Summer 2003: If I stay sober, will I turn into a boring person? I was
always fun when I was drinking. 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?
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.
I have a chart of my life spread out in front of me with all the main
incidents, all the horrible, serious ones. I’ll also try to recall the fun.
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’m an alcoholic. I’m proud to say that. It’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 haven’t had a drink now for three months. I’ve
been on the wagon before, for even longer periods, but I knew then it
wouldn’t last. I hope it will this time. Sheryl says I can stay here with
her if I stay sober and sensible. I don’t think I’ll get another chance if I
f*** this one up.
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 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, wanting things in exact rows, right numbers,
proper places.
I’ve had no panic attacks recently, so that’s good. I’m on various tablets to
keep me calm or cheer me up, stop me getting depressed. I did take more than
I should the other day — four instead of one — wanting a quick buzz, to feel
better immediately, which, of course, was stupid. And I got in a bit of a
state last night watching television. There was a programme showing some
lads getting drunk round a bar, falling about, as I used to do, and I
couldn’t face it. It really upset me. So I went out into the garden. I told
my doctor all this and he says it’s a good sign.
I honestly don’t know whether I’ll keep this up. I haven’t done in the past,
so everyone thinks it won’t last this time. Sheryl and I still have
arguments over silly things, who said what, who didn’t say what. But I’d
never hit her again. I’ve hit nobody since that episode and I won’t ever do
it again.
All her friends were surprised when they found out I had hit her. They always
thought she was a strong person. She thought that herself.
She now realises, she says, that she did fit into the classic pattern of women
in this situation — keeping it secret, feeling guilty and ashamed, as if it
was her fault, and of course telling herself it was a one-off. She did
everything she could to please me, she says.
Now she’s got the whip hand. She’s mentally tougher than she was; she stands
her own ground more. She’s pushing me, in a way, just to test me, to see if
I’ll fail again. I think the children are testing me as well. They are sure
it won’t last, that I’ll get into a rage and be off, as has happened before.
I’m not as aggressive and full of anger as I used to be, so that’s good. But
Sheryl says if it doesn’t work this time, that’ s it. No way will she put up
with any more of what I put her through in the past. I’ll be out on my ear.
She wrote all that down just to remind herself of what things were like. Every
time, over the years, I’ve rung up and pleaded with her to let me come back
or help me. She’s often read her notes to keep things fresh in her mind.
She’s not read them lately, which is something. It shows she thinks we might
have a chance. I know she loves me. I hope.
Jimmy Five Bellies, my best friend, hasn’t been to see me, and I haven’t been
up home to the northeast. Sheryl isn’t keen on all that. She says it’s where
my problems always begin.
So I’m just taking things easy. Playing with the kids, going to the garden
centre, having a quiet meal out. When we have friends or Shel’s relations
over they don’t drink while they’re here.
It’s a lovely day and the kids are playing in the swimming pool. The garden’s
looking lovely. Shel is being nice to me, I’m being nice to her. We’re going
to have a barbecue this evening when Sheryl’s dad comes round.
Doing my chart has cleared my head a bit, brought the main events and dramas
of my life into focus, my brilliant career. Which it has been. Despite
everything. Despite the worst moments.
October 1996: I took Shel and the kids to Gleneagles for a
bit of a break. We had good fun. I took the kids swimming and we played with
these amazing hawks. Later, over dinner in the hotel, we started arguing. It
was partly about my family, and it was mainly my fault. I was mixing my
drinks, champagne on top of whisky, which was stupid. The whole dining room
could hear us.
Shel left the table and went back to our room. I followed her and attacked
her. I headbutted her and threw her to the floor.
Her finger was broken, so she was screaming in agony. I tried to click the
finger back into place, and that made her really shriek.
Bianca and Mason, her two children, were in the next room with the nanny,
listening to it all. I found out later that Bianca, aged 10, was so upset
she wanted to take a kettle of boiling water and come and pour it all over
me. Fortunately the nanny calmed her down.
The next day Shel took the kids and left, telling me she wasn't coming back. I
did nothing to stop her. I just accepted it.
I had pushed her around a bit before but nothing as bad as this. What I had
done was terrible and at the time I didn't even say sorry. I knew I'd done
wrong but I couldn't bring myself to apologise.
The day after that I flew off with Glasgow Rangers to play Ajax in the
Champions League. I was in a dreadful state, racked with guilt, but just not
able to say sorry. After 10 minutes I was sent off.
