To Cap It All. Kenny Sansom
me that day.
So I let this little underage and uninsured lad drive my prized Colt out of the car park. Moments later he came flying back down the shingle driveway and skidded straight into Vince Hillaire’s sponsored car and took the side clean out.
Vince wasn’t too happy and, to be honest, neither was I, but we both saw the funny side of it – I guess everything was funny in those days. We told the sponsors that a hit-and-run driver had been the culprit and thankfully they repaired both cars without question. It’s amazing what you can get away with when you’re afforded celebrity status. I suppose I was beginning to feel like a celebrity and it wasn’t all to the good. Occasionally it made me feel and think in stupid ways.
Now on the up and up, I’d become the proud owner of a flashy Triumph Stag. Oh, did Elaine and I ever think we were the bee’s knees!
Elaine hadn’t learned to drive yet, but she had the bright idea to get her brother-in-law to drive her to Gatwick Airport to pick me up from a holiday in Corfu with the lads. As I walked out of the terminal there she was sitting in our pride and joy waiting to greet me.
It was a pig of a night, with torrential rain and the wind blowing a gale as we made our way back to Epsom. We were happy to see each other again, but the tension in the car was palpable, as we weren’t familiar with the area and the roads were not well lit. Suddenly the car chugged to a halt. We looked at each other in horror.
‘We’ve run out of petrol,’ I cried.
Elaine, who always had all the answers, was struck dumb.
‘Why didn’t you fill it up with petrol before you left?’ I asked. But, not being a driver, she hadn’t thought about this necessity. I jumped out and flagged down the first car to come our way and lucky old me again – it was only Paul Hinshelwood. Now, what were the chances of that?
A decision was made in a split second. Paul and I would go and find the nearest 24-hour petrol station while Elaine waited in the warmth and safety of our car. ‘Wait here, Elaine. We won’t be long.’
Off we went in search of fuel and, as luck would have it, there was a garage nearby. But it was shut. So we continued along on our journey. And, although we passed a couple more garages, none were open. Didn’t anyone do night duty in Surrey?
We finally found a little garage in Tooting Broadway. How did we manage to get that far away from Epsom? The fact was – mystery or not – that was where we were.
‘Can I buy a can, please? I’ve run out of petrol.’
‘It’s an emergency,’ added Paul.
‘I ain’t got no cans,’ mouthed the cashier from behind a bulletproof glass window.
That was it. My usual moderate temper was lost. ‘What do you mean, you’ve got no cans? This is a bloody garage. Lots of people run out of petrol.’
‘I ain’t got no cans,’ he insisted.
‘What have you got?’ Paul chirped in again.
‘I only got cans of oil,’ he growled menacingly. This guy was almost as wild as the night.
‘Give us a can of oil, then.’ I was really panicking now as I thought about my wife, who I had abandoned alone on a dark scary night. What on earth had possessed me?
I was that mad I poured all the oil from the can over the garage forecourt and then, having filled the can with petrol, we drove as fast as we could back to Elaine, with me beating myself up all the way back for leaving her in danger. I’d like to think that those days were safer than today, and in some ways they were. There wasn’t quite so much road rage going on, but that didn’t take away the fact that some other car could have crashed into the back of her on a poorly lit country road.
I wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised when she screamed, ‘Where the hell have you been?’ But at least we had enough petrol to get us out of trouble.
THE BETTING SHOP – THE SANSOM BROTHERS BECOME BOOKIES
My dad was a gambler, a drinker and a womaniser. That, I’m afraid, is the harsh truth of the matter, and I still wanted nothing to do with him.
As I said before, my older brother Peter, who had built up a strong father–son bond with our dad, spent lots of time in his company over in the East End, and that was his choice and none of my business.
One day Peter had the idea that we should open up a betting shop. ‘We’ll be millionaires by this time next year, Roddy… I mean… Kenny,’ he told me with all the conviction of Del Boy.
I’ll tell you something. A success it was not. My brother and I must be the only bookies in the land to have lost money – my money.
Why didn’t anyone warn me the last person who should run a bookie’s is a gambler – a bloody expensive lesson that turned out to be!
LEAVING THE EAGLES
We were a great bunch of mates who had bonded together so well that I have to wonder how far we would have gone as a team had we all stayed together longer – we were that good.
It had been Malcolm Allison who’d transformed the club in the seventies and who had laid the foundations for El Tel to take over and guide us back to the First Division in 1979. We were the team of the eighties and all of us had an absolutely fantastic time. Unfortunately, the promise of a decade of brilliance was dashed and, by 1981, Palace were relegated. Terry was vilified in the media, but of course, in true Venables style, he took all the controversy in his stride.
As for me, I was about to fly the nest, off to pastures new.
In the summer of 1980, when I was 21 years old, a bizarre week took place that saw my popularity soar to an all-time high and life change for ever.
It was a sunny summer’s day (a Monday, as I recall) when Terry Venables called me to his office and offered me a 5-year contract to stay at Crystal Palace. I was delighted about this, as I was really happy there, but then he called me back into his office the following day and said he’d had Arsenal on the phone and did I want to go over to Highbury and have a word with them? I was curious, but didn’t think too much about going over to Highbury other than that it would be good to have a look around the historical ground.
I was ushered quickly through the door leading into the East Stand before being taken to see Ken Friar over in the West Stand. It was all very impressive for a young impressionable lad like me, and I was flattered when I was asked if I wanted to play for the Arsenal.
Did I want to play for the Arsenal? Was he having a laugh?
‘That would be terrific,’ I gulped.
And that was that. Canny old Friar signed me up on the spot before any other deals could be struck up with other clubs.
I telephoned home to let my mum know I’d signed for the Arsenal and my brother Peter answered. ‘Don’t tell me you just went there and signed up just like that.’ He was aghast. ‘But I’ve had Bob Paisley on the phone and Liverpool want you – you could get a better deal and they’ll even give you accommodation.’
But it was too late. I was going to Arsenal. I was staying in London and that was what I wanted more than anything in the world.
Later, when I sat across the table watching the now-familiar Terry Venables grin spread across his face, we talked about the deal in more detail.
He was just about to sign a deal with Ken Friar that astonished many – not least of all the Arsenal fans. Some were asking if the board of directors and management at Highbury had gone off their rockers. Arsenal fanzines were full of questions. ‘Why on earth would the Arsenal swap the great striker Clive Allen, who he’d only recently signed and had yet to play a game, for a young left-back from Crystal Palace? And in a bizarre million-pound-plus deal to boot.’