Bend It Like Bullard Read online

  ‘You’ve broken me fucking nose!’ I screamed back.

  ‘Have you calmed down?’

  ‘You’ve broken me fucking nose!’

  ‘Have you fucking calmed down?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve fucking calmed down, now get your hands off me!’

  He released his grip and I stormed out screaming, ‘He’s broken me nose’ to anyone within earshot and muttering ‘Fucking bastard’ to myself until I got into my car.

  I hadn’t lost it like that since I was a kid and part of me immediately regretted it. Another part of me was mentally going through the boxing moves I’d learned years before that I should have used on Jewell. I’m not sure the gaffer would have appreciated that too much.

  I took my place on the bench at the Bridge the next day, but not before Bill Green asked me what had happened.

  I blamed it all on Paul, naturally. ‘He took a right liberty, squashing my head in the door’ I remember saying to him with half a grin on my face.

  The gaffer was certainly over the scrap as he brought me on for the last twenty minutes at Chelsea, but we still lost – even with my added threat.

  After the game, we spoke about our scrap – Paul reminded me that I was lucky to get out of his office alive – and agreed to move on. Months later, I even realised that his decision was right because that rest made me hungrier than ever.

  We joke about it now whenever we see each other. I always say I still owe him one for shutting my head in a door. And Paul clearly doesn’t have a problem with me as he signed me for Ipswich a few years later.

  I didn’t miss many more games for Wigan after that as what was turning into an amazing season continued with a run to the Carling Cup semi-finals where we were drawn against Arsenal. The first leg in January 2006 was a memorable occasion as we beat the Gunners at the JJB Stadium – except I’ll always remember it for my antics when the lights went out.

  I had attention deficit disorder when I was at school – I’ve probably still got it now – and I just couldn’t help myself as I always had to be the story. If you were sitting next to me in geography, you weren’t doing any work because I didn’t fucking want to.

  So, when the floodlights failed during a hard-fought semi-final that had been goalless to that point, I was that kid in the geography class again. I felt a need to entertain everyone – don’t ask me why, this was pure adrenaline pumping right in the middle of the game. You can’t just switch that off as easily as the lights.

  Every other player on the pitch had stopped for a breather, but not me.

  I yelled to our goalkeeper Mike Pollitt to chuck the ball to me. I realised that even though it was pitch black out there, the referee Howard Webb hadn’t blown his whistle to stop play.

  Polly was a bit baffled but hurled the ball to me anyway and I ran down the other end and took a shot from just outside the box, but missed the target by a good ten feet. Good job the lights were off.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Webb, looking at me.

  ‘You didn’t blow your whistle,’ I told him with a shrug and a grin.

  Some of the Arsenal players found that funny and started laughing. Not a smart move as that only encouraged the schoolkid inside me.

  Taking full advantage of the murky conditions and the fact that most players were doing the sensible thing and stretching to keep warm, I crept behind Arsenal’s Freddie Ljungberg, yelled ‘Fuck off!’ and pulled his shorts down.

  He’d been the star of Armani ads and I told the press afterwards that I wanted to check if he was wearing the sponsored undies underneath his shorts, but the truth is I didn’t really know what I was doing. It just seemed like a fun thing to do at the time.

  Luckily for me – and the rest of the Arsenal players – we left the pitch at that point and returned fifteen minutes later when the lights came back on so we could all get on with the game.

  The Gunners had some decent players out that night, but it wasn’t their strongest team and we took advantage with a 1-0 win thanks to Paul Scharner’s goal on his debut.

  It gave us a sniff in the second leg two weeks later, although most people expected Arsenal to turn it around at home, especially when their starting line-up included all the big dogs – Sol Campbell at the back, Dennis Bergkamp and Thierry Henry up front. Make no mistake, this side was awesome, not far from the team that lost to Barcelona in the Champions League final four months later. Highbury looked amazing that night. The pitch was like a bowling green without a blade of grass out of place. I watched Henry warming up in his Nike Vapors and couldn’t help but admire the bloke. Don’t worry, I didn’t pull his shorts down as well, but in situations like that I was almost a fan, a disbelieving little boy looking on.

