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 was endemic. Cheap beer and drugs meant that violence often escalated and with that sometimes came dangerous situations. There was still a lot of fighting on the football terraces across the country, and there was also localised violence, especially if you went to the right (or wrong) places. If you put yourself in these situations you are always likely to find trouble.
I remember one incident during the 92/93 season, with a good friend of mine, and a good footballer at Doncaster Rovers, Nick Gallagher. Yet again, at the same nightclub, but this time we had actually defended somebody, even if it was a lad with whom I had a bit of history as a schoolboy. (Let’s just say he ended up on the losing side, and never returned to the school after that, much to all of the teachers’ delight!)
So we had helped this lad out after a scuffle with a group giving him some hassle. They, in turn, had been thrown out, but we soon realised that they had gathered at the entrance of Pier 39 and were waiting for us. I tried to round up a few mates, as our normal group were at another club, but when it came to chucking-out time we found ourselves walking towards them all alone. Fiona, bless her, was still there, and would probably have tried to jump on one of them, such was her loyalty.
I am still amazed at Fiona’s loyalty, particularly over this period in my career, and that is one of the reasons why I still love her so much. Not only was I constantly linked with girls, but I was always out and getting into trouble. The circles I mixed in were shocking. She must have put her parents through hell at that time, as her studies would have suffered. Add to that the fact that I would screech up to the house in my latest car (in three years I had bought three different models of boy racer cars: an Audi GT, a Peugeot 205 GTI – the 1.9 flying machine – and a Ford XR2). I can’t have been the flavour of the month with Fiona’s parents! As a father now, I know that it would really have wound me up to see some young footballer roll up at the house, particularly in the manner in which I did.
Sorry Iain and Joan (Fiona’s parents, and two of the nicest people you could meet), I hope I have turned out OK in the end, and that you think I have looked after your daughter well. I know you still had your doubts up until the wedding! And sorry about the house parties we had when you went away (only winding you up, Iain!).
But, back to the impending fight at Pier 39. Seeing these lads waiting did make me and Nick feel like a bit of a beating could be on the cards. To top it all, some of them were holding glasses, a favourite tool back then and something that I will freely admit scared (and scares) the hell out of me. Vain of me, I admit it, but the last thing I wanted was to look like the guy who got slashed by the Krays and ended up with a permanent smile. Crazy I know, and again,