At half-time in the dressing room Richard Gough, our captain, lashed out at
me for getting myself sent off so early in the game. I told him I'd beaten
up my wife, and by now I knew that the press had found out and were waiting
for me and that they'd really tear me apart. Which they did.
Perhaps I had done a bit more in the past than just pushing Sheryl. I had
twisted her arm once and I banged her head on the floor in Italy. I don't
know what happens, except that when I get in a state I take it out on the
one I love most. But I paid dearly because it all came out and Shel and I
separated, and I lost my wife.
After the beating-up I felt numb inside. I began to take Zimovane tablets,
which I stole from Rangers after I found out where they were kept. I had had
morphine several times over the years, before my operations, when I was in
terrible pain, so I knew how it made you feel good and deadened the agony.
Everywhere I went, on the pitch or off it, rival fans would shout "wife-beater"
at me. People were saying I shouldn't be picked for Rangers or England any
more.
During my marriage to Shel, after some of our bigger rows and my worst
behaviour, she had persuaded me to go to marriage guidance counselling. I
only stood it for a short while and gave up quickly, but Shel stuck at it
longer.
I should have had counselling. Years ago, when I was a boy in Gateshead, I
had my first chance to get help, but I didn't go back.
When I was seven, I had a weird experience. I'd been playing football in the
park all afternoon and all evening. I had my new football and I kept on
playing, even though it had got dark and all the other kids had gone home.
As I was walking home on my own, I looked up at the stars and thought, how
long do stars go on for? Then I wondered, how long will I live? Will it be
okay when I'm dead or will I feel different? Suddenly I was scared, and I
ran all the way home, screaming and crying.
I got into bed with me mam and dad, squeezed in beside them. I didn't tell
them why I'd been screaming. I just sort of hid it in my head. It didn't
come out again till recently, in a conversation with a counsellor at a
clinic. It was a massive relief to talk about that. Looking back, it was the
first time in my life I was aware of death. I'd never actually seen anyone
die.
I've always been afraid of dying, for many reasons, since then, but until
that counselling session I'd never realised when it all began.
In those days, whenever I had any money, I'd spend it on sweets. My fried
Keith Spraggon and I used to go into one particular shop where we'd take the
mickey out of the woman who ran it. We'd try to nick the sweets and she'd
chase us out. One day when I was 10, I took Keith's little brother Steven,
telling his mam I'd look after him.
I was mucking around in the shop when Steven ran out into the road in front
of a parked ice-cream van. He didn't see there was an oncoming car and it
went right into him.
I stood over his body screaming, "Please move, please move!" His
lips did seem to be moving slightly but soon he was completely still. I was
on my own with him for what seemed like ages while someone went for his
mother. I just had to sit there, watching him die. I can still see his
mother running down the road in her bare feet, screaming and screaming.
I felt Steven's death was my fault. I had said I would look after him and I
didn't. Just speaking of it can make me cry.
Something else awful happened about that time. When I was a boy I used to see
my mother and father have violent rows. I think it was just frustration. It
was hard for him being out of work. If they had an argument I would rush
across and hug both of them. I'd cry if they started rowing, or if my dad
left us. They fell out several times and he moved out, sometimes to a room
over a pub, on his own.
Around the time of Steven's death my dad had moved to Germany to look for
work on the building sites, like the blokes in Auf Wiedersehen, Pet. He was
away about a year. I don't think he always sent money home. My mother had
three jobs at one time: she went out cleaning in the mornings, did two hours
in a factory in the afternoon before coming home to give us our tea, then
more cleaning in the evening. She also worked for a while in a chip shop.
We didn't starve but we didn't have much. All four of us kids — me, my
brother and my two sisters — would get into the bath together, then we'd put
our clothes in the bath and wash them. We only had one decent set of clothes
each, so me mam would have to take them to the all-night launderette to dry
them, then stay up half the night ironing them for us to wear in the morning.
After my dad returned home he started having seizures, some form of epilepsy.
This happened once when I was alone at home with him. I thought he was
dying. I tried to pull his tongue out of his throat because he was
swallowing it. I was afraid he'd choke and die in front of me and it would
be my fault for not rescuing him. He recovered that time, but not long
afterwards he had a brain haemorrhage. From when I was 12, he was never able
to work again.
It was around this time that I started displaying peculiar twitches and
making noises. Just silly sounds, sort of swallowing all the time, gulping,
or just shouting. I got thrown out of school for a week for making so much
noise that no one else could concentrate. Along with the twitches I
developed various obsessions. I became obsessed by the number five, and had
to touch certain objects five times, put the light on and off five times, or
open and close a door five times. I had to have everything lined up at a
certain angle, whether it was plates on a table or my clothes. I insisted on
keeping the light on at night and still do.
