Читать книгу Raging Bull: My Autobiography - Phil Vickery - Страница 6

Cornwall … I bloody love it. It’s a great place, isolated from everywhere and full of the friendliest people in the world. It’s more like a village than a county - packed full of daft types who treat each other like one big family. I loved growing up there and hearing about its great history - all the myths and legends from times gone by, the stories about wrecked ships mysteriously disappearing, and tales of strange happenings that no one could explain or seemed to know where they’d come from. There’s something about the scenery down in Cornwall and the beauty of the place that inspires writers, poets and musicians and gets people telling tales. There were always famous people moving into the area when I was young, aiming to find creativity on the wide, golden sands, amongst the big cliffs and in the beautiful countryside. I thought I lived in the most special place on earth.

I’m from North Cornwall, where the Atlantic winds come bursting in off the sea. I love the ruggedness of it all. It can be very bleak at times, very dark and moody, but very beautiful at other times. I love the fact that things don’t change constantly as they do in other parts of the country. Things stay the same and the people stay the same. It’s the place where I grew up, went to school and lived for the first nineteen years of my life - running around on Duckpool beach, diving into the sea and body boarding on the huge waves. Taking my bloody life in my hands as I surfed close to the cliffs, and loving it as the eight-foot swells threw me off my body board. We’d go fishing in the rock pools with Dad and Granddad and mess around on beaches that were so hard to get to from the cliffs that we had to ease one another down on these tatty old ropes we’d found, none of us worrying about how dangerous the whole thing was, or wondering for a second how we were going to get back up again.

When I think back, I can’t believe that we were allowed to spend so much time on the beach on our own, but it was a great place to grow up, close to the sea and close to nature. I tell my kids, Megan and Harrison, the stories of when I was a little boy, and it sounds so idyllic. There was something so lovely and adventurous about the freedom we had - life in the fresh air, enjoying long days and warm nights outside.

I’m proud of being a Cornishman … it’s in my blood. So it’s slightly odd that one of the first things I have to tell you about myself is that I was born in Devon! Before you think that makes me any less Cornish, I’d better explain. I was born in Barnstaple, in Devon, because my family is from Bude which is a great little seaside town in North Cornwall, and the nearest hospital was just over the county line in Devon. But besides that, I am Cornish through and through.

I was born into a family of big, bulky dairy farmers, with Mum and Dad working on Killock, a 350-acre farm just outside Bude. The farm had originally belonged to my grandparents. Both sets of grandparents are farmers, so dairy farming really is in my blood, and there’s no doubt that farming is what I’d have ended up doing if rugby hadn’t come along and cocked everything up!

My grandma and grandpa Vickery originally started off life in a place called Bagbury Farm, not far from us in Bude. Then they bought Killock Farm and split the cows between the two farms, making successes of both of them. I do look back and think: Bloody hell, how did they do that? Farming’s a difficult business to make a success of with just one farm to look after, but managing to create two farms out of one like that takes some doing. They did it so that my dad, Barry, could be given Killock when he married my mum, Elaine, and his sister, my aunty Carol, could farm Bagbury.

So I lived on Killock Farm with Mum, Dad, my grandparents and my brother Mark who was two years old when I was born. I was surrounded by animals, milking machines and tractors from an early age. It’s all I ever knew as a kid. It was a perfect place for an adventurous child to live, and you’ll be unsurprised to hear that I was a bloody adventurous child, always exploring, climbing, clambering over everything and generally getting up to mischief on the farm with Mark. I can see now, looking back at the way we were back then, that we must have been a hell of a handful for poor Mum; I don’t know how she coped with us rampaging around the place, doing more damage than if a couple of rhinos had been let loose on the farm. She probably spent as long clearing up after us as she did clearing up after the animals.

