People’s backyards are much more interesting than their front gardens.
– John Betjeman
No other man-made device since the shields and lances of the ancient knights fulfils a man’s ego like an automobile.
– Lord Rootes
After six months of life as a professional, it was aspects of the life I had never considered that surprised me most. Before signing for Gillingham I had never, for example, roomed with another man. I had played with other men and showered with other men and dined with other men and sipped with other men and fought with other men, but I’d never actually shared a room with another man. I had shared a room with women, and shared a bed with women, and enjoyed every moment of it, but the act of sharing with another man, of breathing the same air and peeing in the same bowl and washing in the same basin and talking on the same telephone and watching the same TV and sleeping under the same ceiling with another man, a complete stranger, sometimes in the bed alongside was an alien experience. And one that took a lot of getting used to.
Put yourselves in my shoes for a moment: you’re nineteen years old, have just signed for Gillingham Football Club and are about to discover the strange new world of playing away from home. You drive to Carlisle or Lincoln or Huddersfield on the eve of the game and step from the coach into the lobby of the team hotel where the physio has pinned beside the lift a list with all the rooms. You examine the list and discover you’ve been paired with Q, a first team regular you’ve trained with, but hardly spoken to before. Dinner is served in a function room downstairs. You sit listening to the banter around the table, then retire to the room to watch whatever Q fancies on TV before drifting off to sleep . . . Before Q drifts off, that is. You, unfortunately, have always been a light sleeper and with every sense heightened, just the gentle whisper of his breathing is enough to keep you awake. And then he farts and begins to snore and you know the night will be long. You toss and turn into the early hours until the frustration finally exhausts you. When morning comes and you open your eyes, Q is staring at the ceiling with his finger up his nose and a Wigwam in his bed.
‘Morning Tone, sleep well?’ he enquires, completely unabashed.
‘Yeah, great thanks, Q,’ you lie.
He casts off the sheets and walks bollock naked to the bathroom, defiantly parading his veiny sausage to the tune of Abba’s ‘Voulez-vous’. You shake your head in disbelief: ‘This is the pits!’ You’ve never seen an aroused penis before, except, obviously, your own. After a long and laborious pee that considerably lowers his mast, Q exits the bathroom, yawning and scratching his nuts, and makes for the bowl of fruit on the bedside table, unaware and unconcerned that two pubic hairs have dropped into the grapes.
‘Would you like some fruit?’ he offers, extending the bowl.
‘No thanks,’ you decline.
Why, you wonder, didn’t they warn you about this in Shoot?
The real problem with sharing a room is that you never know who you are going to be lumbered with. As in the film Planes, Trains and Automobiles, there’s always another nutcase waiting around the corner but after eighteen years of smelly bastards, tight gits, sleepers, alcoholics, comedians, insomniacs, depressives, faithful husbands and serial adulterers, I can safely say I’ve had, and mostly enjoyed, them all. Rooming with Andy Townsend and Niall Quinn always reminded me of married life . . .
‘You put the tea on, love, I’ll get the biscuits.’
‘You sleep in that bed, love, I’ll sleep in this one.’
Throw your bag in the wrong place or leave a razor blade in the bath and you were always sure of a bollocking. Andy controlled the TV remote for the best part of ten years! Niall used to nag me more than my wife. Bernie Slaven, another great character from my Ireland years, used to call his dog every night. I’d be sitting in the bed alongside and Bernie would be howling like Lassie into the phone ‘Woof, woof, aru, aru, woof!’ He’d be kissing the receiver and lavishing affection – ‘Hello, lovey dovey’ – on a dog! The first time it happened, I nearly wet myself and told him he was completely mad. Bernie, being Bernie, just laughed.
Sometimes, things were a bit more complicated. There was one former team mate who was caught and outed by the tabloids for having an affair and whenever his wife phoned and he wasn’t around, it was an absolute disaster . . .
‘Hello, Tony, it’s Y.’