The doctor sent me to see a psychiatrist who made me play with a load of sand
and bricks, which I thought was really stupid. I refused to go again. So all
the twitches and stuff just carried on.
Summer 2004: I'm sitting in my hotel in Shropshire, Patshull
Park, which has 280 acres, a golf course and a huge fishing lake. I've been
playing for Wolverhampton Wanderers reserves. This place has been handy for
their training ground, where I've been going each morning. I haven't been
getting paid, just training with them.
I'm fit enough, lean enough, but my whole body aches all the time. In the old
days I could train for hour after hour, no bother. I was often half-drunk.
Perhaps the alcohol disguised the aches and agonies so that I couldn't feel
them. Now, when I'm not drinking, I can feel every little twinge.
Wolves are bottom of the Reserve League, which was where they were when I
arrived. At the back of my mind I suppose I was half-hoping that I might get
a contract out of them. Not a big one, obviously. But now, sitting here in
my hotel, I've had to admit to myself that it's not going to work. Wolves
are not going to give me a contract, however titchy. It's heartbreaking, but
I might as well acknowledge that that's it. I feel devastated. I hope I
won't go into a deep depression. For the last two months training has been
all I've really been concentrating on. I trained all morning, came back to
the hotel and rested. Then I played a bit of solitaire on my mobile phone,
or a chess game, playing against myself. I usually have the telly on as well.
I don't eat in the dining room. I just stay in my room, order food from room
service. I don't get bothered. Other guests have been asking for autographs
so I've arranged a system with the girls on reception. People leave their
autograph books there, and I sign when I next pass through.
I don't feel lonely. It's just nice and quiet. You don't have arguments when
you're on your own. I like hotels the way I like hospitals. After all, I've
spent years of my life in hotels and in hospitals. (I've had 27 operations
for football injuries.) It's the sense of being looked after, and the
comfort.
I especially like it in hospitals when they give you morphine. I could do
with more of that, just to zonk me out, stop me thinking. I suppose it is
part of my longing to escape, my fondness for hotels and hospitals; of
wanting to cut myself off from the real world, from the public, the media.
In a hospital or a hotel you are not aware of family worries or domestic
aggravation.
As I write now I still haven't had a drink for well over a year, a world
record for me, at least since I was 18. I've been depressingly, boringly
sober.
When I began my book I was spending some time at Shel's after I'd returned
from a drying-out clinic in Arizona. I thought I would be staying there,
perhaps for ever, if I behaved myself. But it does look as if it's the end.
I put her through so much that she can't live with me any more. I'll have to
admit defeat. I'm forced to acknowledge that the relationship, like my
football career, is over. I miss Regan, our son, all the time.
Money has been the main cause of the arguments. I haven't had any income from
football for about a year now, and not much from anywhere else. When I
started maintenance payments I was making about £2m a year so I could
afford it. Not now.
Fortunately I did manage to do one very sensible thing during my career. When
I moved to Lazio, the Italian club, I put all of my £2m signing-on fee into
a bank in the Channel Islands. I've used bits of it, but it's still mostly
intact, except it was put into US dollars. That was the advice I was given.
Dollars have gone down in value, but I'm hoping it will be enough to keep me
going. I probably won't be able to live on it or on the interest, not these
days, but at least I've something set aside. My plan is to put it into
something which will give me an income and also perhaps a job, if I need it.
I have a bit of jewellery, too, which Jimmy has put away safely in the bank
for me. I did buy myself a few nice things when I had the money. I've got a
limited-edition Ayrton Senna watch, and a couple of other limited-edition
racing-driver watches. And I have my medal from the Pope and my football
memorabilia, my England shirts and caps and football stuff.
There are people who think I threw it all away, just as they think George
Best did. They believe I could have done so much more with my talents if I
hadn't been so self-indulgent and daft and drunk and stupid. I think the
opposite. I think I have achieved far, far more than I ever expected to
achieve, considering I'm me, stuck in this body and this head with all this
going on. I would have done much less in life if it hadn't been for football.
It's very hard for other people to understand my mentality. It's only those
who have experienced the same kind of obsessions and compulsions who can
really understand it. You look in the mirror when you're slumped in the
middle of a depression or a panic attack and you don't see yourself. You see
another person, someone you don't like. You hate him so much you want to try
to get away from him.
