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Lesson 1
Do Not Go to Stringfellows with Charlie Nicholas
‘Where Merse lays the first bet, reads his rehab diary and gets a taste of the playboy lifestyle.’
It was the beginning of the end: my first blow-out as a big-time gambler. There I was, a 16-year-old kid on the YTS scheme at Arsenal with a cheque for £100 in my hand – a whole oner, all mine. That probably sounds like peanuts for a footballer with a top-flight club today, but in 1984 this was a full month’s pay for me and I’d never seen that amount of money in my life, not all at once anyway. Mate, I thought I’d hit the Big Time.
It was the last Friday of the month. I’d just finished training and done all the usual chores that you have to do when you’re a kid at a big football club, like cleaning the baths and toilets at Highbury and sweeping out the dressing-rooms for the first-team game the next day. When that was done, Pat Rice, the youth team coach, came round and gave all the kids a little brown envelope. Our first payslips were inside, and I couldn’t wait to draw my wages out. I got changed out of my tracksuit and ran down the road to Barclays Bank in Finsbury Park with my mate, Wes Reid. I swear I was shaking as the girl behind the counter passed over the notes.
‘What are you doing now, Wes?’ I asked, as we both counted out the crisp fivers and tenners. I was bouncing around like a little kid.
‘I’m going across the road to William Hill,’ he said. ‘Fancy it?’
That’s where it all went fucking wrong. I’d never been in a bookies before, but I was never one to turn down a bit of mischief. I wish I’d known then what I know now, because Wes’s offer was the moment where it all went pear for me. The next 15 minutes would blow up the rest of my life, like a match to a stick of dynamite.
‘Yeah, why not?’ I said.
It was the wrong answer, and I could have easily said no because it wasn’t like Wes was pushy or anything. In next to no time, I’d blown my whole monthly pay on the horses and my oner was down the toilet. I think I did my money in 15 minutes, I’m not sure. I’d never had a bet in my life before. It’s a right blur when I think about it. I left the shop in a daze. Moments earlier I’d been Billy Big Time, but in a flash I was brassic. All I could think was, ‘What the fuck have I done?’
At first I felt sick about the money, I wanted to cry, and then I realised Mum and Dad would kill me for spunking the cash. As I walked down the high street, I promised myself it would never happen again. I also reckoned I could talk my way out of trouble when Mum started asking all the questions she was definitely going to ask, like:
‘Why are you asking for lunch money when you’ve just been paid?’
‘Why can’t you afford to go out with your mates?’
‘What have you done with that hundred quid Arsenal gave you?’
At that time, Mum was getting £140 from the club for putting me up at home, which was technically digs. She’d want to know why I was mysteriously skint, or not blowing my money on Madness records or Fred Perry jumpers. There was no way I was going to tell her that I’d handed it all to a bookie, she would have gone mental. As I got nearer to Northolt, where we lived, I worked out a fail-safe porkie: I was going to make out I’d been mugged on the train.
Arsenal had given me a travel pass, which meant I could get back to our council-estate house no problem. The only hitch was my face. I looked as fresh as a daisy – there were no bruises or cuts. Mum wasn’t going to believe I’d been given a kicking by some burly blokes, so as I got around the corner from home, I sneaked down a little alleyway and smashed my face against the wall. The stone cut up my skin and grazed my cheeks, and I was bleeding as I ran through our front door, laying it on thick about some big geezers, a fight and the stolen money. They fell for it, what with my face being in a right state, and I was off the hook.
Nobody asked any questions as Dad patched up the scratches and cuts, and the police were never called. Later, Mum gave me the £140 paid to her by Arsenal. I thought I’d been a genius. My quick thinking had led to a proper result, but I couldn’t have guessed that it was the first lie in a million, each one covering up my growing betting habit.[...]
