Mr Unbelievable

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‘Look at these, Helen,’ I laughed. ‘You know what they say about a man with big feet…’

In the studio Helen’s jaw dropped open. ‘No, Kammy!’ she screamed. ‘You can’t say that!’

I was laughing my head off. ‘No, not that! I mean, he’s got big toes!’

I left the dressing-room and wandered down the players’ tunnel. Along the way, there were pictures of Sunderland’s recent successes hanging from the walls. I pointed them out to the viewers.

‘Look at the photos here,’ I said. ‘Some of them show the glory days from when they were promoted. There’s [then manager] Mick McCarthy and there’s an old friend of the show, [former Sunderland player] Liam Richardson, celebrating.’

It was a massive blunder. ‘Liam Richardson’ was, in fact, Liam Lawrence, who later moved to Stoke City. The moment I got off air, I turned on my mobile. A voicemail message flashed up. It was Liam.

‘You pillock, Kammy,’ he said, laughing. ‘You got my bloody name wrong.’

He wasn’t finished there, either. Liam was straight on to the studio to organise his revenge. ‘Right,’ he told Helen. ‘He’s taking one for the team.’

This meant trouble. Fans of the show will know that ‘Taking One for the Team’ is a punishment dished out to Soccer AM staff for making a major cock-up on air. It’s bloody painful, because it involves a 20-foot high archery-style target, a chair and a hole where the bullseye should be. Victims of this torture have to park their backsides into the hole as a line of people – in this case the Stoke City team, including a chuffed Liam Richardson, or Liam Lawrence (now I’m even confusing myself) – lined up to take pot shots at me with footballs.

It must have looked hilarious. Peter Reid was starting his first day as assistant coach. Manager Tony Pulis was watching and was wetting himself laughing, although if I had been him, I’d have been furious. The boys were only shooting from a few yards out and none of them could hit the target! When one finally hit, it was Matthew Etherington and even then he only caught me in the small of the back, which goes to prove that I may act like a big fat arse but I haven’t actually got one.

Sometimes my messing around has been a bit near to the mark. In 2000, the former Villa, Bolton and Palace midfielder Sasa Curcic was getting a bit of stick for an interview he’d given to the press. In it, he’d apparently claimed that English women were ugly, which had understandably caused a bit of a stink, so we decided to make a stand on behalf of the nation’s ladies on Soccer AM. We were filming at Upton Park and showing off the fantastic hospitality rooms. If you haven’t been there, they’re unbelievable: each one has a cracking view of the pitch and they double up as hotel bedrooms.

I was showing the cameras around one of the suites, pointing out the fact that it was a bedroom as well as a corporate hotspot where you could watch the game and enjoy a meal beforehand. A straightforward guided tour would have been boring, so without telling the lads and ladettes in the studio, Lovejoy had hired a sexy glamour model called April to spice things up. When the cameras panned around the room, our busty lass emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but some rather unflattering underwear – pink bra and black knickers (my type of girl, I have to say). April gave me a saucy look.

‘Chris, are you coming back in?’ she cooed.

‘April,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

Helen shouted down the line ‘How do you know her name if you’ve never seen her before in your life!’

Suddenly, the phone in the room began to ring. I stared at it in panic. A phone call to the room wasn’t part of the gag. Quick as a flash, I picked it up, and I could tell it was someone else having some fun. In fact it was the stadium manager at Upton Park, who had worked out which room we were in and had dialled the number for a laugh.

‘It’s my boss, Vic Wakeling from Sky,’ I said to the camera, and then, into the phone, ‘What do you mean I’m sacked?’

Vic told me later he was sat at home, bent up with laughter. He even sent a note to Soccer AM saying, ‘A bit near the knuckle but absolute quality,’ which is much better than a P45. April was a really good sport and that was the closest I ever came to scoring at Upton Park!

It’s usually the managers who get the rough end of the stick when I’m causing trouble on Soccer AM, as Harry Redknapp found out to his cost. One Saturday morning, when he was manager at Portsmouth, Harry gave me complete access to the ground, even though it was only one hour until his 12.30 kick-off against Leicester City.

‘Go anywhere, Kammy,’ he said. ‘It’s not a problem.’

