Читать книгу Psycho Pat - The Autobiography Of Pat Van Den Hauwe - Pat Van Den Hauwe - Страница 10

At least once a month my wife will wake me up from a nightmare that I often have. It’s not just a bad dream but a real situation that I found myself in, a situation that to this day makes me weep.

If you had a few guesses at what would cause me so much trauma, you’d probably come up with a few well-known scenarios: why, for example, did I let Norman Whiteside cut inside and get a shot in on goal that cost Everton the treble? If you think the sight of Whiteside running past me celebrating as I dropped to my knees in despair prevents me from sleeping … you’d be wrong.

Another favourite might be why I didn’t get a grip of Gazza early on in the Cup Final a few years later. Maybe a senior pro like myself or Gary Lineker could have calmed him down and prevented him from making that horrendous tackle, a tackle that left him screaming in agony, one that almost ended his career. Is it the image of Gazza screaming in agony that makes me shout out in my sleep? No, it isn’t.

Those of you who know about my personal life are maybe thinking that the nightmare scene involves me walking away from my wife, who was in tears holding my baby daughter as I waved goodbye, leaving them to move in with Mandy Smith? That’s a close call as, although I don’t have nightmares about it, it does make me weep.

The nightmare is none of those. It is actually an incident that occurred in South Africa a couple of years after I had left England and had become heavily involved in the high life and drug culture that goes hand in hand with it.

I wake up screaming as, in the dream, one feature changes from the actual incident. In the dream, I pull the trigger of the .38 Special I have been carrying around with me for months and blow the head off a gentleman called Steven Kentridge. In real life, although the situation actually occurred, I did not pull the trigger. I let the bloke walk away. It was a decision that probably saved my life … as well as his.

My recurring nightmare never goes away and I am glad, as it makes me realise how fortunate I am still to have my liberty, and it also makes me realise how becoming involved with guns and drugs can only lead to death and despair. I came so close to committing murder that night that I never want to forget how fortunate I am that I chose not to pull the trigger. Every day when I wake up, that is the first thing that comes into my mind.

Before I got to that crazy stage of my life, I had plenty of other memorable moments on the way. My life was one big fairground ride that never seemed to stop. Some parts of it were good, some bad and some plain stupid. I look back at it now with a smile, the occasional tear and with some fondness but, believe me, it was a ride that at times was destined to crash and it was the excitement of waiting for the crash to happen that prevented me from ever getting off. I love excitement and I doubt there are many people who have been on a similar ride and are still here to talk about it. Luckily, I am.

The ride began when I was born on 16 December 1960 in Dendermonde, a town in Belgium. My father was a Belgian national who met my mother on holiday; she came from London and they fell in love. They ended up going back and forth between their respective homes until they settled in my father’s home town where they married and brought into the world two healthy, baby boys, myself and my younger brother Rudy. I left Belgium when I was five years old and have no memories of the place whatsoever. Given what I have been told about how boring Belgium is, maybe that’s not such a bad thing!

We moved to Bermondsey – Millwall territory – then settled in Deptford, which was not so much rough as tight knit. I was lucky that my mother’s cousins had pubs; Harry and Thomas Cottrell were well known in the area so, despite being a new kid on the block and viewed as a bit of an outsider, it did not take long for the word to get round that we were not a family that could be intimidated easily, or have liberties taken.

I went to a small kiddies’ school in Bermondsey, then on to Deptford Park Junior High School, where I started playing football and soon noticed a kid called David Memmitt. He used to do things with a tennis ball that older lads could not do with a football; he had amazing talent and could keep the ball up for hours. All he wanted to do was play for Millwall and he did so at the age of 16. Dave was an amazing player but, obviously, he never made the grade as I have never heard of him since I left school, which is a shame as every club in London wanted him to sign for them. Maybe his loyalty to the local side he adored was blind. Either way, far lesser players than him made it, including yours truly.

I was doing OK and playing for the local side and the school team, but my progress was hindered when I broke my ankle in an accident on a park ride. That was the start of my injury nightmare which plagued me throughout my career. As it turned out, that was not the last time I was sidelined from football due to an incident that was not football related. I spent a couple of months in plaster but made a full recovery and was soon back playing.