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Chapter One
Bill Nicholson fixed his gaze on the scrawny, slightly breathless eleven-year-old. The young trialist had been up early that morning, excited at the prospect of parading his skills before Nicholson, the recently appointed Tottenham manager. Now, having done so, he looked up at the stern, slightly intimidating Yorkshireman with a mixture of awe and unease. Nicholson, a one-club man, was well known for his view that any player coming to Spurs, whether a major signing or just a ground-staff lad, ‘must be dedicated to the game and to the club.’ The youngster qualified on the first front – how could he not? His father, Harry, was a football obsessive, and so it followed naturally that his own upbringing had been steeped in the game and its traditions. But Nicholson’s second stipulation left him on shakier ground. The boy shared his dad’s passion for Arsenal, idolised Gunners midfielder Jimmy Bloomfield and was a regular at Highbury, where he would arrive early to claim his favourite spot – on top of a raised manhole cover – on the North Bank. Hardly the ideal credentials for a career at White Hart Lane. As for other clubs, if any had a place in his affections it was West Ham, whose Upton Park ground was a stone’s throw from the East London council estate where he lived. Could he seriously look Nicholson in the eye and proclaim his undying devotion to Spurs?
‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Nicholson.
‘Harry, Mr Nicholson.’
‘OK, Harry. I see you’re a winger. Score a lot of goals, do you?’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘Well, the only winger who doesn’t score goals is Stanley Matthews. And I don’t think you’re another Stanley Matthews, are you Harry?’
Fifty years have elapsed since that conversation took place and, as with most things football, Nicholson was proved right. Harry Redknapp didn’t become another Stanley Matthews. He was never dubbed ‘the wizard of the dribble’ or voted European Footballer of the Year. Yet Dickie Walker, Tottenham’s chief scout, showed sound judgement when he approached Redknapp’s father after watching young Harry star for East London Schoolboys against Wandsworth Boys at the Old Den. Five years later, when Redknapp became old enough to put pen to paper on schoolboy forms, every top club in London was after his signature. Nicholson, who invited Redknapp to train with the Spurs youth team following his trial, was among those suitors, as were the Arsenal boss George Swindin and Tommy Docherty, the Chelsea manager. Docherty, who had been alerted to young Harry’s potential by Chelsea scout Jimmy Thompson, even made a personal visit to the Redknapps’ home in Poplar in an effort to persuade them that their son’s future lay at Stamford Bridge. ‘I wanted Harry to sign for Chelsea,’ recalls Docherty, whose unexpected appearance on the doorstep left the teenage Redknapp agog. ‘In those days you used to speak to the parents. You wouldn’t speak to the boy because, in fairness, he was just overawed by big clubs wanting to sign him. Harry’s parents were very pleasant and hospitable. At the end they said: “The decision will be Harry’s.” We had a few Eastenders at Chelsea already, people like Jimmy Greaves and Terry Venables, and we were hoping to tap into that link because they had great character. But we also had Peter Brabrook at Chelsea at the time, who was a good player, a winger, and Harry probably thought “I’m going to have to wait a bit of time before I get my opportunity in the first team”.’
The decisive factor in Redknapp’s eventual decision to join West Ham was his mother, Violet. While she did not share her husband’s passion for the game, Violet instinctively perceived that the Hammers, under the shrewd stewardship of Ron Greenwood, embodied principles that would benefit her son’s development not just as a footballer but also as a man. West Ham was a family club, an East End institution forged on the anvil of a local businessman’s conviction that the borough, though poverty-stricken, was ‘rich in its population’. Arnold Hills, the businessman in question, had once owned the Thames Ironworks, a nearby shipbuilding firm that provided numerous locals with employment at the Victoria and Albert Docks where Redknapp’s father worked. Hills died in 1927, but Thames Ironworks Football Club – formed in 1895 at the suggestion of Dave Taylor, a shipyard foreman, and reconstituted five years later as West Ham United Football Club – lived on. A pivotal factor in Hills’ support for the project was his belief that sport was conducive to good morals and good morale. As a modern ambassador for those typically Victorian ideals, Greenwood – dubbed ‘Reverend Ron’ by his players – was perfect. To Violet Redknapp, though, such details were secondary; to her, the club simply had a family feel that inspired comfort and confidence in equal measure.
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1
HOD’S LAW
‘YOU’LL NEVER PLAY
FOR ENGLAND, YOU’LL NEVER PLAY FOR ENGLAND!’ THAT WASN’T THE FANS CHANTING,
IT WAS TERRY VENABLES AND GLENN HODDLE.
