opposite side to Moncur.

  It got to the point where Harry always had to put them on the same team whenever he set up a game during training or World War Three would have kicked off.

  If they were on opposing teams, any free kick given for a foul on Di Canio would be met by Moncur screaming, ‘You’re a fucking cheat!’

  To avoid a situation he could not possibly manage, Harry always put them together. Even then, there would be murders as whichever team lost would go off their heads. It was an absolute nightmare for Harry, but it was extremely funny for me to watch.

  When people talk about man-management these days, I always think back to that dressing room and I still have no idea how Harry kept everyone happy – that’s why I think Roberto Mancini did such a good job at Man City; that must have been an impossible changing room to control.

  Paolo was sometimes just as hard to control on the pitch – there was one game I turned up to watch, after Harry had given me a bollocking, which was crazy. We were losing at home to Bradford, when Paolo went down in the box. It looked like a penalty but the ref waved away our protests for the third time that afternoon. Di Canio felt like the world was against him and he walked over to the bench and started making the substitution sign to the gaffer.

  ‘What the fuck is he doing?’ I thought, and so did Harry, who tells the story brilliantly.

  ‘I don’t play,’ said Paolo, as he sat himself down in front of the dug-out, folded his arms and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Come on, Paolo!’ said Harry.

  ‘I don’t play no more!’

  ‘Paolo, get up quick, we’re losing 4-2!’ urged Harry.

  While they were debating the issue, the Bradford players were dribbling the ball around him and Dean Saunders missed a glorious chance to add to the visitors’ lead.

  The fans started chanting Di Canio’s name and he suddenly ended his on-pitch sit-in and got on with the game, which meant having a huge row with Frank Lampard when we were awarded a penalty soon after. The pair of them both had their hands on the ball and Paolo wouldn’t let go of it until he was the man placing it on the spot. He ran up and smashed it confidently past the keeper. The comeback was on and two further goals meant we won, but it was all about Paolo.

  It was more of the same later that year when we played Everton away and Paolo gave up the chance to score a last-minute winner because the home keeper Paul Gerrard was down injured. It was an extraordinary moment as the perfect cross came in and all Di Canio had to do was put the ball in the empty goal – but he caught it instead and signalled that Gerrard should get some treatment to the astonishment of pretty much everyone.

  Apparently, Stuart Pearce was absolutely livid after the match and was prowling around the dressing room urging Harry not to let him near Paolo when he came back in, in case he killed him. To make matters worse, the gaffer then had to do all the post-match interviews praising Paolo when he was just as pissed off that we’d missed out on the chance of three points – Di Canio even won a special Fifa Fair Play award for it, but then that’s Fifa.

  I can’t imagine they would have lauded his actions during half time of a League Cup tie at Birmingham. All the boys were full of it at training the next morning, as Paolo had supposedly not lined up correctly in the wall for a Birmingham free kick from which they scored to lead at the break. When Shaka came into the changing room he asked Paolo what he’d been doing – and the Italian lost it.

  ‘Oh, you blame me?’ he said, as he got up, picked up one of those huge Gatorade buckets and started swinging it around the dressing room, angrily muttering to himself. Everyone ducked for cover trying to get out of the way of the bucket – and its contents – before Paolo eventually chucked it all over the place, making sure Shaka’s gear got a good soaking.

  ‘I don’t play no more,’ he sulked, not for the last time in his career, and pulled off his boots. But, funnily enough, he was back out on the pitch for the second half and we turned it around to win the game.

  Paolo wasn’t the only great character during my time at Upton Park. Harry was never shy when it came to signing players, which meant I was lucky enough to experience training with a colourful cast of footballers.

  Davor S˘uker was a European football legend and he turned up towards the end of his brilliant career. I can’t think of a more skilful player I’ve ever shared a pitch with – he was unbelievable. He brought another Croatian star with him in Igor S˘timac, the hardest defender I’d ever seen, a total animal on the pitch.

  But for all his ability, S˘uker had this crazy habit of insisting on chipping the goalkeeper from wherever he was on the pitch. He could be seventy yards away from goal during training and he’d have a go at catching the keeper off his line.

  It would wind the boys up something rotten and Harry would do his pieces on the sidelines, saying ‘Stop fucking doing that!’ but S˘uker couldn’t help himself.

  I think it stemmed back to that amazing Euro 96 goal he scored when he chipped Peter Schmeichel from the edge of the box. He’d obviously been ripping the arse out of it ever since and it must’ve become his trademark. It was almost as if his attitude was ‘Nobody can tell me not to do that now – did you not see that goal I scored against Schmeichel?’

  But he was a top lad as he proved when I went to Croatia with England in 2008. I wouldn’t have even been certain that he would’ve remembered me – I’m sure I wouldn’t have remembered him if the roles had been reversed – but he went out of his way to come over and shake my hand. ‘Jimmy!’ he said with a smile on his face when we arrived at the stadium that night. Fortunately, we were in the stands watching so he didn’t have an opportunity to try a chip on that occasion.

