Gazza: My Story Read online

  GAZZA: MY STORY

  Paul Gascoigne

  Copyright © 2004 Paul Gascoigne

  The right of Paul Gascoigne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2014

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 2063 9

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Praise

  Acknowledgements

  Summer 2003

  1. Childhood Scrapes and Screams

  2. Steven

  3. Football to the Rescue

  4. Jimmy Appears

  5. First Team, First Successes

  6. Grabbed by Vinnie, but Not by Fergie

  7. Fun at Spurs

  8. England Calls

  9. World Cup 90

  10. Gazzamania

  11. Cup Fever

  12. Enter Sheryl

  13. Leaving for Lazio

  14. Roman Days

  15. Some Weighty Problems

  16. Arrivederci Roma

  17. Arrival at Rangers

  18. Euro 96 and a Dentist’s Chair

  19. Marital Madness

  20. IRA Death Threat

  21. Boro and Family Affairs

  22. World Cup 98 and Trouble with Hoddle

  23. A Visit to the Priory

  24. Binges and Breaks at Boro

  25. Everton and Arizona

  26. A Lost Year

  27. China and Back to Arizona

  28. Some Famous Players and Some Top Money

  29. Back to My Roots

  30. Sober Thoughts

  31. The End of My Career

  32. Body Blows

  33. The End of the Affair

  Appendix 1: Career Statistics

  Appendix 2: Gazza on the Net

  Appendix 3: The Gazza File

  Index

  Picture Credits

  About the Book

  Almost as soon as Gazza burst on to the scene at Newcastle United, the young Geordie was the centre of attention: Vinnie Jones’s notorious ball-handling showed the lengths people would go to try to stop him. Then, with England on the verge of possibly reaching the World Cup final in 1990, came Gazza’s tears – the moment that brought a whole new audience to the sport and helped set the football boom of the 1990s on its way. But then came a career-threatening injury, mental health problems, self-confessed alcoholism and family disputes, as life in the full glare of the media spotlight became too much. Now, at the end of his top-flight playing career, Gazza is ready to confront his demons. The result is quite simply the most remarkable footballing story you’ll ever read: what it’s like being Paul Gascoigne, in his own words.

  About the Author

  Gazza made his league debut for Newcastle in 1984-85, moving to Spurs in 1988 in a huge £2 million deal. He was one of England’s key figures in the 1990 World Cup, and moved to Italian club Lazio in 1992. He then played for Rangers, Middlesbrough, Everton, Burnley and briefly in China. In 2004 he became player-coach of Boston United. He won 57 caps.

  ‘The best of this year’s blockbusters’

  Glenn Moore, Independent

  ‘Gascoigne the player deserves to be remembered. And Gazza the book deserves to be read’

  Tom Watt, Mail on Sunday

  ‘A rattlingly good read’ John Rawling,

  Guardian

  ‘A moving book about a tragic figure in a wonderful if tainted game’

  Ray Connolly, Daily Mail

  ‘Hilarious, terrifying and touching’

  Daily Express

  ‘A very honest book’

  Daily Telegraph

  ‘One of the scariest football books ever printed’

  D.J. Taylor, New Statesman

  ‘[Gascoigne] deserves credit for refusing to gloss over his misdeeds’

  Liverpool Echo

  ‘A sad, reflective, often very funny tale’

  Birmingham Post

  ‘Painfully honest, but compelling’

  York Evening Press

  ‘Gazza writes with honesty and sincerity’

  Scotland on Sunday

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks and then thanks to my mam and dad who have supported me throughout my life and career, even when things were bad, and to all the others, too many to name, who have stuck by me through thick and thin. And to Hunter Davies who did my head in, asking so many questions, but has done a fantastic job. Cheers.

  “This is the third thing I’ve won in two years. I won against alcohol and drugs. The third is the book award. This one is for life – I just hope I can make sure the other two are as well.

  Paul Gascoigne on receiving his award for Sports Book of the Year at the British Book Awards, 20 April 2005”

  SUMMER 2003

  I’ve just made a chart of my life. It’s six feet long and three feet wide. That’s the chart, not me. I’ve never been three feet wide. Not yet. It’s on brown paper, written in white chalk, plus coloured crayons for the major problems I’ve faced, such as BEER, WINE, VODKA, COCAINE, MORPHINE, PARANOID, ANXIETY.

  Across the chart I’ve recorded all the key events, from the beginning, being born, right up to today, thirty-six years later, and I hope I’ve got most of the dates right. Always Fighting at School, Professional at Newcastle, Steven Dying, World Cup, Nine Twitches, Meet Sheryl, Broke Arm, Spurs, Broken Kneecap, Lazio, Rangers, IRA Threat, Fight with Sheryl, China … oh, loads of stuff, all the things that have happened to me, all the awful, shitty horrible things. It’s called PATH TO RECOVERY.

  I started working on it in China, making lists of all the memories that came into my head; memories I didn’t really want to come into my head, but they’re there and won’t go away.

