How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (12 page)

Our honeymoon was already under way. Part of the package was another week in the Caribbean before heading for home. It was a peaceful time, a stress-free seven days for a 24-year-old lad and a 21-year-old girl who had promised to spend the rest of their lives together. We really believed it too.

It was the calm before the storm.

16

A Winner

GRAEME Souness walks into the canteen wearing just a towel around his waist and a pair of smart, black suit shoes. He puffs his bare chest out and sits down to tuck into lunch. We knew our new manager was a vain man, but this is taking it to the extreme.

I turn to one of the lads. “If he had the time to put on his shoes, why didn’t he just put the suit on?” There is no answer. Souness was frequently a mystery to us.

He arrived in March 2000. Our promotion ambitions had long since disappeared, even though we had the most expensive squad in the division. We were sixth from bottom with just three wins to our name when Kiddo was sacked in November. Jack Walker made the decision and then came into the dressing room to tear us to pieces, pointing out a nice man like Kiddo deserved better. It was a strange thing for the owner to say considering he’d just booted him out after only a year in charge, but I did feel guilty. Although I was injured for the start of the season, I wasn’t offering much to the team. Just two years after the Barcelona dream, I was playing at places like Stockport and Crewe, and struggling for motivation.

Tony Parkes stepped in temporarily, a nice man better suited to being an assistant manager. It was his fifth time as caretaker, and the lads knew he wouldn’t be getting the role full-time, so he didn’t command much respect. Tony didn’t have the personality to give anyone a bollocking or stamp his authority. Players need that kick up the arse, to be afraid of underperforming. But the club were basically writing the season off as a bad debt by keeping Tony in charge for almost four months. There was a casual attitude around the place.

Then Souness rolled in, another Liverpool great that I had bad memories of from childhood. It was difficult to forget his success at Liverpool because he never stopped talking about it. We all respected his record but there’s only so many times you can hear the story of how he won the European Cup.

The only positive thing about hearing one of those stories is that at least it meant he was talking to you. That wasn’t always the case. My four-and-a-half-year stint at Blackburn is the longest I spent at any club in my career, which surprises people given that I’m generally associated with Manchester United or Newcastle.

The confusion probably stems from the fact that I was exiled for a large chunk of my time there. Weeks and months passed without much happening. I trained during the week with no game on Saturday to aim towards. So, I didn’t look forward to training very much. During Souness’ first year in charge, I may as well not have been there.

At first, my exclusion seemed logical. The gaffer said that with promotion a lost cause, he wanted to have a look at younger lads or those coming towards the end of their contracts. His tune had changed by the summer, a time of change at the club after Jack Walker passed away with lung cancer. Graeme brought in some of his own players and said that I simply wasn’t in his plans. Sunderland talked about making a bid, but nothing came to pass, so I continued with a club where I wasn’t wanted and accepted rejection instead of questioning it. Seeking out a meeting with the manager was rarely my style, and Souness didn’t seem the most approachable person anyway. He blanked me every time we passed in the corridor. So, I adapted to the role of invisible man and reserve-team footballer.

Souness did put me on the bench for the opening game of the season, but I soon got used to the situation where I was included in a squad and then didn’t even get a place on the bench. In October 2000, we stayed over in London between away games with Fulham and Wimbledon. The boys were struggling and the gaffer was under serious scrutiny. Myself, Egil Ostenstad, Jason McAteer and Marlon Broomes were confined to the stands at Fulham so we found a lounge in Craven Cottage and went on the piss. I finally knew how Neil Webb felt at Middlesbrough all those years earlier. By the end of the game – which Fulham won – I’d drunk nine bottles of beer and three Red Bulls. We kept on sinking the drinks, not realising the rest of the lads were waiting for us on the bus. Souness said nothing when we showed up looking worse for wear.

Remarkably, when we got back to base at Richmond, he gave us permission to hit the town. I ended up in the hotel residents’ bar at 7.30am with our assistant manager Phil Boersma, a Scouser who enjoyed his drink and could usually hold it quite well. This was an exception, and I had to carry Boey up to his room where he bounced off the wardrobe and the wall before falling face down on his duvet. There was no sign of him when I made it up for training at 9.30am. The masseur had gone in to wake him, but all Boey could do was sit up in bed before falling straight back down again. In his absence, Souness had to step in and bark the orders. We could see he was in a temper on the bus afterwards, and suddenly our whereabouts at Craven Cottage were top of the agenda. He came charging down to ask the Fulham Four where we’d watched the game and how many drinks we had taken. Jason, Egil, and Marlon all said they’d had one drink. I tried to make my story more credible and failed. “Five,” I replied. “One before, three at half-time, and one afterwards.”

