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There’s no class distinction either, because you’re just as likely to get a flat game at Old Trafford or Stamford Bridge as you are at Goodison Park or the Stadium of Light. When it comes to choosing the games, I try to share it around as best I can. People also moan on about how often I go to the grounds of other teams. They say, ‘You never come to the Emirates, you must hate Arsenal,’ or ‘What’s your bloody problem with Liverpool? You’re never there.’ In truth, it all comes down to geography. I have to think about how easy it will be for me to get back to London that night to present Goals on Sunday the next day. Some grounds are harder than others – Hull is tricky to get back to London from; getting in and out of Birmingham is always a headache. Until I have a massive win at the Grand National, my private plane – Air Kammy – will remain grounded.
On Saturday mornings I’m up and running from the moment I awake, often with a sore head after a night out with Jeff Stelling and the gang in the hotel bar. The boys – Jeff plus Charlie Nicholas, Phil Thompson and sometimes Matt Le Tissier – always meet up on Friday for a drink. It’s a great night out and an essential part of the show. Jeff will usually hold court over several pints of Hoegaarden (I hear he’s angling for a sponsorship deal), while I’ll go to the steam room with Charlie Nicholas for a gossip. After that we’ll go for a drink, usually into the early hours.
This might sound like a jolly boys’ outing to most of you, but the truth is, the hotel bar plays an important role in the success of Soccer Saturday. What we talk about that night usually sets the tone of the show the next day. Jeff will go through all the hot football topics that week and gauge everybody’s opinions. He’ll also pick up rumours and news of what’s been going on in the game from us, the stuff the papers might not have reported. I’m still involved on a day-to-day basis with players, agents and managers, as are Thommo and Charlie, so we can pass on plenty of info to Jeff. He would never categorically come out and reveal the gossip we have passed on, but he might float an idea or an opinion as a result of that confidence.
Different presenters have different methods of preparation. Jeff, for example, drives to a motorway service station in Winchester with a bag full of newspaper cuttings, magazines and an info pack from Sky on all the players, goals and stats. He’ll memorise as much as he can. For me it’s Sky Sports News from the moment I am awake. If I’m covering Stoke against Liverpool at the Britannia Stadium my preparation would be to watch the games of both teams from the previous weekend. I’ll take a look at the teams and if there are any new faces in the side, I’ll ring around and find out a bit more about them. If there’s nothing new, then my work is done. I’m not there to deliver stats and facts on the teams, that’s down to Jeff.
When Jeff comes to me on air, he wants to hear what’s going on in the game, as do the viewers. They want the goals, the drama, the blunders and the controversy. It’s no good me yelling, ‘Unbelievable, Jeff! This is Everton’s sixth win in 10 games! Tim Cahill has just delivered his eighth assist of the season!’ The hard stats are Jeff’s party piece and he works tirelessly on getting them right all week. I’m not going to tell anyone how to do their job, but some Soccer Saturday reporters try to cram their broadcasts with facts and trivia. That’s wrong. You have to tell the studio what you’re seeing, how both teams are playing and who has scored the goals or who has been booked, rightly or wrongly. In other words: ‘Unbelievable, Jeff! Louis Saha couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo! Phil Jagielka is as useful as a fish up a tree today! Marouane Fellaini hasn’t trimmed his beautiful haircut for nine weeks! One–nil!’ I wouldn’t dream of telling the viewers that I had the same hairstyle as Fellani when I was a player. The referees used to blow on my head like a dandelion to check the 90 minutes was up but I’d rather keep that a secret – whoops!
In the words of Roy Walker in Catchphrase, ‘Just say what you see.’
From mid-morning, Kamaracam is up and running. I usually get to the ground as early as I can so I can catch up with the team news and have a chat with a few people at the ground, just to get some extra background on the game and what’s going on at the club. At around 2.30, climbing into the commentary gantry can sometimes be an uncomfortable business. I remember our position at Portsmouth used to be particularly dangerous, until they eventually moved us. Nobody ever actually got injured, but that was a miracle really.