People are always trying to analyse me, explain why I'm like I am. They go on
TV or write in the papers about what's wrong with me without knowing me.
They often say I'm suffering from ADD — attention deficit disorder. That's
bollocks. I might be hyperactive, always wanting to be doing something,
unable to sleep properly, but I can concentrate when I want to. I always
concentrated on training. Doing my book, I was able to concentrate and talk
for three hours at a stretch — though it did my head in at times.
OCD, those are the other letters they throw at me — obsessive compulsive
disorder. That's probably true. All the clinics have told me that, so I have
to agree. I've always been obsessive, about little things as well as big
things. I still have to have everything in a certain order.
Why I'm like this, f*** knows. Perhaps it's the traumas I've been through.
The more I have been in therapy or talked about myself, as in my book, the
more I understand myself, but I still can't explain why I'm the way I am.
Would I have been different without the traumas, the things going wrong in my
life? I don't know. Or if my parents and childhood had been different? All I
know is that I still get obsessed and have panic attacks and my head feels
like it's about to explode.
I've often wished I was dead, but I just haven't got the balls to commit
suicide. Then I think, if I did kill myself, what's that going to do to all
those people who love me, who are constantly trying to help me? They would
be devastated. Then I think I'd quite fancy it. I'd like it all to be over.
But I don't regret all the silly things I did. I don't really regret
drinking, because I know I would do it again. I look upon myself as two
people: Gazza and Paul Gascoigne. Paul Gascoigne is the sensible, kind,
generous, caring one, if a bit boring. Gazza has been daft as a brush but
could be very entertaining.
I think the Gazza stage in my life could be over. At least until I do
something daft once again. What has helped me to feel that I have changed
from the sort of person I have been in the past is getting it down on paper
for the first time.
My plan at this moment is to go and stay at Jimmy's for a few months in the
northeast. He is the only person outside my family I feel I can really
trust. We do argue, all the time, like an old married couple, but I am
relaxed and comfortable with him. He knows all my thoughts, all my secrets.
Jimmy only has a small flat, but he has a spare bed I can use. It will be
like going back to the past, to where it all began.
© 2004 Paul Gascoigne
Extracted from Gazza My Story by Paul Gascoigne with Hunter
Davies published by Headline at Ï18.99. Copies can be ordered for Ï15.19
plus Ï2.25 p&p from The Sunday Times Books First on 0870 165 8585
or at www.timesonline.co.uk/booksfirstbuy
THE GAZZA FILE
Do you own a house?
None. Gave away last one to Sheryl.
Do you own a car?
None. Gave away last one, a £70,000 Mercedes soft-top, to Dad in 2002 when
drunk.
What party did you vote for at the last election?
Didn’t vote, have never voted. I have given my family a lot of money and
houses, and yet they still voted Labour at the last election. That surprised
me. I thought they would have become Tory, getting all that for nothing. I
suppose my heart is still Labour.
Do you follow current events?
No, just the tennis.
Have you ever done any housework?
When I was young, living at home, I did a lot of jobs in the house. We had to.
When I was married, I did now and again load the dishwasher.
When your son Regan was a baby, did you change his nappy?
About once, for a photograph. In hospital I pretended to Sheryl I’d changed
him, but it was the nurse.
Do you believe in God?
Yes.
When did you last have an alcoholic drink?
April 2003. I was in China, depressed, and drank a bottle of whisky in my
hotel room. It was after that I went to the clinic in Arizona.
Favourite television programmes?
Any sports, especially tennis. I find it hard to watch football. I’d rather be
playing.
Did you have any superstitions as a player?
Too many to list, but if I won, I kept the same shinpads for the next game. If
we lost, I threw them away and got new ones.
Of today’s younger players, who do you admire?
Beckham, not just his football but how he has handled the media and his
commercial work. I buggered up all that. I always seemed to be at war with
them.
Favourite musician?
Elvis. I’ve got his autograph, which I swapped for an England shirt.
Last film seen
Gladiator. It was brilliant.
Last book read, or books currently by your bedside?
Anxiety and Panic Attacks – their cause and cure by Robert Handley and Pauline
Neff; Understanding Obsessions and Compulsions by Dr Frank Tallis; Coping
with Anxiety and Depression by Shirley Trickett; How to Stop Worrying by
Frank Tallis; How to Heal Depression by Harold Bloomfield; Daily Reflections
by Members of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Last time you cried?
Two weeks ago.
