How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography (22 page)

Sure, I had changed phone networks because I was having some reception problems in my house, but my number was the same and I could access voicemail. If Nigel was calling, he could have left a message, or asked someone at the IFA to make contact. I put down the remote and dialled his number straight away. Choice words were exchanged. He said he’d been speaking to Sam Ellis, which was never going to work in my favour. Still, he concluded by promising I was still in his plans, provided I got back playing regularly somewhere again.

I always had Northern Ireland in my thoughts when I picked a club. Nigel called me when I was at Bradford, and I told him I’d be moving on at the end of the season, and he seemed fine with that. Then, I joined Glentoran. There were a few lads from the Irish League around his squad, so I hoped that door could open again for me.

A week after I signed, I was in the car with Davy and my nephew Luke when Nigel rang. He asked how the move was going, and then progressed from the small talk to his real question.

“I’m getting a lot of hassle from the press about putting you back in the squad,” he said. “How do you want to work it?”

“That’s up to you,” I replied.

“Well, I’m not going to involve you in any more squads. What way do you want to work that in the press?”

“I don’t have anything to say to the press.”

“Well, I’m getting a bit of hassle. Do you want to come out and announce your retirement?”

The cheeky bastard. I bit my lip, and the conversation ended. I was raging that he wanted me to come out and do the hard work for him. As manager, it was his duty to make a decision and deal with the consequences. There was no way I was going to quit, none at all. A year later, when questions were being asked about David Healy, Nigel claimed that he would never ask a player to retire. Well, he’d obviously forgotten our little discussion.

I’ve since heard other reasons for his decision to axe me. Apparently, he thought I was a bad influence on Jonny Evans. That surprised me. Jonny wouldn’t strike me as a person that would idolise anyone. But maybe Nigel viewed it as a chance to change the atmosphere that he never belonged in.

He was bringing a lot of English voices into the set-up. He sacked his old team-mate, Mal Donaghy, and brought in a guy called Steve Beaglehole to run the U19 and U21 sides. And then he put the kibosh on Tommy Wright – another former colleague – helping out with the U21 side.

Around the hotel, he started calling meetings with just the English staff. The likes of the physio, Terry Hayes, and the kitman, Derek McKinley, weren’t invited. He’d also stopped Terry and Derek from having a drink in the hotel lobby on the days before games so they ended up sitting in their room with a bottle of wine; I used to go in and see them. It wasn’t right. They were grown men who felt like they were in captivity. Northern Ireland teams always have a chance when the spirit is good, and that means socialising and doing everything together. Nigel couldn’t grasp that.

The results speak for themselves. He took the team backwards, and undid Lawrie’s good work. I went to watch the key World Cup qualifier at home to Slovakia, and there were four centre-backs in defence and four central midfielders in front of them. We had no width, but he blamed the players for losing. The Euro 2012 campaign was a joke, and deservedly cost him his job.

I am bitter towards him. I don’t deny it. In the car that day, the first thing Davy said was that it shouldn’t have ended that way. It should have been at Windsor Park, in front of the Kop, and the fans that I always had such a good relationship with. I’d have loved a proper chance to say goodbye, and the way it was handled left a real sour taste in the mouth. Football clubs can be ruthless when they’re showing you the door, but I always thought it would be different with my country. Instead it was far worse, and Nigel kicked me when I was down. The press asked him about my exclusion. “Keith’s had his fling,” he replied. A fling? Is that what you call 15 years and 86 caps?

For that comment, I can never forgive him.

29

Justice

IT was like a scene from a TV show. Four people converging on the surreal backdrop of the public car park of Crawsfordburn Country Park outside Bangor for an unofficial business meeting. Crawsfordburn is a scenic retreat, with two beaches, walking trails, and all sorts of tourist facilities, and on this typical summer’s day, the place was buzzing with families coming and going.

There was nothing relaxing about my visit, however. I was standing face to face with the financial advisor who I used to call my friend.

The niceties didn’t last for long, and the discussion grew heated. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the £50,000 I’d paid for the Commonwealth Games deal in Glasgow, but the underlying tension was about everything in our shambolic arrangement. I wanted a chunky refund, but our negotiations were going nowhere.

The meeting in Crawsfordburn was tense, but it belatedly achieved something. I was sent a cheque for £20,000, but that was never going to be the end of the affair.

The lines of combat were drawn. There was no interest in reconciliation. Maybe I simply wasn’t useful to him anymore. After that I saw him once, on the opposite fairway of a golf course, and we both kept our heads down. Solicitors would conduct our future discussions. I had a legal case and, in my financial state, pursuing it was the only option.

I’d started the process in England, with a solicitor who I paid £10,000 to be told that they could do nothing for me and I should deal with a practice in Northern Ireland. I shelled out another £5,000 to a firm in Belfast they recommended, which was more money down the drain once I was declared bankrupt and the accounting firm, Grant Thornton, became trustees of my bankruptcy. I was £15,000 down already. An ominous start.