Mum never had an easy time of it with me because I started causing problems straight away - from the moment I came into the world at Barnstaple Hospital on 14 March 1976, weighing a sprightly 7lb 13½oz. I was heavier than my brother Mark who’d come before me, and heavier than Helen who came along later, but not the super heavyweight you might expect if you look at the size of me now. I was rushed into an incubator straight after I was born having turned a rather unattractive blue colour (the next time I turned that colour was after one of John Mitchell’s training sessions, but we’ll come onto those later). The doctors were worried about whether I was getting enough oxygen into my body, so decided to keep an eye on me. It meant Mum had to stay in hospital with me for an extra two days before she could take me home.

I’m sure that when Mum eventually got me back to the farm, and realised just what an active and lively child I was going to become, she might have wished I was still in that incubator! She says I was a real handful from the minute she got me back, and with a large dairy farm full of machinery, animals and wide open spaces to mess about in, I had plenty to play with. I didn’t waste any time causing mischief and there are all sorts of stories about me gently petting the animals and half killing them. I’m sure they’re not true … especially not the tales about me squashing the little ducklings half to death. Not me, surely.

I was such a bundle of non-stop energy, even when I was tiny, that Mum decided the only way to cope and keep me relatively safe was to shove me into a wooden playpen and tie it to the kitchen table while she was doing chores around the house. (I’m sure that would be illegal now!) If she didn’t do that, she said I’d push the pen all around the kitchen until I found something interesting (i.e. breakable) to play with. When she was out on the farm doing jobs, she couldn’t leave me for a minute either, so she put me in the hay rack where I couldn’t cause much trouble and she could get on with things without worrying where the next big crash was going to come from.

As we grew up and learnt to toddle around the farm, the smacks, bangs, smashes and collisions that Mark and I got into grew too. Mum remembers me coming in one day with a huge gash on my arm after playing outside all day. I wasn’t bothered about it at all, in fact I hadn’t noticed, but she was so concerned that she rushed me off to hospital to get it checked out. She’s still amazed today that I didn’t realise there was blood dripping from my arm. All I wanted to do was to keep playing. I guess, looking back, I was always a prop forward in the making.

In this idyllic childhood there was always so much going on in and around the farm. It was all outdoors in the fresh air and I was always surrounded by family. My sister Helen was born three years after me, which didn’t please me a lot, apparently. Mum says she can remember coming home from hospital and announcing that we had a new sister and Mark and I looked at one another and frowned in disappointment. We didn’t really see the point in having a sister. What were sisters for? They weren’t interested in climbing things and causing the mayhem that Mark and I enjoyed, so the two of us pretty much carried on as we had done and tried to forget about the small female who had just joined the family.

I think I spent most of my childhood completely covered in mud. I remember sitting in the sink absolutely filthy after a morning outside, and being cleaned from head to toe by my grandma (with a big lump of old-fashioned soap and some sort of scrubbing brush - I imagine that’s the only way they could get the mud off me). When I was clean, I was dressed and then sent back out into the fields where I’d get muddy all over again.

One side of the farm house was rented out when I was growing up, and we lived in the other half. We weren’t supposed to mess about around the rented half of the farm. I can remember the sound of Mum’s voice as she told us to keep away from there but of course that didn’t stop us at all, and if there were no adults there, that’s where Mark and I could be found - with a football.

Belting footballs through the windows of the house was something that Mark and I did quite frequently. We’d be kicking the ball backwards and forwards to one another, and trying to kick it over the house and round the house, but our kicking skills weren’t as refined as we’d hoped, so invariably there would come a point where we kicked the ball through the house (via the window). There’d be that horrible sound of smashing glass and a split second of silence in which we looked at one another and realised that we were in big trouble.

We knew that Mum would go nuts when she found out we’d smashed a window, so every time the ball crashed through the glass we’d stand there and look at one another for a minute, then run away from the scene as fast as we could. It makes me laugh to look back now. What did we think would happen? Surely we must have realised that Mum would take one look at the broken window, the football lying on the kitchen floor and the glass all around and realise straight away what had happened. It seems odd that we ran away, thinking that we might just get away with it. We never did.