  Once the game got underway, Polly was inspired for us. He saved a José Reyes penalty in the first half and then stopped everything Henry threw at him. Well, almost – the bugger did score in the second half to level the tie.

  My mate continued his heroics in goal as the game went into extra time. But Arsène Wenger threw on Robin van Persie and the Dutchman scored with a brilliant free kick which gave Polly no chance and Arsenal now held the overall lead. It didn’t seem fair. We’d worked so hard.

  Then, with a minute to go of extra time, the miracle happened. I’m not a religious man but thank God for Jason Roberts. He latched on to Graham Kavanagh’s pass and steamrollered Campbell and Philippe Senderos before scoring to put us into the final on the away goals rule.

  We went mental. I was doing backflips with Leighton Baines. Everyone was jumping on top of each other. The manager was out on the pitch bear-hugging every single one of us. The fans were going bonkers. It was just unreal.

  And in the middle of it all, Polly, whose heroics all night had seen us over the line, ran over to me and said ‘What happens now then?’

  I looked at him, thinking he was taking the piss, but his face was quite serious.

  ‘We won on away goals,’ I said.

  ‘Oh right,’ he replied. ‘I wondered why we were all celebrating so much.’

  What a fucking donut. The dopey bastard had no idea we’d reached the final. He thought it was going to penalties, but it’s probably just as well for Arsenal that it didn’t because the way Polly played that night he would have saved all five of theirs anyway. I’ve never seen a better goalkeeping display. Thankfully, Polly didn’t use his brain when he played, just his instincts, or we’d have shipped about ten against Henry and his mates.

  The club’s owner Dave Whelan also joined us on the pitch to celebrate (Polly probably thought he’d come down from the stands to take a penalty) and the atmosphere in the dressing room and on the coach afterwards was unforgettable. Funnily enough, that was partly thanks to Arsenal, who gave us all the champagne that they’d had ready in their dressing room in anticipation of winning the tie. Rather than save it for another day, they gave it to us for the long journey back to Wigan.

  We didn’t let them down either, as we really went for it.

  The gaffer was normally very strict, but that night we were pretty much given free rein to get plastered and celebrate our achievement. There was a lot of singing all the way back to Wigan, loads of us were stripping off at the back of the coach and we even got the driver to join in.

  Gary Teale, Lee McCulloch, Alan Mahon and myself were right in the thick of it, but we all celebrated together, as a team.

  We’d made a CD specially, which we agreed we’d play if we won. Each player had chosen their own track and that only added to the high spirits, especially when my choice, Chas and Dave’s ‘Rabbit’ came on. The boys loved it, even the gaffer joined in, as I got into my ‘old cockney geezer’ character, swinging my arms and legs while chirping ‘Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, yap yap’.

  It was a special journey home. I think deep down a lot of us felt that we may never experience a moment like that in our careers again – I know I certainly did – and we had to really mark it.

  A huge part of our success was how
close we were as a unit.

  When other teams stayed overnight at a hotel they’d get together in groups of two or three, but there were always eight or ten of us in a room together playing cards or just messing about. Of course, the fact that we enjoyed so much success during that time helped to make sure we all got on well with each other. But I know that overall squad closeness was unique, because I played for enough other clubs and saw how different it could be.

  The gaffer’s attitude was obviously crucial as well and he would never let us rest on our laurels. Two mornings after our greatest night we were back in for training, but the session was sloppy and Paul was disgusted with what he was seeing. He stopped us right in our tracks, with a stern look on his face and said: ‘Right, get that champagne out of your system because we’ve got a big game on Saturday.’ The focus immediately returned and we were on our way again.