This was a big mistake. When we went live at Fratton Park, I decided the first port of call would be the manager’s office – after all, Harry had said it was access all areas, so I figured, why not?

At that time his office was also home to his assistant manager, Jim Smith. Outside there was a sign which quite clearly stated, ‘Do not enter unless you knock.’ After one bang with the knuckles, I was in, though in hindsight I should have waited for an answer. As I burst through the doors – complete with a cameraman – I caught Harry and Jim both engrossed in reading the Racing Post. I couldn’t believe my luck. Kick-off was only hours away and outside on the pitch Pompey defender Arjen de Zeeuw was working through a late fitness test. In the meantime Harry and Jim were both checking the form guides. What made the moment even funnier was that Soccer AM was playing on their telly in the corner, but the sound had been turned down. They had no idea I was about to pay them a visit.

‘I thought you were supposed to be discussing today’s important issues?’ I said.

‘We are,’ replied Jim, nonchalantly peering out from the top of his paper. This relaxed attitude was typical of them both, as they looked up laughing to see themselves onscreen.

Harry is a proper wind-up merchant. When he was the manager at West Ham, he invited me to play in a training session with the first team. I took the cameras down and Harry just said, ‘Come on in, Chris, the training ground is yours. Do whatever you want.’ This was brilliant, I had a great day and we even had a small-sided game. What I didn’t realise was that Harry and his assistant, Frank Lampard Snr, had told their Israeli midfielder, Eyal Berkovic, that I was going to kick him during the practice match, and clearly it had scared him. I was playing on Frank Lampard Jnr’s team. Berkovic lined up for the other side and, sure enough, just before we kicked off, Harry and Frank apparently warned him to keep away from me.

‘He’s going to kick you, be careful,’ said Harry. I still hadn’t a clue what was going on. Berkovic then jogged towards me.

‘You play with us, that’s OK,’ he said. ‘But no kicking.’

I looked over at Harry on the touchline – he was laughing his head off. As it turned out, though, Eyal had nothing to worry about. I was too old to catch someone as nifty as he was, never mind give him a whack. I just thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t lined up against John Hartson. Come to think of it, I bet Eyal wished he never had been been either.

After Harry closed the session, the squad disappeared to get some lunch. Well, everyone except Paolo Di Canio, who changed into his running gear. While the rest of us ate in the club café, Di Canio was outside in his running shoes, sprinting and jogging, performing all sorts of exercises. It was pretty impressive stuff. You could tell why Harry regarded him so highly.

‘You don’t coach him,’ he told me that day. ‘You don’t need to say to him, “You have to do this”, or “You have to do that”, like you do with the English lads. He just does it. He’s a fantastic example for my young players.’

As if to prove Harry’s point, during that same visit to West Ham, Rio Ferdinand’s mum rang in to say he was ill. He wouldn’t be coming in to train that day.

‘See what I have to put up with, Chris?’ said Harry, as he put the phone down. ‘Who’d be a manager, eh?’

I presume Harry got another call from Rio’s mum months later to say her son wouldn’t be in for training again because he’d buggered off to Leeds United.

I’m surprised that Micky Adams, the former Leicester City gaffer, talks to me at all these days, especially after I stitched him up at Filbert Street one morning. Leicester were playing Birmingham. It was a midday kick-off and Micky invited me into his office for bacon sarnies in the morning. He even agreed to give us access to the changing-rooms, complete with an interview alongside his striker Marcus Bent, when we went on air after 11 a.m. His only condition was that we didn’t reveal the team line-up by revealing the names on the backs of the shirts that were hanging in the dressing-room.

When we went inside, Marcus Bent was sitting there alongside Micky Adams, good as gold. But when the camera lights came on and we linked up with Tim and Helen in the studio, Micky decided to do a runner. He flew out of the dressing-room and refused to be interviewed. He’d obviously decided to stitch me up, so I decided to pay him back.