  Then, in Arizona, at the clinic, I wrote it out neatly on the brown paper. It was part of the therapy, but I’d started to do it anyway, for my own sake, to confront the terrible things I’ve done, to stand back and look at myself, to tell the absolute truth and not avoid anything.

  It wasn’t a picnic, being in the clinic. It’s miles from anywhere, out in the desert, and they take everything away from you. You don’t have any money, any mobile phone. They don’t allow you aftershave or even mouthwash. Alcoholics, when they’re desperate, will drink any old shit. I’m now admitting I’m an alcoholic. I’m proud to admit it, to say I’m an alcoholic. That’s what you have to do. I’m going to AA meetings. Three a week, if I can make it. And I have a counsellor I’m going to keep on seeing.

  I’ve got an illness, I realise that now. It’s not alcoholism, not really – that’s more a result than a cause. What I’ve been suffering from all my life is a disease in my head. I’m still scared of dying, that’s part of it. If I have a sore eye, I’m convinced I’m going blind. If I’ve got a twitch, I panic about it, and it gets worse. I get obsessed about the simplest, silliest things, just like many children do, wanting things in exact rows, right numbers, proper places. Most people grow out of it and forget it ever bothered them. If, of course,
they ever grow up.

  At this very moment I can feel a new twitch. God knows where it’s come from. I can’t stop myself pulling the flesh on my stomach every five minutes, over and over, for no reason. It’s as if I fear my stomach will disappear if I don’t check it’s there. I tell myself it’s to make sure I’m not getting fat, but obviously that’s not something I need to check every five minutes. Even I don’t get fat that quickly. Besides, at present I’ve hardly got any stomach – I’m the thinnest I’ve been for years. But there’s no logic to these sorts of anxieties.

  We were four to a room in Arizona. People came and went. All sorts of people. A few were sportsmen. One guy was a brilliant frisbee player. He was amazing. You are involved in sessions all day. I was up at 5.30 every morning and on the go till 10 at night.

  I was in for thirty-three days. I’d been there before, a couple of years earlier, and I was so busy helping others that I didn’t concentrate on myself enough. Now I’ve got all the books and I’ve got all the tools. I know the questions to ask myself. Was life good beforehand? No, it wasn’t. Getting depressed is no fun, not with all the panic attacks. Getting drunk all the time, to escape feeling depressed, now that I did like, no question. That was good. It was a buzz. What I didn’t like was afterwards. I didn’t like waking up in the morning, not remembering what had happened, feeling ashamed and filthy and guilty, feeling crap. So overall, was life good? No, it fucking wasn’t.

  I was living a plonky life, being a plonky person, being Gazza instead of being Paul Gascoigne. I got so upset by all the Gazza stuff in the press. People say don’t read the papers, but you can’t help it. Then I tell myself it doesn’t matter what they say, what lies they write, what lies other people give them. But they have the upper hand. They always win. They might pay you a lot of money, and I’ve had loads from them, but it works against you because if you sign up with one paper the others will turn you over, dig up all the dirt. Then the one that paid you turns against you as well, or runs negative stuff at the same time as the piece they’ve paid you for. So what do you do? It’s a waste of energy worrying what they say, either way. I know that now. All I really have to worry about is waking up each day sober and staying clean.

  But that produces another fear. If I stay sober, will I turn into a boring person? I was always fun when I was drinking. That’s what I always thought at the time, anyway. It was all a good laugh – the only bad bit was afterwards. Now it feels really good to wake up every morning with a clear head and remember where I’ve been. But what if the penalty, the by-product, is to become a sensible, dreary, boring twat? We’ll see.

  I’m supposed to drink only one cup of coffee a day, decaffeinated, and not have any sweets. I have a handful of Jelly Babies in my pocket, just for emergencies, such as now, sitting here in Sheryl’s garden, my ex-wife’s, thinking back over my life. And no smoking. I was on thirty a day, now I’m down to about twenty. I’ll just have one now, to settle me. When I’m sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin.

  I have the chart spread out in front of me, with all the main incidents, all the horrible, serious ones. I’ll also try to recall as many of the fun bits as I can. There were so many hilarious times – at least, I thought they were hilarious. And my mate Jimmy thought so. But the main point, for me, is to get to grips with what started it all, how I got to be like I am; to record everything, however bad, as truthfully as possible. I hope that putting it all down on paper will distance me from these events, and allow me to move on to wherever it is I’m going. Then, with God’s help, I’ll get some real smiles back. Yes, I believe in God. What else is there?

  I’d like to be a child again. I want to be seven, when I had a genuine smile on my face all the time, when I was always happy. Since then my smiles have too often been false, there to try to please other people.

  I ended up at the clinic in Arizona because of what happened in China. I’ll tell yous about China later, but on the whole, I liked it out there, playing football and doing a bit of coaching. I coached the kids on the field, but off the field I was more like an agent to them, helping them with contracts and deals and advising them on what to do.

  I haven’t had a drink now for, let’s see, three months. Yes, I’ve been on the wagon before. For even longer periods. But I knew then it wouldn’t last. I hope it will this time. Sheryl says I can stay here with her, if I stay sober and sensible. But I don’t think I’ll get another chance if I fuck this one up.