They appointed A&L Goodbody as my solicitors, setting the wheels in motion for a court case. It was recommended that we pursue an indemnity insurance claim of £1,050,000.

Meanwhile, with the help of Phil again, I was trying to get myself back on my feet. I came out of bankruptcy in October 2011.

It’s a dirty word but it had some positive implications as it allowed me to escape the film scheme. Phil told the guys who ran the film partnership that I wouldn’t be making any more payments; otherwise I’d simply go straight back into bankruptcy again. They tried to play hardball at first, and suggested there would be repercussions, but as Phil asked more questions about the basis of their scheme, the correspondence dried up and they went away.

The claim I had made had already protected my main possessions, basically the house and my car, as Grant Thornton had classified my case as an asset given the likelihood that the outcome would satisfy my creditors. Technically, they could have gone after my house but while it probably appreciated in value by £150,000 to £250,000 in the three years after I bought it, the recession had removed the equity and it would have been hard for them to find a seller.

Still, while I had a roof over my head, there was nothing to occupy my time, and the Jobseeker’s Allowance couldn’t look after two kids.

On a trip to Dublin to watch an Ireland-England Six Nations game, Phil floated an idea. His company, Munnelly Support Services, who specialise in logistics and waste management for the construction industry, was expanding, and he saw an opening there which would keep me playing football. Phil sponsored Longford Town, a semi-professional club, in the second tier of the League of Ireland, and he’d devised an arrangement which would involve me playing for them as well as doing some marketing work for Munnellys in England from time to time. I jumped at the chance to get off the dole, and back in the game.

The travel involved was the downside. Initially, I didn’t realise it would take me three hours to reach every home game, and two-and-a-half hours to every training session in Dublin, where most of the lads live and work in their day jobs. The manager, Tony Cousins, agreed to a compromise where I came down once a week for training, and do the rest of my fitness work at home. He understands my circumstances, particularly when the away matches add to the logistical headache. While the Premier Division is dominated by Dublin sides, our league is made up of regional teams from far flung parts of the Republic. The 100-mile trip to Finn Harps in Donegal, the north-west, is the closest thing I have to a ‘home’ game.

The odd smart arse will chide me for dropping down to that level, and it’s true that running out in front of a couple of hundred spectactors came as a culture shock.

The crowds are so sparse that you hear every taunt. I stand at the post, waiting to defend a corner and some bloke will shout, “Have you got a bet on the match tonight, Keith?” I look over and smile. I’ve heard that one a million times, and yet some guys seem to think they’re the first genius to crack that joke.

But it was a chance to stay in the game and bring in some money. And my responsibilities were about to grow.

In the summer of 2011, not long after I’d signed for Longford, I was ordering a drink in Cafe Ceol, a popular spot in Bangor, when my eyes were drawn to a gorgeous dark haired girl across the bar. As I stared, she stuck out her tongue in my general direction. I presumed it was at somebody else. The following week, I spotted her again and, this time, it led to a conversation where I learned that Claire Munn, a local girl almost 10 years my junior, who normally did her socialising in Belfast, was actually trying to respond to me. We had a connection from the outset. I learned she had a fashion degree, and did some modelling to supplement her job in the civil service. She’s a football fan, a witty girl who recognised me and knew a fair bit about my eventful past. But taking it further was a challenge.

Small towns can be strange places and when she mentioned to people that we’d met, she was told to steer well clear and refused to meet me. I asked her what the rumour mill was saying. Some guy in her work claimed that I’d headbutted a friend of his in a bar in Belfast, and then hit him with a snooker cue. I don’t even know if I’ve ever been in a bar in Belfast with a snooker cue. Someone else had told her that I’d been thrown through the window of Piccolos, the kebab shop next to Cafe Ceol. I tried to explain to her that if this was true, it’d have been in the papers, but at first she was having none of it. It took a fair bit of persuasion over the phone to convince her to finally go for a drink.

I told her I was no angel, that many of the stories she was aware of from my past were true, but the latest dispatches she were hearing were complete nonsense, pure and simple lies. She listened, and gave me the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t intend to get into another serious relationship so soon after Vikki, but I had a good feeling about this girl. And, like myself, Claire has an impulsive streak. We ran with it.

Things moved quicker than we ever could have imagined and we became inseparable. Within four months, we received unexpected news; she was pregnant. I invited her to move in with me, so we could learn more about each other as we prepared for parenthood.

I’m not sure if she realised the complicated nature of my life when she came into it. Plenty would have run a mile. Vikki wasn’t long gone and things were bad between us; the constant sniping continued. But for the sake of the girls we had to try and work it out. When they left Northern Ireland, Madison was old enough to know me, but Lexie had just turned one, and I worried she would forget my face. We arranged for them to come and stay with me in Northern Ireland once a month, and that required a fair bit of talking out. Claire was, understandably, uneasy when I was spending time on the phone with Vikki, considering we’d only recently split, and it would cause arguments. And I suppose it was strange for Vikki when she heard Claire was on the scene and expecting. The juggling was taking its toll, and I had to try and make a living as well, which meant that I sometimes had to leave the girls behind with Mum or Claire while I travelled to Longford or beyond.