‘As you can see, it’s two hours before kick-off,’ I said. ‘Ricky Scimeca sitting down there, Marcus Bent as well. Tony Adams… I mean Micky Adams has told us not to reveal who’s playing today [I then turned a shirt over to reveal SCIMECA 21], but seeing as the lads are here, we can show one or two [I turn another: STEWART 11], can’t we? Micky’s only in the other room, he’s bottled coming out so … [another and another: FERDINAND 9, DAVIDSON 14]. If he wants to tell me off, sorry Micky.’

Micky, who had headed back to his office to watch the programme, could do nothing to stop me.

‘Look, Steve Bruce,’ I shouted down the camera, ‘Scowcroft’s playing. So is Isset, and Marcus will be starting up front.’

Moments later I bumped into Micky’s goalkeeping coach, Tim Flowers, a Premiership winner with Blackburn Rovers and another former team-mate of mine from Swindon. We had a quick chat for the camera (after he’d almost dropped a ball I’d thrown at his midriff to test his reflexes), and I dropped him in it too.

To camera I said, ‘One of the best goalkeepers I ever played with…’

‘You lying git,’ he said, not realising what I was about to say.

‘… was Mervyn Day,’ I added quickly, scarpering to the away dressing-room.

Dennis, the Birmingham City kit man, had also laid shirts out for the players. Unfortunately, he had never seen Soccer AM, so he had no idea that he was supposed to say no when I asked him to turn the shirts over. He just shrugged his shoulders and told me to get on with it. By now, Helen and Tim were in hysterics as I read out some more names for the telly. I turned over the first shirt and it belonged to Clinton Morrison. ‘Oh dear,’ I laughed. ‘I must be at the rubber dubs’ [subs] end.’ As soon as the Birmingham players streamed into the ground, Clinton came looking for me. He cornered me by the pitch. Like many of the current pros, he loves the programme and knows we’re only having a laugh. They all realise I’d never be vindictive or nasty, but he was a bit miffed all the same.

‘Somebody rang me on the bus and said you took the mickey out of me this morning,’ he laughed. ‘Well I’m not on the bench. I’m playing today and I’m going to score.’ He did as well. Clinton later agreed to an interview after the game for Soccer Saturday. He couldn’t stop himself from rubbing my nose in it.

‘You said I’d be with the rubber dubs this morning,’ he said. ‘But I’ve proved Morrison is the man.’ Clinton was laughing his head off. Fair play, for once it was me who had been caught on the hop.

CHAPTER SEVEN KAMMYOKE! (#ulink_e8007a76-efb9-5a12-8590-e58584acb0e3)

Like a lot of Premiership stars, the Soccer Saturday lads like to have a bit on the side. Now, before any of the ‘Sky WAGs’ start throwing the crockery around, I’d like to point out that I’m talking business interests rather than Page 3 models, G-list pop stars or Jordan. Jeff, for example, presents Countdown, where he presses a button and sets off the famous clock several times a day. It doesn’t look like a lot of work, but he gets to look at the pins of Rachel Reilly, his glamorous assistant, so you can’t knock it. It’s also better than looking at the pins of Matt Le Tissier and Thommo on a Saturday afternoon, I reckon.

Meanwhile, Paul Merson has made a name for himself as an entertaining speaker on the after-dinner circuit. There’s a lot of money to be made from reliving stories from your glory days and a lot of Arsenal players have some great tales to tell from the eighties and nineties when Merse played. Ray Parlour was telling me recently about a time when the Gunners were away at Liverpool. Ray wasn’t in the squad, so he went to the Carlsberg Lounge with Andy Linegan and a few of the spare parts for a beer. The lads were on their fourth pint when assistant manager Stuart Houston dashed into the bar.

‘Ray! Ray! One of the lads has got injured in the warm-up,’ he shouted. ‘Get changed, you’re on the bench.’

Quick as a flash, Andy Linegan turned around. ‘Stuart, have a heart, at least let him finish his pint first.’

Ray said he sat on the bench with his legs crossed for the entire half, praying that he wouldn’t get on. Merse was part of this boozy culture at Highbury – it put him in rehab – so he has loads of these stories to tell with plenty of punters willing to listen.

