Читать книгу Stan: Tackling My Demons - Stan Collymore - Страница 5

I wish that my first memory was kicking my football for hours against the perfect wall of the swimming baths in Cannock, where my mum, Doreen, worked as a receptionist. I wish it was playing endless games of football on the patch of consecrated ground round the corner from our two-up, two-down. The cemetery’s claimed that grass now. There are gravestones where we used to play.

I wish it was going for a drive with my mum in her light blue Beetle, the car I made her keep for years and years, right up until I was playing for Liverpool, long after it ceased to be roadworthy. I made sure it was left parked on the drive of the house on the upmarket suburban estate where I lived when I hit the big time with Nottingham Forest and Liverpool. I used to entertain a steady stream of girls at that house when I was at the height of my philandering, four or five a day, every day, every week. The front room of that house saw some action. One girl would leave and a few minutes later another one would arrive. I operated them on a rota system. One time, I came home and the Beetle was gone. My mum had given it away.

You know what, I even wish my first memory was being made to ride my bike naked around the green off to the side of our little house by one of the local lads. I’d be five or six, I suppose. His dad was a miner at one of the local pits. They had come down from the northeast. I was the only black kid in Cannock and I used to get picked on. This boy liked to lock me in the coal-bunker at his house, too. He’d leave me there for hours while I shouted and begged and screamed.

Later, during the miners’ strike in the mid-1980s, he kept working. He was a scab. When all the pits in the South Staffordshire Coalfield closed and 30,000 jobs disappeared into the ground with them, most people in Cannock started up mini-cab companies. There were hundreds of taxis everywhere and no one to ride in them. The shops were all boarded up. The place was a ghost-town. He became a window-cleaner then. Once, he asked me to help him on his rounds. I did it for a few weeks.

But my first memory is of crying and pleading in our small red-brick house. It is of looking up and seeing my dad standing over my mum, gripping some sort of heavy brush in his hand and beating her with it. I remember trying to intervene, trying to stop him, and I remember being pushed away. I remember looking at her face and seeing blood and tears and I remember being very scared.

That was standard behaviour for my dad. He used to beat my mum up regularly. He would drag her up the stairs by her hair, into their bedroom, and subject her to prolonged attacks. Hours on end, sometimes. And my mum put up with it. She didn’t think she had any choice because she had left her first husband for him. She had made her bed, she said, and now she had to lie in it. But her life with him was one long torment.

Even though Cannock is close in geographical terms to multicultural areas like Wolverhampton and Birmingham, it was, and still is, very ethnically pure. Maybe because it was a mining town, I don’t know. Normally, the only black faces were the ones that were covered in coal dust. Ones like mine, mixed-race faces, weren’t tolerated very well. A neighbour of ours used to hang out of his upstairs window yelling ‘you little black bastard’ at me every time I went out. Back in the late Sixties, a white woman leaving her white husband and white kids for a younger black man was about as shocking as anything could possibly be in a conservative working class community. We used to get all sorts of racist abuse from the neighbours. They put signs in our garden, saying ‘Blackie Go Home’. My mum’s own brother refused to speak to her for 25 years after she hooked up with my dad. Uncle Don got in touch when I became a famous footballer. Funnily enough, he wanted to manage my financial affairs. I gave that the swerve. The separation between him and my mum was never mended. He died a few years ago. She didn’t go the funeral.

I think I blotted a lot of that out until recently, until I actually sat down with my mum and talked with her about it. She cried, and it made me feel angry all over again about the legacy of fears and insecurities my dad bequeathed me: the way I daren’t be alone; the way I have an almost psychopathic desire to be loved; the way I need constant reassurance from a string of women; the way I can’t make any relationship stick.

My dad was an incorrigible womaniser, just as I have been. When my mum went into labour with me on 22 January 1971, he was on the phone in a call box down the road, chatting up a girlfriend. Mum went up to Stone hospital by herself, and when he eventually showed up he was so abusive to the staff that they threw him out. He went off and registered my name anyway, without consulting my mum. He named me after him: Stanley Victor Collymore.