  A month later, we were all crowded into a plush hotel room in Cardiff the night before the Carling Cup final. Man United were waiting for us at the Millennium Stadium (I’m not saying they kipped there overnight as I’m sure they also splashed out on a hotel) but we went through our usual pre-match routine. The only difference was that this time we were staying in an incredible gaff.

  After being treated like royalty, we arrived at the stadium in a bit of a daze and we never really emerged from it. It was a massive occasion for us and we all had loads of family and friends packed into the stadium.

  When I’d asked the club for 130 tickets for my Bexleyheath mob they thought I was messing about, but I wasn’t joking. My mum and dad organised an entire coachload to come to Cardiff and plenty of others got the train over. They all had a good day out, but it wouldn’t have had anything to do with the football.

  It all started to go wrong in the third minute when Polly picked up a freak injury just gathering the ball. He did his hamstring and left the pitch in tears. We were all absolutely gutted for him, but there wasn’t much time to dwell on it as United were running us ragged.

  They led at half time thanks to a Wayne Rooney goal and then blitzed us at the start of the second half as we tried to get back in the game. We left gaps, which they exploited as they scored three times in seven minutes. Game over. No way back.

  Maybe we went a bit gung-ho in trying to get back into the game, but it was probably also a tie too far for us. We’d performed miracles and worked our nuts off to beat Arsenal, but we couldn’t live with United that day. It didn’t really seem like a 4-0 type of game but we couldn’t have any complaints.

  I was certainly not overly disappointed. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, just not the result. I never thought I’d get to play in a final like that at any stage in my career so how could I not enjoy it? I’d have enjoyed it if we’d lost 12-0. And we’d lost to Man United with the likes of Rooney, Ronaldo, Giggs and Ferdinand. Fergie had even left Ruud van Nistelrooy on the bench – they may well have scored twelve had he played.

  There was a big post-match party planned for us afterwards which we all still attended. And, to be honest, we all really went for it and got leathered. The gaffer didn’t mind as he knew we were all triers and had given everything, but it just hadn’t gone our way. He didn’t really feel like being there as he was gutted, but I’m sure he realised how far we’d come in such a short space of time.

  If you’d told me that we’d have been playing in a game like that less than three years after I first walked through the doors at the JJB, I’d have laughed you all the way to the loony bin.

  But I was aware how ambitious the club were from the minute I’d first met Paul, who promised me they were going places and he wanted me to be a key part of that journey.

  He’d watched me play a couple of games for Peterborough and liked what he saw as I ran both matches, although he admitted that I started to get on his nerves because wherever the ball went, I went. I made no secret that I played the game as if I was still in the school playground.

  As soon as I arrived in Wigan, I felt like I fitted in straight away – and that was despite never having spent any significant time up north. Other than away matches, I was completely unfamiliar with that part of the country, but I immediately liked what I saw. And what I saw was a 30,000-seater stadium which, with all due respect to Peterborough, shat all over London Road.

  I was with my agent, Andy Evans (I’d wised up enough to get one by then), and I told him straight away that I wanted to sign. At that stage, I was only thinking about playing in the First Division (or Championship as it is now) and I was pretty confident that would be happening the following season, given how far ahead Wigan were at the top of the table.

  Money didn’t come into it for me, but I’m not ashamed to admit that the £2,500 per week they offered to pay me was gratefully received. I’d more than tripled my wages overnight and my career prospects had soared too.

  Once I’d met Paul and proved to him how much I wanted it, the rest was a formality and I signed a three-year contract. Diane and I left our home on the outskirts of Peterborough and rented a place near Wigan. I loved it up there because everyone was so friendly. I’d go for a walk and people passing by would say, ‘Hi Jim, how are you?’

  I eventually came to see myself as a northerner. Hard to believe, really, as when I first arrived up there my accent meant I could barely make myself understood.

  I’d go into a shop in the morning for the paper and ask for ‘the Currant Bun’, which most people know is rhyming slang for the Sun. Except in Wigan, I’d ask that and they’d send me to the bakery section. When I went fishing, I asked for some ‘wrigglys’ as that’s what I call bait and they’d look at me like I was some kind of nut.