It may come as a surprise to learn that I’ve made a name for myself as a club singer. Most readers will have winced at my booming tones over the course of the show on a Saturday afternoon. Some of you might even be thinking, ‘How could that shouty bloke from the telly possibly hold a tune?’ – but the weird thing is, I can. I’ve even cracked a few a cappella numbers on Soccer AM in a section of the show called ‘Kammyoke’.

I first sang in front of an audience after making my debut for Leeds, a friendly against the Irish team Shelbourne, although we nearly didn’t make it across the Irish Sea at all. Two days after I’d signed for Leeds we headed off to Leeds airport for the short trip over. With the winds raging at over 70 mph, Leeds managing director Bill Fotherby was told by airport officials that the airport was to be closed. At the time, Leeds United needed the cash that this lucrative and popular friendly would bring in, and Bill could see this slipping away. He begged for the airport to allow us to fly for our evening kick-off and eventually the powers that be duly obliged. The small aircraft, no more than a 30-seater, powered by the gale-force winds, weaved its way down the runway, reminiscent of a drunk staggering home on a Saturday night. The look on the faces of my new team-mates was of pure fear. Once airborne we were subjected to the delights of the plane bungee-ing its way across the Irish Sea. Defender Peter Haddock and striker Lee Chapman were both feeling very ill and were unable to hide the fact when their pre-match lunch made a reappearance. Gordon Strachan’s face told the story that he had never endured anything like it before, for all his previous globetrotting with Manchester United. Our team-mates Mel Sterland and Imre Varadi continuously looked over to Vinnie Jones and me for reassurance that all would be well. The nervous laughter they were rewarded with did nothing to hide the fact that the two ‘hard men’ of the team were also crapping themselves!

Despite the worst flight of our lives we won 3–1 that evening, and afterwards the squad stayed at the fancy Burlington Hotel near the centre of Dublin. After a couple of beers, I spotted a pianist in the hotel bar and soon convinced him to give me the microphone for two Elton John numbers, ‘Your Song’ and ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me’.

This was my way of introducing myself to the lads. According to team captain Gordon Strachan, a number of players actually exchanged worried glances as I began to perform. The lyrics probably didn’t help: ‘It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside/I’m not one of those who can easily hide/I don’t have much money but boy if I did/I’d buy a big house where we both could live.’ According to Gordon, the common consensus among the Leeds squad that night was, ‘Who’s this shy bloke Howard has signed!’

Word soon got around that I was a bit of a crooner. I was later asked to sing on a charity album called In a League of Their Own. The recording sessions had been organised by legendary gaffer Ron Atkinson and also featured Gabby Logan and Ally McCoist on vocals. Former Villa striker Dion Dublin played a mean saxophone, so he was roped in, as was Blackburn striker Matt Jansen on piano and Chelsea and Leicester City’s Frank Sinclair on drums. It was like Band Aid, except none of us got to play at Wembley afterwards.

I sang two songs on the album, ‘Summertime’ by George Gershwin and Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. And while the album barely dented the hit parade, it got some pretty good reviews. ‘Chris Kamara sings “Brown Eyed Girl” better than Van Morrison,’ wrote one reviewer. ‘But then Van Morrison was a better football player than Chris Kamara.’

I later scored a regular gig at the Pigalle club in Piccadilly in London through some mates of a mate, Tim Ellerton and Joe Stillgo. Once a month I’ll sing three to four songs at a night called ‘Kitsch Lounge Riot’ hosted by Johnny Barran at the Café de Paris, which holds 500 people. It’s always packed out. Just before Christmas 2009 I had the honour of doing a duet with former EastEnders star and comedian Bobby Davro, which was cracking. I’ve got quite a repertoire of songs, but generally I belt through ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’ by Stealer’s Wheel, Elton John’s ‘Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me’, ‘Summertime’ and ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ (naturally), before I finish on a real belter: ‘Born To Be Wild’ by Steppenwolf.

One occasion I was quite pleased not to be called on stage to sing was when Robbie Williams spotted me among the crowd during his concert in front of 90,000 people at Roundhay Park in Leeds. God knows how he caught sight of me, but halfway through his set, he looked over to where I was standing and shouted, ‘Chris Kamara, do the Rudebox!’ (Robbie fans will recognise this as one of his singles). At first I thought I was mishearing things and then he said it again. ‘Chris Kamara, do the Rudebox!’ Everyone around me went mental. For the first time I can remember, I was almost star-struck. I just waved like an idiot and Robbie gave me the thumbs up. The adrenaline rush was as good as scoring a goal.