My first experiences of life off the farm were at a local nursery school, where I went a couple of mornings a week, then it was on to Kilkhampton Primary School for slightly more serious schooling and, more importantly, the chance to get involved in lots of different sports like cricket, football and rounders for the first time. I’m not from a sporty family, and my parents aren’t sporty at all (the only sports event I ever saw my dad compete in was a young farmers’ tug-of-war one year), but when I got to school I became very interested in all sports, and I wanted to get involved with everything that the school had to offer. Mark was the same as me and we would play all sorts of sports together.

We even enjoyed darts - that was fun. We would practise at home with a makeshift set-up. We’d fix up a dart-board on the chair leaning against the kitchen table, and throw arrows at it, practising our technique as we competed against one another to get the better score. Again, this was a case of our skills not being quite as good as we envisaged, and we’d miss the dartboard frequently, and leave loads of little holes all over Mum’s best chairs and table. Once again, we’d run away from the scene and hope she’d not notice. She always did.

As we got older our love for darts continued to blossom, but we moved ourselves from hurling arrows at Mum’s best furniture to throwing them at the dartboard in the pub where we could do a lot less damage, get into a hell of a lot less trouble and drink pints. We even went on to play in the local leagues against other pubs in the area; we all took it very seriously.

Back on the farm, we spent a lot of time razzing around the place on tractors and when I look back now I can see that I was a bit of a liability. I just seemed to crash the bloody thing all the time (I think you’ll notice there’s a theme developing here… I did have a habit of breaking a lot of things). There were these small walls all around the farm, and I have to tell you that small walls and big tractors don’t make a very happy combination. You’d drive along in the tractor and just not see them. The trouble is, even though they were only small and didn’t look like they’d do any damage at all, if you hit them with the tractor, you would end up ripping the tyres off, which cost hundreds of pounds to repair. Dad would go mad.

As we got older, so the trouble we got into became bigger. One particular story I remember was of my brother racing around the farm on a quad bike. He and I were out doing the fencing (repairing holes in the hedges to stop the sheep breaking out). We had just finished the job and were heading for home when we realised we’d left something right at the bottom of the field. It was a really foggy day, so Mark went off on his quad bike to get it, and I waited on the tractor for him to come back. He disappeared into the foggy mist, out of sight, while I waited patiently. The next thing I knew, there was the most almighty crash - he’d driven straight into an electric pole and smashed the front of the quad bike. Luckily he went flying off to one side and was uninjured. To be honest, though, his injuries were the least of my concern. I saw the front of the quad bike and the way it was all smashed in, and all I could think was, ‘What the hell are we going to tell Dad?’

Again, Dad was really unhappy. But not quite as cross as he was when it came to tractor mirrors and windows. Christ, he’d get pissed off with us. Not that I can blame him because we did smash a lot of them. The windows at the back of the tractor were a particular problem because they opened outwards, so I’d shove them open on a pleasant day, and immediately forget that I’d done it. I would reverse the tractor up to something, forgetting that the windows added another foot onto the length of the tractor behind me, and hear a loud crash and the smash of glass. Shit! This happened so many times that Dad eventually refused to replace the back windows. On freezing cold winter days we would always regret our recklessness, as we sat there wrapped up in coats, hats and gloves, freezing bloody cold.

Although Mark and I played around a lot, we also helped out on the farm from quite a young age. Certainly by the time I was four I was doing chores regularly. The rule in farming tends to be that as soon as you’re strong enough to do something, you’re old enough. I remember having some funny little jobs, like filling gaps in the hedge to stop the cattle running through. I guess it’s like an apprenticeship. You master all the tasks that your father does by watching, helping him, then doing them yourself. That’s why farms are passed down through the generations, because of all the small things you learn growing up. As soon as I was able to lift bales of hay, I would be lifting them, and as soon as I could milk the cows, I did that. It was a gradual thing, until I could do everything on the farm for myself.