Our beautiful baby boy, Nico, entered the world on July 17, 2012. He’s got his mother’s looks. We’d heard the name a few months earlier and, for some reason, it just sounded right for us. Claire would admit that when we first met, she wouldn’t have viewed herself as the maternal type. But she’s an amazing mum. She’s with Nico practically every moment of every day and, after coming through so much in a short space of time, she deserved better support from me. But I had other things on my mind, issues that I couldn’t avoid and feelings I couldn’t explain. And a court date that I hoped would make everything better.

I didn’t have any friends in Grant Thornton or A&L Goodbody. That’s the weird thing about the fight to retrieve the lost thousands. I was relying on strangers to undo the damage done by my so-called pals.

The case was my incentive to be positive. When I did interviews about my situation, particularly when I joined Longford, I treaded carefully when speaking about finances. I always referred to legal matters that I couldn’t talk about just yet.

My dealings with the solicitors were semi-regular over the space of a couple of years, with emails going forward and back and occasional meetings in their office in Belfast. We met a barrister who said I had a strong case and wouldn’t be advising me to go to court otherwise. But there was a procedure to go through before we reached the dock.

Our documents were filed. Then there was the discovery phase, which gave the other side the chance to respond with their documentation before a date for a hearing was set. They had to hand their files over to solicitors, a requirement which I always felt would work in my favour. The advice I had been given would surely speak for itself, even if his handwritten notes system was quite sloppy.

The lengthy process was originally building towards October 2012, and a High Court date in Belfast. The local media would have a field day, but that was only a passing concern. I wanted some of this out in the open, as it would prove there was more to my bankruptcy than bad betting.

But it never made it to court. Instead, I was given the impression this would be solved by mediation. Initially, this seemed promising; out of court settlements are often designed to save face and I thought they would come to us with a good offer. I never thought we’d get the full £1,050,000 but I always believed I could recover a significant percentage.

As the summer trickled into autumn with sparing updates, my optimism began to wane.

No news was bad news.

The bright-side-up attitude that had sustained me through La Manga was replaced by negativity, a fear of the worst as it dragged on. Claire, who had enough to worry about with Nico arriving, bore the brunt of the anxiety.

The problem was I didn’t really know who was in my corner, and that left me with an uneasy feeling. I was out of my comfort zone, and my fate rested in the hands of others. After all, Grant Thornton’s primary purpose was to sort out the creditors in my bankruptcy.

It was on a Friday at the start of December that a man from A&L delivered some firm news. Mediation was set for the following Tuesday. I had one question. “Are they going to settle with a figure there and then or will there an ongoing process?”

“Grant Thornton have a duty of care to you as well,” he said.

That provided encouragement. I’d always been under the impression that mediation would not be concluded without my approval, and this appeared to confirm it. So I waited until the Wednesday, and called the solicitors to find out how talks had gone. No response. The same on Thursday. I was sitting in Costa Coffee on the Friday when I got through to A&L.

“What’s going on?”

“You’ll have to speak to Grant Thornton.”

On Monday, I buzzed their offices in London, introduced myself, and asked to be put through to someone relevant. After a time, I was connected to another faceless woman with a knowledge of my case. Her tone was matter of fact. The words were like a punch to the stomach.

At the mediation, a settlement of £250,000 had been reached. They discovered that the other side’s indemnity insurance had a limit of £500,000. So we were basically down to £500,000 to start with. The legal cost of my financial advisor’s representatives came to £120,000, bringing the pot down to £380,000. That’s where the bartering started. “They started at £75,000,” she said. “We worked them up to £250,000.”

I asked how the £250,000 would be divided. She said that legal costs for my side came to around £60,000, and the balance of £190,000 was roughly what I owed to creditors, mostly the Inland Revenue. They’d had a meeting to distribute the funds.

“Are you telling me now that I won’t be seeing a penny?”

“No... nothing”

“Can you fucking explain why it’s taken me six days to get a hold of you to explain this to me?”

She fell silent. I vented. How did it take them so long to realise their Indemnity Insurance was capped? What would have happened if the other side’s legal costs were bigger? Why was I the last person to find out the conclusion?

Angela thought we should approach an Ombudsman. Phil, who I had been slow to involve, laid out his grievances. He wrapped it up in his own, inimitable style. The advisor who had cost me a fortune on investments was still able to trade. His brother-in-law, who had fled the country, had escaped punishment and could do the same. The Inland Revenue had received full payment including investment. The solicitors on both sides had been richly compensated.

And me?

I received nothing.

The case was supposed to be my light at the end of the tunnel. But it only succeeded in bringing darkness like I’d never known.