Elsewhere I’ve done the odd charity gig – I once crooned to a massive audience in the Birmingham Symphony Hall for a sold-out show to raise money for Marie Curie and The Prince’s Royal Trust. For the most part, though, I stick to banging out a few numbers in The Hole in the Wall, a boozer I have an interest in at Parque de la Paz in Tenerife. After a few beers I’ll get on the mic and run through a few favourites with Irish crooner Fergal Flaherty. The punters seem to love it, but I don’t think Simon Cowell will be getting excited any time soon.

CHAPTER EIGHT JEFF AND THE CRAZY GANG (#ulink_8f4d8e63-5575-5f68-b106-50e62bdf2b5c)

The camaraderie among the Soccer Saturday lads is second to none, and the banter is as fierce as in any football club dressing-room I have been in. The panel has Charlie Nicholas on one side, Paul Merson on the other, and in the middle Phil Thompson, a nose between two thorns.

Our very own Bonnie Prince Charlie loves a wind-up and any mistakes are quickly jumped on, there is no hiding place, apart from behind Thommo’s hooter. Charlie has lived a few lives and, when he hit the bright lights of London as the best Scottish footballer of his era, he did things that would make your hair curl! He would be the first to admit that the lure of the West End took a bit out of his game. I’ll say no more but if he’d taken up rugby instead of football he would have been a hooker!

David Moyes, the Everton manager, was once talking on Goals on Sunday and said that the nearest thing he had seen to Wayne Rooney was when Charlie was starting off at Celtic as a kid, and we’re now back talking football. He could also do things with the ball which others could only dream of, and was light years ahead of his time. That may be so, but in the eight years I have known Charlie I have yet to hear him talking about his playing days. He loves his flights down from his native Scotland to London, ready for his weekend stint at the Sky studios, and enjoys the crack with the lads on Friday nights in the hotel bar.

Paul Merson is a one-off. For someone to have had as many ups and downs as he has had is amazing. His helter-skelter life would pass as a ride at Alton Towers, but the guy has amazing bounce-back-ability. He has coped with gambling, drinking and drug use admirably. When I played for Luton against Arsenal on Boxing Day 1992, David Seaman took a goal-kick. My team-mate Trevor Peake was marking Merse and I was just in front of him. When I went up for the ball to head it away, I accidentally elbowed Merse on the nose. When I turned round to apologise Merse sneezed in my face. I am telling you now, that was the best I felt for a fortnight after. I played against him a few times and it was apparent that he was someone who just loved playing the game. He reminds me of another old team-mate of mine, Stan Bowles, who shared similar problems, but once they both stepped over the white line on to the football pitch, their troubles were left behind.

Phil Thompson is the biggest ex-player football fan I have ever met. His passion for Liverpool has no boundaries. People often ask me if it is just an act for the cameras. It is definitely not: the old saying is true in his case – if you cut him open he would bleed Red blood! Tee hee! He is the same as all the Soccer Saturday boys – he does not take himself too seriously and is fine about Jeff poking fun at his hooter.

Matt Le Tissier, or the god of Southampton, is laid-back but has a wonderful dry sense of humour. The most amazing thing I found out when talking to Tiss is that when I was at Leeds, Luton and Sheffield Utd in the early nineties, I was earning more money than him, even though he was enjoying so much success and banging in the goals for his beloved Saints. His managers knew that he would never want to leave Southampton, so the new contract negotiations were never stressful. Tiss made it easy for the club to take advantage of his loyalty – shame on them! It was lucky for them that Tiss never learnt he could fly home to his native Guernsey from places other than Southampton airport when he felt a bit homesick. The only way Tiss was going to leave SFC was to go to KFC, and his manager at one time, Glenn Hoddle, did actually have to go into KFC in Southampton and tell the staff behind the counter not to serve him the meal for two unless he was with someone and definitely not during half-time at St Mary’s! The late great Alan Ball, another manager of Tiss’s, used to tell what he said was a true story when doing the after-dinner circuit. He said that during a match he shouted to Tiss, ‘Warm up!’ And when Tiss asked, ‘Why?’ Bally replied, ‘Because I am bringing you off!’ Laid-back on the pitch, maybe, but a genius and a cracking fellow.