Once the game gets under way, Carly Bassett will communicate with me. She can see me on camera in the studio, but I can only hear her. The production guys also watch all the games, so as soon as someone scores in my game or an incident of note takes place, they can cut to me shortly after.
As the game progresses, Carly will tell me when I’m due to go live. ‘We’ve got three waiting to come in and you’re next.’ It’s a bit like air-traffic control at Heathrow, but without all the drunk pilots and near misses, though some people would argue that we suffer a lot of those as well. It can be a frustrating business. Sometimes there might be a penalty decision or goal and the studio can’t get to me until minutes later. Other times they want me to give a report even though absolutely nothing has happened at all. That’s when I have to say, ‘Boring game, nothing has happened here.’
Sometimes, though, the action goes on behind me without me even knowing. The most famous instance of this – and I say famous because everyone who missed it on Soccer Saturday could watch it on the internet, and plenty have ! – happened when I was commentating on Fulham against Middlesbrough at Craven Cottage. My monitor shows all the action so I can see in detail what’s happening on the pitch when I have to turn my back on it to deliver my report. At one point that day the monitor decided to pack up. Typically this was the moment Fulham chose to score, as you can see from the action replay:
JEFF: ‘Is there any way back for Fulham against Middlesbrough, I wonder? Chris Kamara…’
KAMMY: ‘Well they’re trying, Jeff. Papa Bouba Diop, the man mountain himself, is playing as a striker and he’s got [David] Healy on one side of him and Diamansi Kamara on the other side and … it’s Papa Bouba Diop with a header! AAAAGH! AH! It’s a goal! It’s a goal, Jeff! Is it David Healy? He’s running away… Andy D’Urso’s playing on… Sorry, my monitor’s down again! [Turning around frantically] I’m looking over my shoulder… What? I don’t really know … the assistant… Has he given it? [Complete panic flashes across my face] Oh, the assistant hasn’t given it, I don’t think, Jeff. No! The referee hasn’t given it either… Don’t really know what’s happening, Jeff. Ha, ha! [cue: laughter from the studio panel] Could be, could be not… Ha, ha, ha!’
JEFF: ‘I tell you what, Kammy, it’s not the first time you’ve not known what’s happening, but I can tell you, well, the ball went in from close range, Schwarzer got both hands to it, it’s over the line! There’s no question the ball is over the line, but the referee has not given it. And Fulham, well, 2–1 behind, Middlesbrough still lead, but that ball was a foot and a half over the line before Schwarzer managed to scramble it clear. They’re still playing and there’s going to be real controversy over that one.’
These little disasters have made the show an unbelievable success. Soccer Saturday has definitely revolutionised football coverage – other TV channels have tried to copy it, but they’re still nowhere near as good as we are. It’s also made a name for all the lads working on the show. Most of them had much greater success and fame during their playing careers than I did, and yet today my popularity as part of the Sky gang never fails to amaze me.
CHAPTER FOUR KAMMY’S TV TWERP (#ulink_6fb32fa7-65e1-5aa2-a1c2-81da451598ce)
OK, you’ve heard of Harry Hill’s TV Burps, so now let me introduce you to Kammy’s TV Twerps.
Over the years as Soccer Saturday’s roving reporter extraordinaire, I’ve made some bloopers and gaffes, usually at the rate of three an hour. Most of these are available for you to laugh at on the internet and, believe me, a lot of football fans have thrown them back at me over the years. But for those of you away from your computer at this moment, here’s the transcript of the more calamitous moments. And please excuse my poor use of the English language in these following clips as I do tend on occasions to have trouble with my worms. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I can get very, very excited … unless you ask my wife, of course – she’ll tell you she doesn’t remember the last time I got excited, but that’s another story, even another three chapters.
These are the clips that change this particular roving reporter extraordinaire to roving reporter extraordinary.