‘Hello, Y. How are you, love?’
‘Fine thanks. Where’s X?’
‘He’s not in the room at the moment, he’s, er, down having dinner.’
Pause. She’s thinking: ‘He’s off shagging someone.’ I’m thinking: ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, she thinks he’s off shagging someone.’
‘Is he having dinner? Is he really having dinner?’
‘Course he is, Y. I’ve just come up myself.’
‘It’s very late . . .’
‘Tell you what, as soon as he gets back, I’ll get him to give you a call.’
‘What do you mean, as soon as he gets back? Back from where?’
‘Back to the room . . . back from his dinner.’
‘Oh, right, fine. Thanks Tony.’
Ten minutes later, X returns; he’s been playing cards in another room.
‘Your missus has been on. She’s fretting. You’d better give her a call.’
‘Oh fuck.’
He dives on to the phone and a heated argument ensues. Exasperated, X hands me the receiver, the veins popping in his neck: ‘Tell her where I’ve been!’
The problem, unfortunately, was often compounded on the occasions when X wasn’t playing cards. There was always great teamwork when a player had a woman to bed. X, for example, would switch with Z, who had a room to himself, and Z would move in for the night with me. Inevitably, the phone would ring. ‘Don’t answer it!’ I’d scream. ‘It might be X’s wife! She’ll want to know where he is and why you’re in the room.’ There was rarely a dull moment.
The other peculiarity of my new career was the unique brand of humour that existed in the dressing room. During my time on the building sites, I’d worked with some right hard cases and always been amused by the humour in the canteen. The dressing room, however, was a much darker place. Around the time of my professional début, a team mate, whose wife was expecting a baby girl, didn’t show for training one morning.
‘What’s happened to X?’ I asked. ‘How come he’s not in?’
‘Oh, his missus has lost her baby,’ someone said.
‘Shit,’ I said, ‘that’s terrible.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I heard she was drop-dead gorgeous.’
At first I thought I was hearing things but it would soon become routine. Chelsea was the worst. At Chelsea, it was open season, seven days a week. There were times when I’d think: ‘My God! I can’t believe you’ve said that!’ And after a while, I was just as bad as anyone else. I’m not sure what it is about football but there seems to be much more respect in other professions, a limit to how far you can go for a laugh. In football, there are no limits. In football, in English football, a black humour pervades that at times borders on the depraved.
The bulletproof coating I’d worn since my début against Burnley first began to chip nine months later in November ’82, when we were drawn to play Tottenham in a League (Milk) Cup at Priestfield. It was a huge game for Gillingham and because of my form since the start of the season I was presented as the rising star who would send the prima donnas packing. Spurs sent most of their best players – Steve Archibald, Graham Roberts, Glenn Hoddle, Ray Clemence and Garth Crooks – and I was aware, walking out, that it was my first real test, but I completely froze after missing an early chance. When Spurs went 3–1 up at the start of the second half, Roberts couldn’t resist turning the screw. ‘What! You’re the secret weapon! You’re going to knock us out of the Cup! You must be joking! You haven’t kicked the fucking thing yet.’ It should have been enough to get me going but instead I withdrew even further into my shell. Nothing was said in the dressing room afterwards but I was more than aware I’d bottled it and endured a long and sleepless night. Was I really good enough to play at the top? If Spurs were the barometer and I hadn’t had a kick, maybe I was just fooling myself? For the first time in my career I began to doubt. And then, fourteen months later, the doubt found a voice . . . .
On the last Tuesday of January 1984, Priestfield was packed to capacity for the visit of Everton in the FA Cup. Three days earlier, we had returned from Goodison Park as heroes after holding the first-division side to a 0–0 draw and the ground buzzed with hope that we could somehow win the replay. After ninety minutes there was stalemate, which continued until the final moments of extra time, when Everton pushed everyone forward in one last desperate attempt to secure a winning goal. I was standing on the halfway line, completely unmarked, when the ball was suddenly hoofed to me from the siege of our defence. I turned, looked up and started running toward the Everton goal. I looked up again. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I was on my own! There wasn’t an Everton player within thirty fucking yards! All I had to do to knock Everton out of the Cup was beat their goalkeeper, Neville Southall.