We then moved to Kidbrooke, to the Ferrier Estate, one of the new, huge estates that were popping up all over the place in the late 1960s and early 1970s. There was just the one pub – The Watt Tyler – a drinking hole that was frequented by just about every rouge and villain on the estate. It was quite a few years before I stated going in there but it was a pub I always visited when I went home until it eventually shut down in the 1990s.

To say I was not interested in school was an understatement; I despised going there, all I wanted to do was play football and any other sport that could get me out of the classroom. I took up judo, boxing, weightlifting and even squash, a sport that was not really known to anyone at the time.

Quite simply, if there was a sport that got me away from school I’d give it a go, the problem being that they expected me to compete in all these activities … and attend classes! It was never going to happen so, obviously, I stared bunking off and getting into the usual trouble for non-attendance but, no matter how hard my parents and the teachers tried, I simply did not go. I’d get up in the morning, put my uniform on and head off there, but I very rarely made it through the gates as I’d go to the gym or boxing club; anywhere but school, if the truth be known.

I wasn’t roaming the streets causing trouble or being a nuisance to anyone, I just preferred to train than to learn about some way of working out how many degrees a circle contained, how to make something useless out of wood or how to dissect a frog, for fuck’s sake! Looking back at it now, I think I made the right choice in concentrating on training, improving my fitness and the various sports I played as those activities were more useful in my later life than any of the things I swerved during school hours. Maybe I should have attended the odd maths lesson as, bearing in mind what I have earned and what I have left, I think somehow the sums just don’t add up!

I really enjoyed the boxing and the judo; I used to train with a friend of mine named Bradley Bellmen. It was nothing serious, just the pads and bags, and I never fought in a bout – I just loved the training. Bradley packed it in when he left school and soon became a heroin addict like so many more kids around at the time. I kept away from the shit that was hitting the streets and really took to judo, where I earned an orange or blue belt before giving it up to concentrate on my football.

I was now playing for a team called Kestrel Rangers. Even though I had been playing for the school team and now the Kestrels as a centre-forward, despite being half decent, I could not have been that special as plenty of my team-mates were going for trials with various London clubs but I never seemed to get the call. One of my team-mates was a lad called Micky who actually captained England Schoolboys. He was an exceptional player but, as is so often the case, that was as far as he went and Micky was another who, despite being the best of our group, never made the step up to the professional game.

Out of nowhere, I was asked to go and train with the schoolboys at Arsenal, a chance that was too good to turn down. What a pain in the arse it turned out to be as my uncle took it upon himself to drive me there every Tuesday and Thursday which, depending on the rush-hour traffic, could take an hour-and-a-half each way. I hated it. I put up with it for a year but it did my head in so I simply stopped going and carried on playing for the Kestrels. My uncle and parents, although disappointed, knew that’s how I was and there was no way they could change my mind. Even from an early age, if I did not enjoy doing something, I found the easiest way to deal with it was simply to jack it in.

It was about this time when I met Susan Cross, who was to become Mrs Van Den Hauwe Number One. I was about 14 and very shy – I’d never really had a girlfriend. But Susan was stunning, one of five sisters, who were all very pretty girls and a credit to their parents, so I suppose you could call her my first love.

Apart from the academic side of things, I was enjoying life but soon came across a kid who was older than me and who decided to make my life a misery, a horrible bully called Tony Merriman. By this time, I had started going into the pub, not drinking as such but just for the banter and running the odd errand for the older blokes. It was obvious from day one that Merriman took an immediate dislike to me. This twat would not so much beat me up but bully me in its purest sense – grab me by the hair in front of the other lads, slap me around the head, twist my ear and generally abuse me. He was obviously hoping for a reaction. I made it clear to him that I wanted no trouble, but every time he saw me he would give me grief. He was a horrible person and, in later years, he came very close to regretting making an enemy of me as a teenager.