ON ALEX McLEISH
‘Alex McLeish has his hands in his head.’
IN THE BUILD-UP TO WIGAN v. WEST HAM
KAMMY: [Smirking] ‘I’ve had a chat with both managers and obviously I can’t tell you the teams, but Wigan are unchanged and Lucas Neill plays for West Ham.’
JEFF: [Sighing] ‘OK, thanks very much for keeping that to yourself, Chris.’
ON A STRUGGLING NOTTINGHAM FOREST
‘It’s real end-to-end stuff, but unfortunately, it’s all up Forest’s end.’
ON AN ALAN SHEARER GOAL
‘They’ve one man to thank for that goal: Alan Shearer. And they’ve also got to thank referee Alan Wilkie.’
ON JUNIOR LEWIS
‘Not only has referee Graham Poll shown Junior Lewis the red card, but he’s sent him off!’
ON BURNLEY
‘For Burnley to win, they’re going to have to score!’
ON CHELSEA 0 SCUNTHORPE 1
JEFF: ‘It’s not 0–0 at Stamford Bridge, the deadlock broken very early on, but it’s Scunthorpe who’ve scored!’
KAMMY: [High-pitched laughter] ‘Jeff, you’re not going to believe this, it’s incredible… Can they believe it? I can’t believe it! Ha, ha! They’re winning one–nil!’
ON FULHAM
JEFF: ‘Have Fulham got their just deserts?’
KAMMY: ‘They have and they deserve it!’
ON A HUGO RODALLEGA INJURY
‘Hugo Rodallega fell over the advertising hoardings as he was running in on goal.’
SOUTHAMPTON v. WEST BROM BUILD-UP
JEFF: ‘Is West Brom a good game for them to have today, you know, in the sense that expectations might be slightly less than if they were playing another team who were struggling?’
KAMMY: ‘Very much so, George. Oh, sorry… I’ve just been speaking to … er, George Burley, Fred… I mean Jeff [cue: fits of unstoppable laughter]’
ON CARLOS TEVEZ
‘They’ve got this man with a heart as big as … as big as … a plate.’
ON DARIUS VASSELL
‘Darius Vassell has had a lot of weight on his shoulders but someone’s just taken those shackles off his feet.’
ON THE BEAUTIFUL GAME
‘That’s the beauty of football. Sometimes it starts off crap, then it gets a bit better.’
So forgive me, Harry Hill, I don’t know which is the biggest gaffe, Carlos Tevez’s big heart or Fulham’s just deserts. There’s only one way to find out… FIGHT! Come on Carlos Tevez…
CHAPTER FIVE UNBELIEVABLE, JEFF! (HOW I CAUGHT A CATCHPHRASE) (#ulink_9c916770-230a-5ead-b06c-a3949960d41b)
Every great showman has to have a catchphrase. For some people it’s a gimmick to grab the excitement of their audience. I remember that Bruce Forsyth used to open The Generation Game with the words, ‘Nice to see you, to see you – nice!’; Dale Winton was forever saying ‘Bring on the wall!’ during Saturday night favourite Hole in the Wall (well, I loved it). Other TV entertainers have yelled something to raise a comic reaction. When Frank Spencer fell out of a window and clung on to the back of a double-decker bus (while attached to a pair of roller-skates, usually) the only words he could scream were ‘Ooh, Betty!’ It always got me giggling.
In truth, I’ve probably got more in common with Frank Spencer than Brucie. But instead of bus surfing or injuring myself in a calamitous fashion, every Saturday afternoon I watch footballers kicking lumps out of each other. Each goal, booking or Fergie tantrum is greeted by the word ‘Unbelievable!’, which is then boomed into the homes of millions of Soccer Saturday viewers. Often ‘Unbelievable!’ arrives attached to the name ‘Jeff!’ as I relay the action to the show’s anchorman and Smurf-in-chief, Jeff Stelling. It’s become a bit of a cult phenomenon. For some reason, a lot of people seem to like me shouting into their living-rooms at jetplane volumes.