I’m not sure how many strides I had taken when I first heard the voice. Or at what stage the crowd stopped shouting and were quiet. Suddenly, those five seconds alone felt like hours. It was as if I was running in slow motion and suspended in time, oblivious to everything except the giant shadow of Neville Southall and this strange, irritating, voice . . .
‘Shuuush.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Quiet! We’re holding our breath.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the eight-year-old boy in row twelve. I’m Bill from Bromley and Steve from Sidcup, who haven’t missed a game for fifteen years. I’m Keith Peacock and Steve Bruce and Old Buster Collins the sponge man. I’m the voice of every Gillingham supporter in the ground, desperately hoping you’ll take this chance but worried you’ll fuck up.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘Don’t mention it. Just take your time and think about it for a moment.’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘You’re thirty yards clear.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘There’s only the keeper to beat.’
‘That too.’
‘Any striker worth his salt will put this ball in the net.’
‘Yeah, but . . .’
‘This is your big chance.’
‘It’s not as easy as it looks, you know.’
‘You’re shitting yourself, aren’t you?’
‘No, I . . .’
‘You’re going to miss.’
‘CLEAR OFF!’
‘You’re going to make a bollocks of it.’
Southall started to feint and fidget . . . I was almost close enough but couldn’t figure him out . . . Panic was clouding my brain like a fog . . . He narrowed the angle and stood his ground . . . Impulsively I reached for the trigger and kicked an awful shot that almost dribbled into his hands.
‘You clumsy fucking twat.’
‘Sorry, I . . .’
‘You gave him the ball!’
‘I know but . . .’
‘You literally presented it to him.’
‘Yeah, did you hear the gasp in the crowd? I want to bury myself.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘For what?’
‘I’ve seen some misses in my time but that was different class.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But look on the bright side – you’re a household name.’
‘How’s that?’
‘They’ll be showing repeats of it for years.’
On those rare occasions when I’ve bumped into the Everton manager, Howard Kendall, since, he smiles and reminds me of the night I saved his job. I probably did. Everton won the second replay 3–0 and advanced to the next round. I returned to scoring goals against the Lincolns and Exeters, with a scar from the miss that took a long, long time to heal. They showed repeats of it for years . . .
In the summer of 1985, at the end of my fourth season at Gillingham, I paid £39,500 for a new house in Bexley. Still living with my parents, for four years I had dithered about buying a place of my own but was unable to take the decision. My father was the dilemma. Although he had never apologized or addressed what had happened in the past, our relationship had turned full circle. From the tentative beginning of shared journeys to work, he’d become a Gillingham supporter and by 1985 was almost the father I’d always wished I’d had. Ironically, the closer we became, the harder it was for me to leave home. I knew what would happen. My mother had spelt it out . . .
If the night of the broken glass had proved a watershed in our relationship, it also triggered a change in his relationship with Mum. In the years that followed, as his anger began to recede, a much rounder and more likeable person began to emerge. Suddenly, he was cooking dinners and tidying the house. Suddenly, he was coming to games and cheering me on. Suddenly, he was treating my mother with kindness and respect. Suddenly, he was a man transformed. Hugely impressed with his ability to change, I embraced the new Dominic and welcomed him home. My mother couldn’t. My mother didn’t want to know.
That same summer, a few weeks before I eventually moved out, she arrived home from work one evening to find him barbecuing in the garden. ‘What do you think you’re doing,’ she fumed. ‘Look at all the smoke going over the [neighbour’s] wall!’ It was a ridiculous argument, the latest in a long and deliberate campaign to undermine him at every chance. Undermining him, you see, meant an argument. And an argument meant he was mad. And when he was mad, it reminded her of the way he used to be. And when she was reminded about the way he used to be, it made her feel better about what she had sworn to do. My mother had suffered too much to forgive and forget. One night, perhaps during the storm when he was smashing up her kitchen, perhaps when he was kicking and punching her son, she made a promise to herself. On the day Mandy was married, she shared it with me: ‘The day you leave, Tony, I leave.’ And so it was . . .