  Samassi Abou also turned up at a similar time and he was an out-and-out lunatic, who nobody dared to cross. He was another absurdly talented player, who spoke with a broad African accent as he was from Ivory Coast. In training, you never knew what he was going to do. His feet were so quick, they were an absolute joke, and I don’t think even he knew what he was going to do either. And if he didn’t know there was no way a defender was going to have a clue how to handle him so he proved to be a very tricky customer on the pitch.

  And then there was Manny Omoyinmi, one of my reserve team-mates, who got us thrown out of the League Cup – although it was hardly his fault. Most West Ham fans would remember him for playing seven minutes as a substitute in the League Cup quarter-final which West Ham won on penalties against Aston Villa. But we were then forced to replay the game because Manny had played earlier in the competition while on loan at Gillingham. He was cup-tied and shouldn’t have played, but he was made the scapegoat for that shambles as he was sent out on loan after that and never played for the club again. The club secretary also had to resign. Manny was just trying to break into the first team like me and he told us afterwards, ‘I didn’t know the rules. If I’m lucky enough to get a chance for the first team, I’m just going to play’.

  Being perfectly honest, if that had happened to me I wouldn�
��t have known the rules either – when did we go to football school and get taught all that stuff? I must have missed that one.

  It wasn’t just the West Ham players who were quirky, there was also Stan, the hilarious reserve team kit man and minibus driver. The poor bloke was so old he probably should have retired but he loved it too much. He was at the ground at six or seven every morning, washing kit and clearing up. Later in the day, he’d drive us to somewhere like Norwich for a game and by 11pm he’d be driving us back to London.

  But he could never stay awake, which is not ideal if you’re a passenger on his bus. He fell asleep at the wheel so often it was frightening and there was always the same tell-tale sign. We’d be cruising along then suddenly we’d all hear the noise of the minibus wheels bumping over the cat’s eyes on the road – de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de-de.

  ‘Stanley!’ we’d all yell. ‘Wake up, for fuck’s sake!’

  It’s hard to believe these things went on, but we just accepted it. It was my first experience of professional football and I suppose I didn’t know any better.

  But what I did know was those reserve games were not helping my career and not just because of Stanley’s driving. I felt like I was going nowhere. After two years at West Ham, it was fight or flight time, but the decision was out of my hands as Harry had already decided I had no future at the club – which was about as surprising as a Paul Scholes yellow card.

  I was convinced I hadn’t ever been given a proper chance at West Ham so there was no way Harry could have known what I was capable of. The confirmation of what I’d known all along simply made me extra hungry to make it as a pro footballer. I just needed to find a club that believed in me.

  I think the first and only time I’d ever been in Harry’s office was when he told me I wouldn’t be getting a new deal at Upton Park.

  I was in there with my dad and there were no hard feelings although I was determined to prove him wrong – and I told him that one day I’d line up for an opposing side against one of his.

  Years later, I was proved right when I played against Portsmouth and Spurs. On both occasions, Harry came over to shake my hand. There was never any bitterness there and, if anything, I owe a hell of a lot to the Redknapp family. Harry made my career, and about five years later Jamie saved it. But that’s a different story.

  * * *

  REFUEL WISELY WITH YOUR HALF-TIME CUPPA; UNLESS BARRY FRY HAS KICKED IT ALL OVER THE FLOOR

  * * *

  ‘Remember, no human condition is ever permanent; then you will not be overjoyed in good fortune, not too sorrowful in misfortune.’ Socrates (The philosopher, not the Brazilian footballer)

  The Peterborough team bus on the way to play Wigan at the JJB Stadium was running late.

  Usually, we’d arrive at an away ground about ninety minutes before kick-off so there was enough time to get changed and warm up properly before the game. But, that Saturday afternoon we were behind schedule and we finally pulled into the ground at about 1.45pm.

  On the way there, a few of us had been playing three-card brag, including myself, Neale Fenn, Jon Cullen, Gareth Jelleyman and the physio Paul Showler. Never one to be far away from the action, our larger-than-life manager Barry Fry also joined us for a few hands. Imagine Arsène Wenger joining the Arsenal boys for cards – it’s never going to happen. But this was Peterborough and this was Barry Fry, so we all went along with it.

  The bus stopped outside the stadium while we were in the middle of a hand and I was thinking we needed to pack this game up and get into the ground. But Barry didn’t move. He was looking at his cards closely and thinking.

  We gave each other a few puzzled looks and someone piped up and said: ‘Gaffer, are we getting off the bus or what?’

  ‘Hang on!’ yelled Barry. ‘No! Nobody’s getting off while I’ve got money in the middle! We’ll finish playing this hand first.’

  I looked round at the boys. I mouthed the words ‘This geezer’s mad!’ to one of the lads, but we had no choice but to finish the hand we were playing. And only then, twenty-five minutes later than planned, did we actually make it into the stadium. Madness. As Barry said to me later, ‘You’ve got to get your priorities right.’

  Looking back on it now, it’s funny how we all just went along with it. We’re professional footballers and he didn’t let us off the coach because he was playing cards with us.