  Most people up there were fascinated by my accent, but didn’t understand my slang at all, while the really strong local accents were impossible for me to pick up – they seemed to miss out so many important words, I didn’t have a clue what they were on about. At first, there was no point in me having a conversation with anyone up there.

  It got easier as time went on, although occasionally one of my team-mates would say something like ‘I’m just going up road to see our kid’ and I’d be confused again. You what? ‘I’m going out to see my brother.’ Oh, right – well just say that then!

  But living up there for a few years definitely affected me and I picked up words that I continued using when I moved back home. Words like ‘lad’ – ‘Alright lad?’ or ‘I’m going out with the lads’. My dad wasn’t happy about that at all. ‘Why do you keep saying that word?’ he’d say.

  That whole accent thing was proof of how everything was happening so quickly for me. Four years earlier, I’d been working part-time between non-league games. I was now on the verge of playing in English football’s second tier and bringing home a six-figure annual salary. I had to pinch myself to believe it and wanted to punch the air in delight.

  At Wigan, I had to make sure I fitted in with my new team-mates and look like I belonged at that level, so I decided to take Del Boy’s advice to Trigger, offered seconds before he fell through the bar in Only Fools and Horses: ‘Play it nice and cool, son, nice and cool, know what I mean …?’

  But it turned out I didn’t need to adopt Del’s attitude. There were a lot of hungry bastards at Wigan who were as driven and focused as I was to succeed. They were absolutely determined to make it to the Premier League as most of them hadn’t much experience of playing in the top flight; players like Lee McCulloch and Gary Teale. Andy Liddell and John Filan. Nathan Ellington and Leighton Baines. They all wanted it badly.

  Go round the changing room and ask any of them what their aims were and they’d all reply: ‘I want to play in the Premier League’.

  There were no players who were there for the money – even though there was plenty of that thanks to Dave Whelan, the multimillionaire Latics chairman. Paul Jewell had only signed players whom he believed were hungry. And I fitted right in there.

  The team was geared towards winning. If we drew, we came off the pitch wi
th the hump. If we won 2-0 and we should have had five or six, we were equally grumpy about it. And if we lost?

  Well, that didn’t happen too often. After I signed, we only lost once in three months as we were promoted as champions with 100 points. We only lost four games in total that whole season.

  And I received my first personal recognition in the game as I made it into the PFA Team of the Year for the division.

  Into the First Division we went and we got off to an absolute flyer. Okay, we lost our first game at Millwall, but it was plain sailing from then on as we went on a ridiculous fourteen-match unbeaten league run that saw us surge to the top of the table. It was unreal. We’d been playing third-tier football just a few months before and now the Premier League appeared to be just around the corner.

  That hunger and determination in the squad continued to stand us in good stead, plus the team was full of talented players which also helps a bit.

  We had Jason Roberts, Geoff Horsfield and Nathan Ellington up front (although The Horse buggered off to West Brom halfway through that season). Ellington was a phenomenal goalscorer and by that I mean he scored a lot of phenomenal goals. Have a look at his montage on YouTube – it’s disgusting. I’m not kidding, it was like playing with Pelé at times. But he was a confidence player through and through. If he scored a couple of goals on a Saturday, he would be guaranteed to score again on Tuesday. If it didn’t happen for him on the Saturday, it might be a couple of weeks before he found the net again.

  Unsurprisingly, we found it hard to maintain that blistering start, but we kept in the play-off race all the way to the last game, where we needed to beat my old club West Ham to make the top six. Sadly, it wasn’t to be as we ran out of steam and could only draw 1-1, which was our fourth game without a win – hardly the ideal end to a season.

  We were probably a couple of players short of the team we needed to go up and we were still finding our feet in the new league. Deep down though, we all knew we’d had a great season. We belonged in that league at the very least and the following season we’d be able to give it a proper crack.