Paul Merson - How Not to Be a Professional Footballer

HOW NOT TO BE A

PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALLER

PAUL MERSON

with Matt Allen

Contents

Title Page HOW NOT TO BE A PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALLER PAUL MERSON with Matt Allen

A Note from the Author

Introduction - Last Knockings

Lesson 1 - Do Not Go to Stringfellows with Charlie Nicholas

Lesson 2 - Do Not Drink 15 - Pints and Crash Your Car into a Lamppost

Lesson 3 - Do Not Cross Gorgeous George

Lesson 4 - Do Not Shit on David Seaman’s Balcony

Lesson 5 - Do Not Bet on Scotland on Your Wedding Day

Lesson 6 - Do Not Wax the Dolphin before an England Game

Lesson 7 - Do Not Go to a Detroit Gay Bar with Paul Ince and John Barnes

Lesson 8 - Do Not Wander Round Nightclubs Trying to Score Coke

Lesson 9 - Do Not Get So Paranoid That You Can’t Leave the House

Lesson 10 - Do Not Ask for a Potato Peeler in Rehab

Lesson 11 - Do Not Miss a Penalty in the UEFA Cup

Lesson 12 - Do Not Leave Arsenal with Your William Hill Head On

Lesson 13 - Do Not Let Gazza Move into Your House

Lesson 14 - Do Not Ask Eileen Drewery for a Short Back and Sides

Lesson 15 - Do Not Give Gazza the Keys to the Team Bus

Lesson 16 - Do Not Tell Harry Redknapp You’re Going into Rehab only to Bunk off to Barbados for a Jolly

Lesson 17 - Do Not Smile at a Sex Addict Called Candy

Lesson 18 - Do Not Try to Outwit Jeff Stelling

Lesson 19 - Do Not Admit Defeat (the Day-to-Day Battle)

Appendix

About the Author Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

Copyright

About the Publisher Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

A Note from the Author

One thing before we crack on: an apology. You’ll only hear it from me on this one page because I’ve read too many life stories and books where people are constantly tripping over themselves to make up for all the bad things they’ve done. Page after page after page of it, and after a while it just doesn’t ring true.

The thing is, you’re going to read a lot of bad things over the following pages, and some of it is pretty shocking. The last thing you need to get through is a million and one apologies as well, so you’re only reading the one, but it’s sincere. For the terrible things I’ve done and to some of the people I’ve hurt and let down: I’m sorry.

Introduction

Last Knockings

I’ll tell you how bad it got for me. At my lowest point as a gambler, the night before an away game for Aston Villa, I sat on the edge of my bed in a Bolton hotel room and thought about breaking my own fingers. I was that desperate not to pick up the phone and dial in another bet. At that time in my life I’d blown around seven million quid with the bookies and I wanted so badly to stop, but I just couldn’t – the next punt was always too tempting. Slamming my own fingers in a door or breaking them one by one with a hammer was the only way I knew of ending the cycle. It was insanity really. The walls had started closing in on me.

When I was bang on the cocaine, I sold my Arsenal blazer to a dealer because I’d run out of money in the pub and I was desperate to get high. All the lads at Highbury had an official club jacket, tailored, with the team crest emblazoned on the front. It was a badge of honour really, something the directors, coaching staff and players wore with pride. It said to everyone else: ‘Being an Arsenal player is something special.’ It meant nothing to me, though, not at my most desperate. I was out of pocket and there wasn’t a cashpoint around, so I swapped it for one pathetic gram, worth just £50. The next day I told Arsenal’s gaffer, George Graham, that the blazer had been nicked out of the back of my car. Well, at that stage in my life a made-up story like that seemed more realistic than the truth.

At the peak of my game, I was drinking more lager tops than the fans. I would go out three, four, five nights a week and drink pints and pints and pints, usually until I couldn’t drink any more. Some nights I wouldn’t go home. I’d leave training, go on the lash, fall asleep in the bar or finish my last beer at silly o’clock. Before I knew it, I was in a taxi on my way to training, then I’d go through the whole cycle all over again. Unless I’d been nicked, that is.

That happened once or twice. One night, I remember going into the boozer for a few beers and a game of pool with a mate. We got plastered. While we were playing, some lads kept having a go at us, shouting across the bar and making wisecracks, probably because they recognised me. This mate of mine was a bit of a wild card, I never knew how he was going to react when he was pissed. This time he blew up with a pool cue. A chair was thrown through the window; he smashed up the optics. It all kicked off and there was blood everywhere. The bar looked like a scene from a Chuck Norris film.

We ran home. I was covered in claret, so I chucked my shirt in the washing machine, turned it on and went to bed. That was my drunk logic at work: I thought the problem would magically disappear if I stuck my head under the covers. I even ignored my now ex-wife, Lorraine, who was standing there, staring at me, wondering what the hell was going on as I pretended to be asleep. It wasn’t long before the police started banging on the front door. Lorraine let them in, and when they steamed into the bedroom, I made out they’d woken me up.

‘Ooh, all right officer,’ I groaned, rubbing my bloodshot eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’

The copper wasn’t falling for it. ‘Get up, you fucking idiot. You’re under arrest.’

I was off the rails, but in those days I could get away with it most of the time. There were no camera phones or random drugs tests and footballers weren’t followed by the paparazzi 24/7, which was a shame for them because they would have loved me today.

I was an England international and I played for some massive clubs. I made my Arsenal debut in 1986 and retired from playing 20 years later. In the course of my Highbury career I won two League titles (1989, 1991), an FA Cup (1993), a League Cup (1993) and a UEFA Cup Winners’ Cup (1994). I won the Division One title with Portsmouth in 2003 and got promotion to the Premier-ship with Middlesbrough in 1998. I played in the last FA Cup Final at the old Wembley with Villa. I was capped for England 21 times, scoring three goals. I had a pretty good CV.

Off the pitch I was a nightmare, battling with drinking, drugging and betting addictions. I went into rehab in 1994 for coke, compulsive gambling and boozing. There were newspaper stories of punch-ups and club bans; divorces and huge, huge debts. I was a headline writer’s dream, a football manager’s nightmare, but I lived to tell the tale, which as you’ll learn was a bloody miracle.