When Soccer Saturday first started, I had no idea how much I said ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ on the telly. This sounds crazy, I know, because I must have used the adjective at least half a dozen times a weekend. I think I first got wind of my conversational tic (and it is an affliction, just ask Mrs Kammy) around six or seven years ago when the production team at Sky decided to run a Christmas special. This 30-minute programme showed all the gaffes and bloopers from the season. A lot of them were mine. Take a look online – it’s all on youtube.com if you don’t believe me. If you can’t be bothered, here are the highlights:
‘This is unbelievable, Jeff!’
‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’
‘Jeff, unbelievable!’
‘Jeff, you’re not going to believe this! Unbelievable!’
And so on. The day after the Christmas special, I covered a match between QPR and Manchester City at Loftus Road. Kevin Keegan, then the manager at City, came out of the tunnel as I was preparing to deliver a touchline report. Just as we were about to roll, he crept up behind me and shouted, ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at the top of his voice. At that moment, I knew exactly how Jeff felt whenever I yelled into his ear piece. I also knew my big gob had been running on overdrive. My stock description of a dramatic incident in football as soon as I was linked to the studio was shouting the words ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’, and everyone in the English game had known it. Everyone apart from me.
Kevin was laughing his head off. Apparently the whole City squad and coaching staff had seen the funnies that morning. ‘It’s all you ever say, Kammy,’ he said. ‘Let’s go down to Kammy at Loftus Road [the home of QPR, where we were]. Unbelievable, Jeff ! Unbelievable, Jeff! Unbelievable, Jeff…!’
I knew then that I had unintentionally created a monster. By all accounts, the boys in the studio had picked up on it months before, but the reason I wasn’t conscious of saying ‘Unbelievable Jeff !’ was that I wasn’t thinking about making a catchphrase for myself. I was just acting naturally. If I had deliberately tried to invent a saying, it wouldn’t have worked and I would have looked wooden and awkward on air.
When it comes to Soccer Saturday fans, we all attract different ‘types’. Jeff usually gets the grannies, mainly because of his work on Countdown, but also because he reminds them of a garden gnome and they want to pop him in their window boxes. Former Arsenal star and gambling disaster Paul ‘Merse’ Merson attracts Gunners fans and masochists looking for a no-hoper tip on the horses. I tend to get the lot – kids, OAPs, stattos and fanatics – because I do three shows on the telly, Soccer AM, Soccer Saturday and Goals on Sunday. There’s never a day when somebody doesn’t shout ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at me. This morning it was the delivery guy with my supermarket goods.
I think the first time I really noticed the attention was when I went to Japan with Jeff and Soccer Saturday producer Ian Condron for the 2002 World Cup. From the minute we stepped off the plane, football fans were shouting ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at us from across the street. Tourists were coming up, asking for photos and autographs. It was so weird. I loved it, but I think Jeff was quite taken aback.
‘Bloody hell, Chris, it’s like Kammymania out here!’ he said. I think he ended up working the camera as a line of fans posed for a picture with me. I think it’s fair to say that these days it would be me holding the camera for him – his popularity is immense.
The attention there in Japan was a bit of a pain in the nicest possible way. We were blocking walkways as crowds gathered around us. Traffic came to a standstill. At one point we had to duck down a side street like the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night and run for our lives. Or was that the night we jumped out of the taxi without paying? I can’t remember, but it was upsetting at the time, because it was almost impossible to get a pint! The English fans were there in force, and so were the Irish. Between them, they had taken over pretty much every bar in the country. We were in double trouble. I signed so many autographs that writer’s cramp had set in by the end of the trip and none of us could get to the bar without being recognised.