A week after I’d moved to Bexley, my mother walked out. That night, when my father called to see me, he was absolutely distraught. I made some tea and we sat and chatted in the kitchen. It was probably the first real conversation we’d ever had. When he told me he had never been unfaithful, I believed him. He was never a womanizer, never a drinker, but he’d screwed up big time and the penny had finally dropped. I sat and sympathized as best I could and invited him to stay for a while. He stayed for a year. That night, as I twisted and turned in bed, I couldn’t help thinking what a strange irony it was that the man who had made me cry for so long should end up crying on my shoulder. And what an unexpected twist that we should start living together because the woman who had protected me from him for so long, was gone.
The other significant development of 1985 was the arrival of a new goalkeeper on loan from Notts County called Seamus McDonagh, who also happened to be the Republic of Ireland number one. One afternoon, after I’d quizzed him about life as an international and informed him of my roots, Seamus promised to pass my name to the Irish manager, Eoin Hand. A few weeks later, I was invited to play for an Irish selection in a testimonial game for Jimmy Holmes in Dublin.
It was my first ever visit to Ireland. The game was played on a lovely sunny evening in Dalymount Park and I scored and played well enough against a Glenn Hoddle selection to grab the headlines next day in the Irish Independent: ‘Weather and fans turn up as Hand finds striker.’ A month later, I was named in the squad for a World Cup qualifying game in Switzerland. My international career was about to begin.
There are two memories of the afternoon we arrived in Berne. The first was the magnificent view of the lake from our hotel and the breathtaking splendour of the Swiss countryside. I remember looking out of my bedroom window and thinking, ‘God, what a place! Ibiza was never like this.’ The second was being introduced to the great Liam Brady, who had travelled separately from his home in Milan. Of the many stars on the team at that time – Frank Stapleton, Mark Lawrenson, Jim Beglin, Gerry Daly, Paul McGrath, Dave O’Leary – none shone brighter than Liam Brady. As a boy, I’d made many a trip with Mac to Highbury just to watch him play, and it was a genuine thrill to meet him in the flesh. After dinner, he invited me to join the card school, where I was promptly relieved of my match fee. He was a smooth operator, on and off the field; I can still see him now with his fashionable Italian shades, chewing on a sweet and studying his hand like the Sundance Kid.
If Liam was the undisputed star of the group, the team captain, Frank Stapleton, wasn’t far behind, still scoring goals for Manchester United and one of the biggest names in the game. When I learned that we had been paired to room together, I couldn’t wait to tell my mates. I was also extremely nervous and self-conscious, and couldn’t make up my mind whether to engage in conversation or to give him some space.
Anyone who has ever played with Frank and is honest will tell you he has never been the easiest bloke in the world to get on with. He’s an extremely dour man who takes himself awfully seriously. There used to be a running joke in the game that when Frank woke up each morning, he’d race to the bathroom and smile, just to get it over with. All this meant nothing to me in 1985. Star gossip rarely filtered as low as the third division. We are talking pauper and prince here; bright-eyed owner of second-hand Ford Capri meets BMW-driving superstar he has always regarded with awe.
An hour passed and although niceties had been exchanged we still hadn’t really broken the ice. I’d had a couple of signals from Frank that he wasn’t overly enamoured with the idea of sharing with me but I was determined to give it my best shot. Then I noticed he was reading a new BMW catalogue. Cars are a second language in the game and it seemed an ideal opportunity to establish cordial relations, so I cleared my throat and decided to go for it. His response would colour my impression of him for life.
‘Are you thinking of buying a new BMW, Frank?’