Eventually, my continual no-show at school came to a head. They were sending letters to the house but I was taking them off the postman and replying to the head teacher pretending to be my mother, until one day I came unstuck. On the sorriest day of my life to date, I had to endure the embarrassment of my father marching me through the school gates while everyone was leaving.

A teacher called Mr Adhern took me under his wing and, although he was a rough-and-ready type of bloke, deep down he was a very compassionate man. The kids were not afraid of him but respected him as he wasn’t a bully. Remember, in those days teachers could knock the shit out of you, and many did, with no comebacks. Mr Adhern, although more than capable of doing that, just had a presence that made you respect him. He warned me that if I did not toe the line, I’d be sent to a special school but, as I was not really causing trouble, he tried tremendously hard and succeeded to a certain extent to rehabilitate me back into the educational system. When it came to the final year and the exams, I simply did not bother and I left school without a single qualification so, although I respected him, I let him down badly. He was the first but certainly not the last person I let down.

Before I had to look for a way of earning a living, I was offered a trial at Chelsea and that probably saved me from a life of either mundane jobs or crime. Sometimes, when I look back at my life, maybe I would have been better off turning down Chelsea and going down the same route as that of most of my mates. We were shown round Stamford Bridge and even went into the dressing rooms where we saw Ray Wilkins blow-drying his hair wearing just a towel.

We did a full tour of the ground and, well over an hour later, as we arrived back near the dressing rooms, I asked if I could nip back in there as I desperately needed a piss. I walked in and Wilkins was still there in front of the mirror, in his towel, blow-drying his hair. Now, I am no expert in hairdressing, but later on in my life I married quite a famous young lady who was very keen to look her best. I swear to this day she never took as long doing her hair as Wilkins did that day. Looking at him now, maybe he over-cooked his barnet a bit!

After the trials, I was taken on as a youth trainee but had not signed anything and there were an awful lot of young lads in the same boat as me, so I knew I would have to dig deep and work hard to impress. Life at Chelsea was tough; we would play other clubs around London and I was under the watchful eye of Dario Grady, who was to make a very good name for himself within the game, especially when it came to spotting young lads and bringing them through the ranks.

Dario was not the only person on the staff with an eye on the lads, though, and I took a dislike to one of the coaches who seemed to be a bit too friendly, if you get my drift. This fella, who was a giant of a geezer, used to drive us about everywhere in a clapped-out club minibus and get us doing all the shitty jobs around the ground.

One day he told me he needed to show me the games room that the first team players frequented that was situated high up in the new stand that had recently been built. We went up in the lift and I got a feeling that he was standing a bit too close to me and when we got in the games room for the life of me I did not know why he had taken me there. I made some excuse and made a quick exit and was so upset by the bloke’s presence I even told my father about him.

He told me to steer well clear and I did, but soon after I was told that, despite trying as hard as I could, Chelsea had decided that I was not good enough and I was released with about a dozen others. We were quite simply told that Chelsea had too many players our age and that we were no longer required to turn up the following day. I was upset but glad to see the back of the coach who, a few years later, was bombed for possessing so-called ‘indecent material’, so maybe my instincts were correct and it was me he fancied, not a game of pool or table tennis.

Chelsea’s rejection made me realise that football was a ruthless game. I would hazard a guess that that day finished some of my team-mates’ football careers for good. Luckily for me, I was given a chance elsewhere; sadly, not everybody would get that chance.

Due to my lack of education, football and a few boxing and judo moves was all I knew so it made me more determined to not give up. I was so relieved when I was asked if I’d like to join four of the other lads who had been released and travel to Birmingham with a view to joining them as an apprentice on a one-year deal.

I did not really want to up sticks and leave London – I was still a kid – but I was realistic enough to realise that, after binning Arsenal off and getting bombed from Chelsea, my options were limited. I went home and told my mum and dad that I was packing my bags and leaving home. It was heartbreaking both for me as well as my parents and plenty of tears were shed when I walked out the door to embark on a truly amazing journey.

They gave me what spare cash they had to tide me over until I got paid, although I’m not sure if they would have been so upset had they realised that, 15 years later, I would return to the same home after my journey had come full circle with less money in my pocket than they had given me when I’d left.