It’s my own fault. I’ll chat to as many people as I can. I always remember a time when I was a kid and I approached Stuart Boam. He was the captain of Middlesbrough during the seventies and when I saw him in the street one day I asked for an autograph. Boam just brushed me aside. He might have been in a hurry, but it really stuck with me. Because of that, I always try to give attention to people if they want a photo or a signature. Besides, most people want to talk to you about their club, which is great because it sometimes gives me the inside track on what the fans think about various issues affecting them and I can use the info for Soccer Saturday or Goals on Sunday.
You might get one or two idiots who say, ‘You hate our club and never say anything nice about us.’ I only say what I see: if a club does well, I shout it from the rooftops; if it’s not so good, then I say so. Thankfully those people are in the minority, but they’re wrong. I don’t hate any team. I don’t support any particular one either, but they don’t seem to take any notice when I tell them that. Leeds fans think I should be more like Jeff when he talks about Hartlepool, because I used to support Leeds as a kid. My old school-mate Steve Gibson, the Middlesbrough chairman, used to think when I was talking about Boro on the TV I was more against them than for them! Yes, they are my home-town club and he is my big pal, but I’m really 100 per cent unbiased. Unlike Matt Le Tissier, who wears Southampton socks under his Soccer Saturday desk when he’s working.
When we returned from Japan, we were all aware of just how popular Soccer Saturday had become. It also dawned on me that my vocabulary was quite limited and I should have made more of my time at St Thomas’s School in Middlesbrough. Still, I decided to play up to the ‘Unbelievable, Jeff’ saying from then on, as did Jeff. On New Year’s Day during the 2003–04 season, I remember, I was commentating on the game between Manchester United and Wolves. Of course, I shouted ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ in my report. When the producers flipped back to the studio, Jeff looked into the camera, his face deadpan. ‘There you have it,’ he said. ‘Chris Kamara, the first unbelievable of 2004.’
Each year it has become customary to film a Soccer Saturday Christmas Special, which is always light-hearted and great fun to record. A few years ago, we had an athletics challenge in the style of Superstars. If you’re too young to remember the original, it was a programme made in the 1980s where sportsmen from various fields competed in a mini-Olympics competition. The events included running, swimming and cycling. I remember Kevin Keegan spectacularly left his bike during one heat and injured himself quite badly. Thank God he was wearing a helmet … or maybe he wasn’t – it could have been his hair. I think Bryan Robson had a bash too and came away unscathed: not bad for a bloke who could break his collarbone on A Question of Sport with ease.
Our competition was just as chaotic. When I jumped into the swimming pool, I was wearing children’s luminous plastic armbands and splashed around pretending to be struggling. A concerned Alan McInally immediately dived in to help me to the side of the pool. Much to the lads’ annoyance, when the race started for real I powered forward like Michael Phelps in top form, leaving Rodney Marsh, Charlie Nicholas, Jeff Stelling and Matt Le Tissier in my wake. McInally won the race, but I am sure he jumped the gun!
Much later, for the 2009 special, the programme was a cookery-themed competition called Making a Meal of it. We had pinched the format from Ready, Steady, Cook – the programme presented by Ainsley Harriot on the Beeb – and the producers threw Alan McInally, Matt Le Tissier, Phil Thompson and me into a fancy kitchen to see who could cook the best festive dish.
On the day we were working with superstar Italian cook Gino D’Acampo, who had recently finished first in I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here. Gino was on hand to taste the dishes as we cooked them. He had just spent two weeks eating rats, bugs and kangaroo’s testicles in the Australian jungle, but even he couldn’t stomach the delicacy I had to offer. Maybe my offering did taste worse than kangaroo’s knackers, but to be honest I have no idea and no intention of finding out by comparing them.
It didn’t help that we were nicknamed ‘The Chef-chenkos’ for the show. For those of you unfamiliar with cheap puns, the name came from Andriy Shevchenko, the former AC Milan and Chelsea striker, and it proved spot-on. When it came to our Italian cuisine, we were sharp, lethal and too hot to handle. Our English dishes were flat, cold and pretty wide of the mark.