I loved farming but it’s a hard, hard job because it never stops. One thing that people tend to forget about farming is that there’s no such thing as a weekend. The cows need milking every day, and that includes Christmas Day, birthdays, and every weekend, morning and night. In fact, in order to minimise the workload on Christmas Day we used to double up on everything so that we wouldn’t have to work like mad on 25 December itself. It meant that the period leading up to Christmas would be very hard work, ensuring there’d be enough hay, straw and feed to allow us to get through. Christmas parties were a thing that other people did.

Without doubt, the most difficult thing to happen when I was young was Mum and Dad splitting up. I was around eight years old at the time, and though I was very young I remember it all clearly. There had been lots of rows in the house and lots of tension in the air leading up to their decision, so looking back I can see it was the best thing, but at the time I didn’t understand at all. I’d hear Dad shouting and Mum crying but you still never imagine that your parents will split. It’s a terrible shock when it actually happens.

When they separated, Mum and Dad decided that Mum should move out, leaving Dad, my grandparents, me, Mark and Helen on the farm. Once Mum had settled somewhere new, we went to live with her. Mum and Dad tried a couple of times to get back together, but it didn’t work out, so we moved back and forth between Mum’s new house and the farm.

I found the whole divorce thing hard. I was old enough to know that things were changing and life was about to become more confusing than ever. I can remember overhearing my parents saying, ‘He’s too young to understand,’ when talking about the divorce. That’s something that still frustrates me to this day. Of course I wasn’t too young. I was aware that all these things were happening around me, but no one would explain them to me.

I’m not blaming anyone. I think Mum and Dad didn’t want to burden me with all the details because they thought I was too young, and that I would adjust better if I wasn’t weighed down with too much information. In reality, though, I think it would have been better if I had been talked to properly and told what was happening. I think you have to know all the details in order to be able to deal with the things that happen to you, even when you’re very young.

It was difficult when the split first happened, but we soon settled into a routine. There is no doubt that my parents splitting up had an effect on me. If you come from a broken home I think it makes you tougher and less trusting of people. It makes you harder, and I know I’ve carried that with me. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily; it’s just a fact of life.

When I wasn’t at the farm, I was at school. One of the clearest memories I have of my junior school is that it was much bigger than infants school; in fact I remember it being huge. I was daunted by the enormous size of it, and thought I’d never be able to find my way around. I recently went back there for the school’s centenary and it made me laugh how tiny everything was. The classrooms were so small and the chairs so little, but when I was young it seemed like a really big place. I was never very confident when it came to school work, and though I tried my hardest when I was younger (the same can’t be said of me when I was older) I did find it tough going. I guess I never really saw the point of school. I never imagined myself doing anything but farming at the end of it all, so what was the point? It always seemed to me that being on the farm was the best place in the world to be.

When I was 11 I moved to Budehaven School where I continued my dislike of school work. We were living back at the farm with Dad at this stage, and a bus would come to collect us every morning at the end of the lane to take us there. I used to get up at around 8.15 a.m. and didn’t have to help too much on the farm before school, but there were always little things to do. My greatest memory of that time is the battle to get someone to drive me and my brother to the end of the lane so we could get the bus. The lane was around half a mile long and on cold winter days, or rainy days, we would be eager to persuade someone to give us a lift. Obviously, everyone else in the family was knee deep in chores at that time in the morning, and they were reluctant to break away from them to take us to the bus stop.

When I got to school, I spent most of the days looking out of the window during lessons. I loved the friends I’d made, and if it hadn’t been for them I doubt my parents would have got me anywhere near the school at all. I’m not saying it was all bad. I remember that I enjoyed subjects like history, but I was never very good at spelling so my confidence was dented from the start. It’s hard if you have no confidence in yourself. I’d sit at the back of the room and not focus on what was happening in front of me. I guess I just wasn’t ever a great scholar (and that’s an understatement). There was nothing wrong with the school, or the teachers, it was just me. At that age I simply wasn’t interested. It was only PE lessons and break-time that held any interest for me at all.

Thanks to my PE teacher, school didn’t turn out to be a complete waste of time.