I don’t really know why I thought that saying I had crammed three drinks into 15 minutes sounded any better. Souness wasn’t happy either way. “If you need that much drink at that time of the day, you need help,” he shouted.

His mood improved when he selected a side to win at Wimbledon, the first of six victories in a row. It was a turning point for his team, but not for me. As a punishment for London, I was banished. Phil had a contact at Wigan and arranged for me to go there on loan. They had changed as a club, with a new stadium and a well-known manager in Bruce Rioch suggesting they had ambitions. But I was only passing through really, and didn’t make that much of an impact, although apparently the Christmas party was good. I don’t remember much of it.

It was a boozy time in my life, and relations with Frances were deteriorating. I hit the bottle hard when I returned to Blackburn to continue my exile. There were two young Northern Irish lads in the reserves, Gary Hamilton and Steven Hawe, and I preferred drinking with them than going home to the missus. Sometimes, I didn’t arrive home at all.

I took up smoking as well. Just like that. Another impulsive decision. It had never interested me until Gary handed me one on a night out, and for some reason, it developed from a social habit into a regular part of life. Anything to relieve the boredom.

Souness called me into his office on a Sunday morning in January. He liked to bring everyone for a warm down the day after the game, even if you weren’t involved. It was a bit of a pain although we’d then get the Monday off. I was hungover after a typical Saturday night with the boys when he surprisingly acknowledged my presence and asked for a chat. He wanted to throw me into the side for the FA Cup tie at Derby.

“I’m giving you another chance,” he said.

“I can’t play, boss, I’m cup-tied. I played for Wigan in the second round.”

“Oh...”

Luckily, this wasn’t a one-time only offer. Something had changed. He never really told me why I was back in fashion again, especially with the team doing so well, but I didn’t seek explanation and just got on with being a footballer again. I was brought on as a sub at Nottingham Forest and then started my first league game of the season at Watford on February 20. We came away with a win, and I was part of a side that was on the way back to the Premier League. The decisive three points came against fellow promotion contenders Birmingham in March. I made the first for Marcus Bent before Damien Duff added the clincher with a brilliant solo run. Souness was delighted afterwards, saying I’d set the tone with a crunching tackle on their left-back, Martin Grainger.

He was a nicer man to be around when we secured promotion and the pressure was off. Sure, the arrogance remained, and he never lost the fondness for striding topless around the training ground, but I actually grew to quite like him. I began to understand his personality a little bit more when we returned to the top flight.

I was in favour and satisfied with my contribution. I even scored against Manchester United in a cracking 2-2 draw, and hit the target again in a 3-3 at Arsenal. My reward was to be dropped for the visit of Leicester. I was shocked, but said nothing. The gaffer approached me. “Why did you not come and knock on my door and ask why you weren’t playing?” I said I wasn’t the confrontational type. He wanted me to show more desire. It was a test. I had failed it during the exile.

Souness had other opinions about my development as a player. Once he wasn’t talking about his own glory days at Liverpool, he was insightful. He thought I had become too defensive for a wide player since I left Newcastle, and believed I was spending more time covering our full-backs instead of getting forward and giving their defenders problems. It was a fair criticism. He liked it when I was brave. That’s what he asked of his players.

My abiding memory is a League Cup quarter-final against Arsenal at Ewood Park in December. For some reason, I always had the edge on their Dutch left-back, Giovanni van Bronckhorst, and this game was no exception. The gaffer was out of his technical area, roaring at me to get at him. So the next time I got a chance, I poked the ball ahead and burst down the wing. I felt van Bronckhorst’s presence over my left shoulder, but I was also aware of someone over my right shoulder. Souness. He got so caught up in the moment that he was sprinting down the touchline shouting encouragement. The other boys thought it was hilarious.

At the end of December, Souness made a significant move in the transfer market. Almost seven years after we moved in opposite directions, I became team-mates with Andy Cole. He had won a lot of trophies at Manchester United, but had dropped down the pecking order since the arrival of Ruud van Nistelrooy. Andy arrived at Blackburn in time to help us win some silverware.

The Worthington Cup was the highlight of 2001/02 for the club. We thrashed Arsenal 4-0 on the night that I tormented van Bronckhorst, with Matt Jansen scoring a hat-trick. Matt was a terrific prospect who was destined for the top until a motorbike accident in Rome left him with injury problems that he never recovered from. He was brilliant that season, and Andy was signed to form an exciting partnership. It also strengthened the ex-United contingent in the dressing room. Even though he was almost 40, Mark Hughes had stayed on after being recruited to help us get promotion. Sparky could still cut it at the highest level in a new midfield role, and offered valuable leadership.