So how does a scrawny, incredibly talented kid from Guernsey get to play for England? I’ll tell you.
I grew up playing against three older, highly talented brothers—that sharpened me up. And then I flew to the mainland and joined the nearest top-flight club. Southampton. I played for the England Under-20s and B side and then, finally, when I was 25, I got the call. Terry Venables was the new England manager and I was in his in his first squad for a home friendly against Denmark. I couldn’t believe it. I came off the bench to replace Paul Gascoigne. It was a fairly low-key game but I felt 10ft tall when I went on. I didn’t get much chance to shine but we won 1-0 and I reckoned I was now on my way to becoming a regular. That was in 1994.
It had been my dream to play for England for as long as I can remember. I used to watch these superstars on a flickering black and white television and imagine that it was me pulling on the white jersey in the World Cup Finals. And yet, when the first call came, I didn’t go. I’d had a few training camps at schoolboy level but my first real international recognition came in 1987 when I was selected for the England Under-20 tour to Brazil. Saints were on a close-season trip to Singapore at the time and I was meant to fly direct from there to South America but I twisted an ankle. Chris Nicholl gave me a fitness test and effectively wrote me a note excusing me from games. It was nothing to do with the fact that I had a holiday booked in Tenerife.
I told Gordon Hobson, an older journeyman pro in the best sense of the word. He couldn’t grasp that I had turned down the chance to play for the Under-20 squad. He thought I was mad. Even at that young age I was a cocky git and I knew I was young enough to get in again the following year. And I did. Graham Taylor picked me along-side the likes of Neil Ruddock, David Howells, Kevin Pressman and Carl Leaburn, a tall skinny lad from Charlton who was a bit like John Fashanu and a real handful.
We played three games in Brazil. I scored in the first two with Neil Ruddock setting me up for one, and then Carl Leaburn was picked to play in the final match. It would have been his first appearance for England but he made the mistake of going shopping when he had been told to rest—and he bumped into Graham Taylor who promptly dropped him. It didn’t matter because it rained heavily and the match was called off. The humidity out there was unbelievable. I know I wasn’t the fittest but I was struggling to breathe after 10 minutes.
I never actually played for the England Under-21 side, probably because I was picked for the England B-team instead. I made my debut for them against the Republic of Ireland on what appeared to be a potato field in Cork. It was an awful day. It hammered down with rain, again—to the disgust of the VIPs including Southampton manager Chris Nicholl because they all had to sit out in the open. And all the subs had to sit on a gym bench and got drenched. The only ones with any shelter were the press who were put in the Perspex team dug-outs. It could only happen in Ireland. I had a shocker, but then so did everyone else, and we lost 4-1.
Now, under my Southampton manager Alan Ball I was playing the best football of my career, scoring and creating goals for fun and there was a growing campaign to get me in Terry Venables’ full England team. There was even a CD ‘Bring Him On For England’ by a Southampton band called the Valley Slags. When they mimed to it on the pitch at half-time during a home game against Leeds, the lead singer almost caused a riot by standing in front of the Leeds fans trying to get them to join in[...]
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SINOPSIS
Un ángel enamorado. Una relación imposible. Un amor que traspasa las barreras del Cielo y el Infierno. La llegada inesperada de los hermanos Church, Gabriel, Ivy y Bethany, supone un revuelo en la pequeña población de Venus Cove. Son extremadamente bellos, inteligentes y misteriosos. ¿De dónde vienen? ¿Dónde están sus padres y por qué sobresalen sea la que sea la actividad que emprenden? Los tres son en realidad ángeles con la misión de salvar al mundo de su inminente destrucción. Tiene instrucciones claras: no deben formar vínculos demasiado fuertes con ningún humano y deben esforzarse en ocultar sus cualidades sobrehumanas. Pero Beth, la más inexperta, rompe una de las reglas sagradas: se enamora de Xavier Woods, el chico más guapo del colegio. Desafiar al Cielo no resulta una buena idea cuando debes enfrentarte a las fuerzas del mal?
ALEXANDRA ADORNETTO.
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