  Bazza was clearly an unusual manager, but he was part and parcel of the Peterborough experience. Without a doubt, Bazza was one of the biggest influences on my career – there’s no way I would have gone on to enjoy the success I had without him.

  Bazza was a unique character, unlike anyone else I’ve ever met in football. But forget about all the stories you’ve ever heard about him being a bit of a nutter, it’s all bollocks. In real life, Bazza is the maddest bastard of them all. He’s a little powerhouse of a bloke, who probably only stands about five feet off the ground, but he’s all energy, emotion and passion. Reminds me a lot of myself actually, although I’m not short and fat.

  I love hearing about the meticulous preparation and strict rules of today’s modern managers – and I even experienced England under Fabio Capello for a bit too which was no picnic – and then comparing them to Bazza and some of his antics. You never really knew what was coming next with him. Apart from the fact that if we were losing at half time, the tray of tea on the dressing room table would not stay there for long – and not because anyone was drinking it.

  Baz would lose it with us big time if he had the hump with our performance. He was very old school like that. If he was waiting for us when we got to the dressing room, it wasn’t because he wanted to give us all a pat on the back to say well done, it was because he wanted to knock our blocks off.

  Every home game, a lovely old dear would come into the changing room and put the tea on a rickety old table near where we were all sitting. And without fail, if Baz had the hump, that table would be the first to feel his anger as he’d give it a kicking and the tea would fly everywhere. It got to the point where I wondered why the old girl even bothered bringing it in.

  Barry’s view was that if we’d been useless we didn’t deserve the tea, so we weren’t having it. End of discussion. Given his size and stature, it was a miracle that he managed to raise his leg high enough to kick that tray over at all and I can’t imagine he’d be able to do it today – not without a crane to help him.

  We often had sandwiches straight after a game and on one occasion when the gaffer exploded after we’d lost, he booted the table, sending the sarnies spiralling through the air and a couple of them actually landed on our captain Andy Edwards’s head. The place erupted, we were all on the floor laughing; I was actually crying. Never mind Fergie kicking a football boot at Becks, this was the real deal – the gaffer landing a prawn sandwich on the skipper’s head; deal with that!

  Luckily, Andy was a mild-mannered enough guy to take it on the chin – literally – and he didn’t make too much of a fuss. He was without doubt the softest captain I’ve ever played alongside, completely unlike our right-back Dean Hooper, who took no shit from anyone. Even Baz.

  The pair of them used to squabble all the time as Dean was a bit of a nutter. In fact, he was the biggest lunatic I’ve ever met in football. And I’ve met Duncan Ferguson.

  He was a bricklayer with his own building firm as well as a footballer, a proper hard bastard who you were always glad was on your side. He didn’t know the meaning of ‘riding a tackle’ – if an opposition player was anywhere near the ball he was going for he’d go straight through them. Once, we’d come in at half time to find Barry waiting for us and we all waited for the inevitable – as did the old dear and her tea. The gaffer upped the tea, pointed at Dean and said: ‘You’ve got to pull your fucking finger out today!’

  Immediately I thought ‘This is going to go off’ and I tried to look anywhere but at the pair of them. Dean jumped straight up and him and Baz were nose to nose with Dean yelling: ‘Don
’t you fucking talk to me like that, I’m trying my best.’

  Baz had him by the scruff of the neck and it looked for all the world like he was going to give him a right-hander. I looked on at this incredible match-up. In the blue corner, our psycho bricklaying, brick-shithouse right-back; in the red corner, our fifty-eight-year-old, short, fat, ferocious manager.

  Barry still had Dean by the scruff of the neck and, using his head, managed to push my team-mate back towards his seat.

  ‘You fucking sit down,’ growled the gaffer and that was the end of it.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen a player get up and confront the manager like that and it was frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

  It’s hard to explain what it’s like in the dressing room, especially at half time. Passions can run high. The adrenaline is still flowing from the first forty-five minutes and there are a load of testosterone-fuelled blokes all sitting very close together.

  Barry and Dean both hated losing so that confrontation was a recipe for disaster. It just boiled down to who was madder and Baz was mad enough not to be afraid of Dean. I would have been and so would most people, but that’s Barry.

  He’d do anything to win. He once told me a great story about when he was manager of Birmingham and results weren’t going his way. He discovered there was a curse on the St Andrews pitch as the stadium had been built on Romany land, so Bazza decided to lift the spell by pissing on all four corners of the pitch. As you do.

  I could just picture him waddling around the pitch, doing a bit of wee then holding it and waddling some more. Amazingly, it almost worked as a three-month winless streak was broken soon after. Bazza’s luck didn’t last, though, and it wasn’t long before he was sacked.

  We all suffered whenever we lost and not just because we were down about it, but because Barry made sure post-defeat training was never a pleasant experience. He had a special running session which he’d treat us to on a Monday after a defeat. He’d mark out a huge circle on the training pitches, probably about 500 metres all the way round. He’d then send us running around it and we’d have to change direction when he blew his whistle. And that was it. He’d have us running for an hour as a form of punishment but it didn’t bother me particularly as I was always fit enough to cope with anything like that.