Gazza: My Story
Authors: Paul Gascoigne
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
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Table of Contents
1. Childhood Scrapes and Screams
5. First Team, First Successes
6. Grabbed by Vinnie, but Not by Fergie
18. Euro 96 and a Dentist’s Chair
22. World Cup 98 and Trouble with Hoddle
28. Some Famous Players and Some Top Money
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.
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
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
”
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.