I opted to make a turkey curry. I can tell you it’s a traditional dish, passed through several generations of Kammys… So – if you’re reading this, Delia Smith, I’m really, really sorry – come on, turkeys, let’s be having you.
Sounds great so far, right? Well, Gino reckoned it was the worst thing he had ever tasted. Our judges for the day, A-list restaurant owner Aldo Zilli and Jeff, awarded me only one point, which was amazing because Jeff will eat just about anything, especially if he’s had a glass of wine or three. The competition was eventually won by Alan McInally, who made a knockout fish supper with black pudding. He had really taken to the challenge, mainly because ‘The Big Man’ (as he’s nicknamed) had just scored himself a new girlfriend. He’d been seriously working on his culinary techniques as he wined and dined her. Judging by my work that day, the Kammy romancing skills clearly weren’t up to scratch because people thought I was taking the mickey.
To be fair, I first cooked the dish at home with Mrs Kammy, and it was lovely. I thought I was on to a winner, but when we got to the studio kitchen, we were told that we only had 20 minutes in the kitchen each. I was worried. The Kammy Curry took over an hour to make. The producers said it would be fine, and our sous-chefs would do the work for us in advance. I was messing around, thinking that I already had the finished product in the bag and I only had to add the final ingredients.
‘Sit back and relax, pal,’ I said to Gino as I tightened my apron strings. ‘You’re going to learn something here.’
I don’t think he could believe what he was hearing. He began shouting at me. ‘What sort of stock are you cooking with?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘What do you mean you don’t know what stock it is?’ said Gino in disbelief. ‘Every chef worth his salt knows what stock he’s using. What is it, Kammy?’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘Laughing stock.’
He was impressed and giggled out loud. Gino wasn’t wowed by my cooking, though. He took one taste of the Kammy Curry and pulled a face at the camera. ‘I am not eating this,’ he said. ‘Oh my God, it tastes like sheet.’
This wasn’t the first curry disaster I had caused either. When I was a young player at Pompey, my dad virtually lived off his home-made African curries at home. It wasn’t unusual for him to make one and leave it in a pot for me to reheat when I got home. He lived in Middlesbrough with my mam, and when I got back from the south coast it was always a little taste of heaven.
One night during my first close-season break back in the Boro, an old school-mate Denis Alderson and I came back from a heavy night out in the town and put the pot of curry on the stove. We both fell asleep on the sofa. As we drifted in and out of consciousness, the pan caught fire and a small blaze started. Thankfully mam smelt the fumes and came down to rescue us. It was a close shave. Definitely the hottest curry Middlesbrough had ever known – so hot it nearly set fire to the street!
My stint as a ‘Chef-chenko’ was nowhere near as dangerous, though I have to say, Gino was right. The Kammy Curry – OK, the Kammy-kazi curry if you like – did taste like ‘sheet’. I’m just pleased I didn’t poison anyone! It would have left a bad taste in their mouths.
UNBELIEVABLE, JEFF!
This is probably as good a time as any to tell you about another famous phrase and explain the title of the book. When I claimed that Spurs were ‘fighting like beavers’ in 2007, the jokes came flying in. It happened during a north London derby at White Hart Lane and I have no excuses at all. It was a total blunder. I distinctly remember it was the first half of the game, Spurs were a goal ahead, but Arsenal had them well pinned back in their penalty area. The studio cut to me for an update.
KAMMY: ‘Their football, Arsenal, is on another level, but Spurs are fighting like beavers, defending for their lives. It’s a terrific game. Still one–nil…’
JEFF: [Laughing] ‘Did I hear that correctly? Fighting like beavers? Ha, ha, ha! Not tigers or lions, but beavers, those ferocious little devils.’
I wanted to describe how hard Tottenham had been defending. The phrase I’d meant to use was ‘working like beavers’ (what do you mean you haven’t heard of it?), but in the excitement, the words tumbled out all wrong. I tried to correct myself moments later but, by then, the damage had been done.