He lowered the catalogue and looked across. ‘Naah,’ he smirked. ‘Can’t afford it.’
There was no mistaking the put-down. I wanted to jump off the bed and chin him.
Mick McCarthy was also on that team. Mick didn’t have Brady’s class and wasn’t a superstar like Stapleton, but there was a steel about him I didn’t always appreciate although I often admired it. Three months earlier, he’d played against the Swiss in Dublin and as we left the hotel for the game, he warned me about their big centre half.
‘Watch Egli,’ he said. ‘He hits off the ball, dirty bastard. We had a right old battle in Dublin.’
‘He can’t do that,’ I gulped. ‘He’ll get sent off.’
‘Naah, crafty bugguh has it down to a fine art. Don’t let him push you around.’
We arrived at the stadium and sure enough, during the warm-up, I noticed this huge, hairy bear of a man staring at me. He reminded me of Brutus from Popeye. Mick noticed him too and ran across.
‘That’s ’im!’ he thundered, pointing his finger. ‘That’s the fucker there!’
‘Thanks a lot, Mick,’ I said, wishing he’d been more discreet.
Egli continued his mind games through the warm-up. I poked out my tongue at him and made a silly face. He didn’t even blink. ‘Oh dear,’ I thought, jogging back to the dressing room. ‘Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.’ When the game started, he clouted me at the first opportunity but I immediately walloped him back to let him know I wasn’t having it. I’m not sure what Eoin Hand made of it, but Mick was definitely impressed.
The game went badly for us. Frank missed a chance just before the end but overall, 0–0 was probably a fair result. Foolishly, I’d started with a brand-new pair of boots and my feet were badly blistered. Although I hadn’t scored, I’d given a good account of myself and as I limped towards the dressing room, a small group of supporters began chanting my name, using flat Dublin accents that sounded odd and almost comical at first.
‘Toe-knee-cass-carino.’
‘Toe-knee-cass-carino.’
It was nice. I liked it. I would love it later.
Despite my promising début, the draw had seriously compromised the Republic’s chances of qualifying from the group and the pressure was really on when we travelled to Moscow to play the Soviet Union a month later. Although gifted with many brilliant individuals, the team clearly weren’t playing to their potential and the knives were out for the manager, who was savaged by the press in the build-up. Although I hadn’t been around for long enough to form an opinion, I liked Eoin and found him extremely personable, but one aspect of his management style struck me as odd. At a meeting on the night before the game in Moscow, he invited comments from three of the team’s most experienced players: Brady, Lawrenson and Stapleton. Liam and Mark both declined to speak but when Frank stood up he delivered what was essentially a directive on how we were to play!
My second international, like many of my ‘second’ games for teams over the years, proved a huge disappointment. Liam was very encouraging in the dressing room before we ran out. ‘If you come short to me,’ he said, ‘they will be right up close. I want you to come, then spin and go, and I’ll put it over the centre-half’s head.’ And invariably he did, but I played poorly and was substituted after an hour in the 2–0 defeat.
The final game in the group was a home tie against Denmark a month later. With qualification now beyond us, there wasn’t a great deal of enthusiasm for the game, or the team, amongst the Irish public. Mick Byrne, ever the optimist, predicted a crowd of 25,000 at Lansdowne Road. ‘There wouldn’t be 25,000 if the Beatles were playing today,’ he was told. On the day, a mere 15,000 streamed through the turnstiles. I played pretty well and laid on a goal for Frank, but the Danes ripped us apart in a 4–1 hiding that was easily the heaviest defeat I’ve experienced in Dublin. As expected, Eoin duly resigned as manager and was replaced the following spring by Jack Charlton. Having enjoyed my first taste of international football, I hoped my visits to Dublin would continue, but it was soon obvious to me that the new manager wasn’t a fan. ‘I went to watch you once and thought you were a fat, lazy bastard!’ Jack later explained. Two years would pass before he changed his mind.