Alan McInally is my partner for three days each year, when we take our chance to mingle with some fabulous characters from the horse-racing world at the Cheltenham Festival, and we have a hoot. ‘The Muncheon’, as he is known to the lads, because of his time playing at Bayern Munich after leaving Aston Villa, is top draw, and because of his larger than life persona gets plenty of stick from the boys. A lot of the younger people who watch Soccer Saturday often ask me what Alan was like as a player, so I thought I should ring Graham Taylor, who managed him at Villa. I asked Graham about his strengths and weaknesses.

‘He had the strength of a dray horse.’

Not bad, I thought.

‘The speed of a racehorse.’

Wow! But hang on, there’s more.

‘The movement of a polo horse, and the spring in his feet of a showjumping horse.’

‘And what about his weaknesses, Graham?’ I asked.

‘The brains of a rocking horse,’ came back his reply. McInally is great company and there is never a dull moment when he is around.

Now for the man who holds it all together, Mr Jeff Stelling. What can I say? He is something else. And a great fan of his home-town team Hartlepool, just in case this fact has managed to slip by any regular viewers to the show. He cannot contain his excitement or passion as a Monkey Hanger. He is the memory man, though I have to say, when that well-publicised incident occurred with that fellow walking into the police station at Seaton Canoe – sorry, Seaton Carew, near Hartlepool – and said he was clueless, had no idea of who he was or where he had been for the last five years, I had to ring Jeff just to make sure he was OK.

Jeff and I have done all sorts together – adverts, afterdinners, voice-overs, you name it. People have really bought into our relationship on Soccer Saturday and it has been brilliant for us. He is a friend for life.

We had the trip of all trips when we went to the World Cup in Japan in 2002. It is fair to say that Jeff might well not be working for Sky now if he had been the first England fan arrested and deported from Japan, as he very nearly was! He wanted a bit of culture while we were there in Japan, so we left the city life in Tokyo after England had drawn with Sweden in Saitama. Jeff wanted to see some of the real Japan, so we headed off to the temples of Kyoto. After visiting two temples Jeff agreed with me and our other travelling companion and the producer of Soccer Saturday, Ian Condron, that once you had seen one temple you had seen them all. That evening after sampling some of the local cuisine, beer and wine in a recommended local restaurant, Jeff and I headed off for the obligatory one more beer, and Condo headed off for bed. We found a bar with quite a few people in it, many of whom were playing a version of ‘spin the bottle’. Whoever the bottle points at after being spun has to down their beer in one. This was tailor made for me, as I didn’t mind the forfeit to be paid, but Jeff was finding the punishment really tough. He suggested we find somewhere else for our ‘one more beer’ before he became legless, so after enjoying an hour or so of fun we left our non-English-speaking friends behind. Unfortunately, Kyoto only had one late bar in the whole of town – the one we had just been in. So, after walking round and round, and trying to converse with the locals, we found ourselves back at the bar where our friends were still the spinning bottle.

Outside Jeff um’d and ah’d about going back in, thinking he’d perhaps already had enough. Whilst he was standing (or swaying) there, making his decision, he staggered backwards off the kerb into a parked motorbike. It was a Harley Davidson type bike with big handlebars. Jeff let out a scream, and for a second the world stood still. We both watched aghast as the huge, shiny machine toppled, as if in slow motion, towards the car parked next to it. Jeff lunged forward to grab it but stood no chance as (a) the bike was far too weighty, and (b) Jeff was far too boozy! There was not a thing we could do as the handlebars made contact with the rear windscreen of the car. Bang! What a noise, and what a mess, as the glass shattered everywhere. Disbelief was etched on our faces as we just stood there staring at each other. It is surprising how quickly you can sober up instantly in a panic situation such as the one we were facing. The bike and the car possibly belonged to one of the gang we had been drinking with earlier in the bar, so we did what all good citizens would do – we scarpered!