  I’ve had no panic attacks recently, so that’s good. Jimmy hasn’t been to see me, and I haven’t been up to the north-east. Shel isn’t keen on all that. She says it’s where my problems always begin.

  So I’m just taking things easy. Playing with the kids, going to the garden centre, having a quiet meal out. When we have friends or Shel’s relations over for a barbecue, they are all very good. They don’t drink while they’re here.

  I’m on various tablets, to keep me calm or cheer me up, stop me getting depressed. I did take more than I should the other day – four instead of one – wanting a quick buzz, to feel better immediately, which, of course, was stupid. And I got in a bit of a state last night watching TV. There was a programme showing some lads getting drunk round a bar, falling about, as I used to do, and I couldn’t face it. It really upset me. So I went out into the garden. I told my doctor all this, and he says it’s a good sign. I wasn’t envying them, or wanting to be like them, so it wasn’t that I was being tempted back into my old ways. I suppose I was horrified by the sight of other people behaving as I used to behave.

  I honestly don’t know whether I’ll keep this up. I haven’t done in the past, so everyone thinks it won’t last this time. Shel and I still have arguments over silly things, who said what, who didn’t say what. But I’d never hit her again. I’ve hit nobody since that episode and I won’t ever do it again.

  She has got a bit tougher with me. All her friends were surprised when they found out I had hit her. They always thought she was a strong person. She thought that herself.

  She now realises, she says, that she did fit into the classic pattern of women in this situation – keeping it secret, feeling guilty and ashamed, as if it was her fault, and of course telling herself it was a one-off. She did everything she could to please me. She says.

  Now she’s got the whip hand. She’s mentally tougher than she was; she stands her own ground more. She’s pushing me, in a way, just to test me, to see if I’ll fail again. I think the children are testing me as well. They are sure it won’t last, that I’ll get into a rage and be off, as has happened before. I’m not as aggressive and full of anger as I used to be, so that’s good. But Shel says if it doesn’t work this time, that’s it. No way will she put up with any more of what I put her through in the past. I’ll be out on my ear.

  She wrote all that down, just to remind herself of what things were like. Every time, over the years, I’ve rung up and pleaded with her to let me come back or help me. She’s often read her notes to keep things fresh in her mind. She’s not read them lately, which is something. It shows she thinks we might have a chance. I know she loves me. I think. I hope.

  Life was easier for her when I wasn’t around, but she was lonely and she did miss me. She gets upset when people or newspapers say she’s only after me for my money. She does love me – except when I’m being horrible. She has put up with so much from me over all these years that she doesn’t want to miss out on the benefits now that I am sober and living sensibly. She has invested a lot, endured a lot, and she doesn’t want someone else to enjoy the good Gazza when she’s had to suffer the bad Gazza.

  It’s a lovely day in early summer and the kids are playing in the swimming pool. There’s also a tennis court, sauna, lots of stuff. We’re going to have a barbecue this evening, when Sheryl’s dad comes round.

  The garden’s looking lovely, Shel is being nice to me, I’m being nice to her – everything is going great. Doing my chart has cleared my head a bit, brought the main events and dramas of m
y life into focus. So it’s the perfect time now to tell you all about my brilliant career. And it has been. No question. Despite everything.

  1

  CHILDHOOD SCRAPES AND SCREAMS

  When I was born, on 27 May 1967, we were living at 29 Pitt Street, Gateshead. We had an upstairs room and a shared bathroom in a council-owned house. My nan lived next door. I remember the house as always being full of relations and friends. My great-grandad, Bobby Gascoigne, was still alive at the time, probably aged about ninety, and one day he came home from the pub and announced that this young lass there fancied him. After that, every time he’d been to the pub he went on about it, maintaining that this lass was always staring at him. In the end my dad went to the pub with him to see who she was, find out what her game was. Grandad Bobby took him to the corner where he always sat. And sure enough, there was this lass, staring at him – from a Babycham poster.

  Some say our surname is French, and several of my relatives are supposed to have traced it back, but I’ve got no idea about its origin. All I know is that my dad, John Gascoigne, was a hod-carrier. And a good fighter. Over the years, I’ve seen him hit quite a few people.

  My mam, Carol, was born Carol Harold. She hated her name when she was young as kids in her class at school would shout at her, ‘Carol Harold, fat as a barrel.’ Which she wasn’t, so she says. She was one of eight sisters. Her father was a bricklayer, and my dad worked for him at one time. In her family, they think they might be related to George Stephenson, the railway man, because her dad had a watch with his name on it. It’s possible, of course, but there are lots of George Stephensons on Tyneside.

  When my mam left school, she worked in a hairdressing salon, sweeping the floor for £1.50 a week. Then she got a job in a clothes factory. She met my dad at a local dance. She heard these four girls in the toilets talking about whose turn it was to go home with this lad. She couldn’t believe four lasses would be fighting over the same lad, and wondered who it could be. It turned out to be John Gascoigne. Eeh, he was handsome, and funny, so me mam still says.