Where’s Your Caravan?: My Life on Football’s B-Roads. Chris Hargreaves
Paul Reece. He was held down by some of the lads while Kev Jobling and Paul Agnew, two lads in the first team, took turns to suck his eye sockets. This resulted in a couple of great shiners, hence the ‘panda’. Pylon treatment was a little less abusive, but hurt more. A young apprentice would be asked into the changing room and the questions would start.
‘What are those things in fields called?’
The nervous young lad would struggle to give an answer.
‘You know, the big metal things.’
Again, a blank from the victim in question.
‘Come on, the big metal things with wires on the top, that birds sit on.’
Finally, the words that everybody had been waiting for were uttered: ‘Oh, a pylon!’ and with that the entire twenty-two man squad would ‘pile on’ the poor lad for about five minutes, leaving him a bit battered but safe in the knowledge that he now understood how to answer a trick question.
Occasionally, a walk of shame would be the order of the day. On returning from his shower a birthday boy would find his clothes missing. What followed would be an embarrassing hunt for his kit. You can imagine how funny a sight it was seeing a naked birthday boy, in his birthday suit, running across the pitch to fetch his clothes. They would usually be situated on the halfway line, and all you would hear was the groundsman shouting, ‘Get off my fucking pitch, you weirdo!’
I have even seen a naked apprentice clamber up a floodlight to reclaim his clothes’. Imagine doing that sort of stuff now, the health and safety regulations back then were great: don’t get caught, don’t fall off and don’t moan. Things have certainly changed.
Even the big team baths at clubs around the country have been abolished; still that is probably a good move, as I would not fancy getting into a bath with all my teammates now. I swear to this day I must have caught something from the boys at Grimsby Town, so God knows what it would be like now, with the amount of ‘interaction’ going on. The number of women some footballers pick up – I would want an immediate vaccination as soon as I stepped out of the bath.
At Grimsby Town, in both home and away changing rooms, the big baths would be run, so that after a game all the lads would pile into their respective baths. These were huge and about four feet deep, and similar could be seen at football clubs all around the country. You would relax, chat and mess about in the bath, and many a time the odd bottle of Fairy Liquid came out, filling the changing room with foam, and causing the management and ground staff to fume. It was always a relief after a game to sit in these big old baths and relax.
I remember the first time I sat in the first team bath after my debut. Running the bath would have been started at half time, ready for full time for the lads to jump in. I was elated to have scored, and I was now with the first team having a laugh, where I wanted to be (not like that!).
One incident on that day reveals some of the pettier side of football, it being the competitive beast that it is. Most of the lads said, ‘Brilliant Chrissy, well done!’ However, after my two goal start, Tommy Watson, one of the younger lads in and out of the team at the time, said, ‘Jesus, you jammy bastard.’
Such was some people’s desire to do well themselves that they almost wanted you to do badly. Perhaps particularly so in my case, I suppose, as I was so cocky. Still, we got our own back on old Tommy; a few of us would leave presents on his kit every day, extra strong mints and chewing gum (slight halitosis issues!).
On my first trip away with Grimsby Town, Reecy and I had snuck up to the top floor of the hotel, and waited. When all the lads had settled, with their many drinks, we let rip. Twenty water bombs flew down with a crash from ten floors up. It was carnage down there, but Reecy and I were in stitches, oblivious to the mess we had created. The lads did see the funny side of it, but, of course, they got their revenge. When we were all dressed up and on the way out that night, Garry Birtles and Shaun Cunnington, our inspirational captain, dragged us to the pool and chucked us in. Revenge is a dish best served cold, eh? Cold and wet! Unfortunately for the big fella, Mark Lever, while laughing his head off, he got too close and also fell in.
On these breaks away the older pros would just sit back and watch, as we would provide the entertainment, performing ridiculous back flips into the pool and equally ridiculous dance moves in the clubs at night.
It must have been hard for any new player signing for and coming into a club like Grimsby Town, the bond between the lads was strong, as was the banter. One player, Ian Knight, a former Sheffield Wednesday starlet, had joined us towards the end of the season, and so came on the club holiday to Tenerife. We were all congregated in the foyer of the hotel, in jeans and T-shirts, ready to go out. Imagine the sight when ‘Knighty’ entered the room in light blue sports trousers, a formal shirt and shoes! It was pure Alan Partridge. He got slaughtered, with shouts of ‘What time’s dinner?’ ‘What’s your dad wearing?’ and ‘Taxi for Knight’ ringing in his ears. He recovered though; a quick change and he was back down to join us.
The banter was ruthless but harmless and before long newcomers were welcomed with open arms, but only as long as they did the business on the pitch! With the ten clubs that I have played for I know firsthand that until you play, and play well, your teammates will remain a little undecided about you. It is about gaining respect on the pitch, and the sooner you can do it, the better.
I look back fondly on those Grimsby Town days, time spent with great teammates and close friends. Had it just been my teammates that I hung about with, I think my life would have been a lot calmer. As it was, nights out with my non-football mates were always an accident waiting to happen. One of these ended particularly badly for me. It was the night before the 92/93 pre-season team photo and I had decided to take it easy with a quiet night out with Fiona but, as usual, we ended up in Pier 39. We only stayed for a few drinks though, and as we were leaving the premises, a lad came up from behind and, utterly unprovoked, smacked me in the mouth. It was totally unexpected. As he hit me he shouted, ‘You’re Chris Hargreaves aren’t you, you want some?’
I certainly did now! In fact, while I am writing this, my blood is starting to boil again about that incident and its repercussions.
I was fuming and raced after him only to be confronted by about five or six of his mates. For once, I wished I had been out with the lads! As much as I wanted to start windmilling, I knew it would be a bad move, especially as I was with Fiona, who at this point was a tad distressed. I knew most of these lads and they knew me. They knew that their mate was very much in the wrong but, mates being mates, stuck up for him saying, ‘Sorry Chris, he is drugged up, he doesn’t know what he is doing.’
I left telling them that he had better watch his back, and that I would not forget it.
The result of the following morning’s photo shoot was a glum-looking Hargreaves sporting a very fat lip. For the whole season I had to look at that picture, as did my friends and family, and lots of fans! Yes, I’m vain, but that wasn’t the issue. This photo, in my and many other people’s eyes, would represent me and my lifestyle in a bad light. And it was a lifestyle I wanted to end. To my manager, peers and family it just looked bad, end of story. It was merely a continuation of the reputation that, for the promotion memorabilia of 89/90, had resulted in a caricature of me standing outside the Pier 39 nightclub!
By the way, as I had promised the lad, I had not forgotten! The following week I specifically went to the same club and waited and waited for this group of lads to enter. As luck would have it, while I was speaking to an old school mate, the lad who had punched me strode in with his mates, acting the big hard man, and walked towards me. He said, ‘I was a bit out of order last week.’
As he did this he held out his hand. I walked towards him, holding my hand out too, while saying, ‘Just a little bit.’
Just as he thought I was going to shake his hand I pulled my arm back and smashed him over a table and into a heap on the floor. I could have carried on and completely battered him, but it wasn’t my style. Still, now it had really kicked off, a ten-man brawl started, and we were soon hurled out. He never bothered me again.
This fighting culture