KAMMY: ‘The game, as a spectacle, is magnificent. Spurs, working like beavers but the football from Arsenal is out of this world. It’s sensational. They’re carving them up as easy as … as easy as … well, as easy as anything, Jeff.’
JEFF: [Laughing] ‘They’re carving them up as … as easy as … beavers was the word you were looking for, Chris.’
Jeff wasn’t going to let it go; he was in floods of tears. I think he dined out on the story for weeks. In fact, it could have been months, judging by his waistline, but I couldn’t help it. It was a spur-of-the-moment reaction and I’ve been unable to live it down ever since. But who cares? I want the viewer to know that I’m in the middle of an exciting game.
CHAPTER SIX GROUND-HOPPING WITH KAMMY PT 2 (TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM ON SOCCER AM) (#ulink_e0c77fe0-ea5a-5307-ad4e-56d6143af1eb)
If you think that messing around in front of the cameras for Soccer Saturday is a laugh, then you should see what I get up to on Soccer AM. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, or fans of Saturday Morning Kitchen, it starts at nine in the morning – that’s three hours B.J. in Sky Sports terms (before Jeff). Any of you who can struggle out of bed would have seen me offending Premiership players, breaking into dressing-rooms and catching top-class managers on the hop. Over the years I’ve probably become an unbelievable pain in the backside, but I hope in the nicest possible way.
I got the job several seasons ago when presenter Tim Lovejoy asked me to walk the cameras around the dressing-room before a game. I would always be at a Premiership or Football League ground to cover a match for Soccer Saturday anyway, so it made perfect sense. It also gave me the opportunity to mess around, because there was a simple brief when it came to anything Soccer AM related: always take the mickey.
The show made its debut in 1995, but at the time it was quite a serious programme. It was first presented by a guy called Russ Williams and the former Spurs and England defender Gary Stevens. But when Tim Lovejoy took over in 1996, the show changed completely. Suddenly football fans were laughing at ‘The Nutmeg Files’ (which shows players being nutmegged during the week) and ogling The Soccerettes. It was and still is a brilliant laugh.
My introduction, when the camera comes to me at each and every ground begins, ‘Welcome to the Home of Football.’ This is a segment of the Soccer AM show where the cameras go behind the scenes. I get pretty good access. Over the years I’ve rummaged through the boots at Sunderland, ruffled the shirts at Arsenal, Manchester United, Leicester and Fulham, and annoyed the stewards at pretty much all of the top-flight grounds. Typically, there’s been a bit of controversy along the way.
Just before Gary Megson was sacked in 2009–10, I went up to Bolton to present a report for the show. The club had allowed me to go wherever I wanted, so, unannounced, I strolled into a meeting-room where the coaching staff had been going through the team analysis of Manchester City – Bolton’s opponents that day. By the looks of things, ‘Mega’, as he’s nicknamed, had been showing the squad a DVD of City’s strengths and weaknesses. Clearly, he hadn’t banked on me going in there. When I got to the TV, I noticed it was paused. On the screen somebody had written ‘Manchester City’s defence is disorganised’.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I could hear howls of laughter in my headphones as I turned to the camera. Manchester City fans saw the offending words on the screen and went nuts. Loads of them texted in to complain. ‘How the hell can he say that just before kick-off?’ they wanted to know. Maybe it was tactless, but you couldn’t fault the manager, because he was right. City later conceded three goals in the game. Then again, so did Bolton, so maybe he should have been a bit more careful himself.
My fooling around backfired quite painfully when I visited Sunderland during the same season. Steve Bruce is an old mate of mine and he gave me carte blanche to use the dressing-rooms. I had a good look around, as I liked to do, and although nobody was in there at the time, I noticed the giant striker Kenwyne Jones had left his boots out. They were enormous, probably a size 12 or 13. I held them up to the camera.