Although we were inconsistent in the league, it all came together when it mattered in a knockout format. We overcame Sheffield Wednesday in the semis to set up a decider with Spurs. As Wembley was being rebuilt, we prepared for a trip to Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium, although there was no guarantee I would get to sample the atmosphere. Craig Hignett had been used at right midfield against Wednesday and was a key factor in the victory, and Souness had a big decision to make. Boey, who was always a big fan, approached me with good news on the Tuesday before the game and said, “I’ve got you a start next Sunday.” For this final, my friends and family wouldn’t be making a wasted trip.

With the roof closed because of the lashing rain, there was a terrific atmosphere in the stadium. It was Blackburn’s first cup final in 42 years, and Spurs were the hot favourites. Souness had us well prepared though, with Sparky a key presence in the centre of the park. Matty was a handful up top, and put us ahead after my deflected shot fell into his direction. Christian Ziege levelled for Spurs before half-time, but we responded with Andy showing he still had the magic touch by striking the winner. Craig replaced me with 15 minutes left so I watched injury time from the sidelines, and invaded the pitch with the rest of the staff when we heard the sweet sound of the referee’s whistle. I felt like I was on top of the world. A year after my return from the wilderness, I finally had a senior medal for the mantelpiece.

I grew to cherish it even more in the darker times that lay ahead.

17

Cashing In

I’M sitting in a room, surrounded by footballers, listening to a presentation that I don’t quite understand.

We’re in London, some time in 2001. A Scottish agent is addressing a group that includes internationals and Premier League stars.

The purpose of the gathering is a business proposal, and there’s a lot of talk about investment schemes and loans and tax and details that I’m not really taking in. But my ears prick up when he tells us something that I do want to hear, the details of a plan that will give us a lot of money in a short space of time. And I like the sound of that.

I’d made the journey from Blackburn with Darren Peacock, who seemed more clued up on the whole thing. Tony Grew, a well known figure within football, knew about the idea.

Tony worked in association with the PFA on pensions and other matters, and he was my financial advisor at that time.

While I was reckless with my gambling, I wasn’t totally ridiculous when I was earning the big bucks at Blackburn. Tony sat me down and convinced me to invest a portion of my monthly take-home in bonds and a few other things. Good advice. In fact, he tried hard to increase my contributions so it would limit my betting but, considering I was betting on credit, there wasn’t much he could do to totally curb my behaviour.

Tony had become aware of a scheme that was growing popular in football circles. Essentially, it was buying into film syndicates. These syndicates provided the capital for production companies to make movies and TV series – although there were layers of legal people and financial institutions that acted as the conduit between A and B, all of which were charging major commission for their input.

That was about as much as I knew, but Darren and his wife, Simone, had done some research and seemed to think it could be lucrative. The purpose of the trip was to learn about the finer points. Phil was invited too, but he seemed to think there was nothing in it for him because he wasn’t generating enough income to get involved.

And that was the kicker, here. I gathered that the people who were behind the financing of these film syndicates wanted footballers because we raked in high income. And, in return for committing to the scheme, we could immediately get some cash back – in the form of tax relief.

So, this is what led me to the meeting. The agent wasn’t running the project, but he understood it. There was a Scottish company behind it, a legal firm called Scotts. Some of what was said registered. Essentially, the fact we commanded a huge salary meant we could be returned tax by creating trading losses in film investments. With my permission, a loan would be registered in my name from Sovereign Finance (a subsidiary of Alliance & Leicester – now Santander Bank UK). I’d never see the money, but it would appear in my personal accounts. In my case, the loan was just over £1.3 million.

How would I pay it back? Well, apparently, an income stream from this syndicate would pop up in my account from 2006 – for the following 10 years – although I’d never see that money either. A different bank had a charge on that income as security for my original loan. There was a bit of interest involved and some commission but that was to be expected. I didn’t have to worry about any of the paperwork.

The bottom line for me was that the £1.3 million I invested became a trading loss and as such qualified me for tax relief set against my income of the previous two years. I totted the sums in my head. £500,000. Half a million quid! Yes!

Now, there were people talking about investing that money properly, doing the right thing with it because five years down the line, we’d start to get taxed on this income stream that was paying off the loan. Blah, blah, blah. On our wages, there was nothing we couldn’t afford and, besides, there was also a possible dividend if the movies we financed turned out to be successful.

But that was all long-term talk. This was half a million quid, in my account, once I joined up.

I could spend 50k on that new kitchen Frances had been going on about, divert some of the cash for Tony to invest and then use the balance to top up the betting kitty.

Other lads I spoke to were thinking in similar terms. We hardly gave the small print a second thought. There was only one question dominating the minds of everyone in that room.

‘Where do I sign?’

The road to bankruptcy started here.