He was from Barbados originally, somewhere near St Andrews and Bathsheba, on the Atlantic side, an educated man who at one time had hoped to become the first black announcer on the island’s national radio station. He was in the RAF when he met my mum at a dance and charmed her off her feet. She left her first husband and three daughters and they flew to Barbados, but she missed the girls too much so they returned and made their lives in Cannock.

They were married in a church in Chadsmoor, on the outskirts of Cannock. Five people there, that’s all, on Christmas Eve 1969. No fuss. Just a short ceremony. Somewhere close by, there was a Methodist college where Arthur Wharton, the first black footballer to play professional football in England, studied when he first arrived from Ghana. I’ve tried to pin down where that Methodist college was several times, all without success.

I don’t remember much about my dad. We finally freed ourselves of him when I was four. I went for a few visits up to his house in Rugeley after that. His idea of light entertainment was playing me educational tapes about sugar cane cultivation in Barbados. We would lie on the carpet in the front room of his house, just listening to someone’s dull voice and watching the tape whirl round on its spool.

Sometimes, when I was playing at my mum’s home – my home – in the side alley, I’d suddenly be aware of a presence and I’d look up and he’d be there, staring at me. He always seemed very sinister and cold to me on the rare occasions he took me back to his house for a visit. He scared me rigid, and with good reason. I don’t recall him laying a finger on me but my mum said he smacked me so hard when I was a six-week-old baby that she thought he had broken my hand. Mostly, though, all I remember is a cold, immaculately dressed man who brought terror into my life. It’s achingly predictable, but a few years ago he started writing letters to my mum, asking her whether I could give him £25,000 for a deposit on a new house. No answer required.

So much of my life since then has been affected by what he did to us and by the fact that there was just my mum to bring me up. It is much, much more than the mere fact of not having had a male influence to guide me. It is the deep, deep fear I have always had of being left alone; the compulsion I have to make sure there is no dead time in my life, that every minute is filled, with either women or with football.

I often think of myself sitting alone in that red-brick house at night, perched on a chair by the front window and staring out towards the main road. My mum worked all the hours God sent at the swimming baths to try to make ends meet. Most nights, after the short walk back home up the hill, she would get back about 10 p.m. If she was just a few minutes late I would start to panic, really lose it. I was petrified that one day she wouldn’t come back and I would have nobody.

My mum seemed old to me. She was 40 when she married my dad. He was 27. I thought she was so old she might pop her clogs any day. When we were going off to football matches, all the other kids had a father and a mother and they all seemed youthful compared to my single parent. However, she did more than her fair share of driving me about to places when I was a kid playing football in the local leagues, and she bought me everything I ever needed. She scrimped and saved and made sure I had the latest football boots and plenty of food on the table. My half-sisters said she spoiled me rotten. But sometimes, I would do something and she would say ‘you’re just like your dad’. It would send a chill through me, even though I knew that she often didn’t even mean it as a criticism, just a nod to genetics.

When I hit my girlfriend Ulrika Jonsson that night in the Auld Alliance pub in Paris during the 1998 World Cup, those words seared through my brain again. Just like your dad. Just like your dad. I knew my mum would be devastated. I knew I had let her down in the worst possible way. The thought of hurting her, as well as the guilt of what I had done in six seconds of madness to somebody I had fallen deeply in love with, was almost too much to bear.

That night in Paris was the start of the death of my football career. It destroyed me. After that night, everybody had an excuse to get rid of me when things got tough, and pretty much everybody did. Except Martin O’Neill. After that night, I knew for certain the pipe dream I’d harboured of being an upstanding, halo-ringed Alan Shearer or Michael Owen figure and to make my mum proud, would never be realised. I knew that the third England cap I had won in the 4–0 win against Moldova in September 1997 would be my last. Even that was only eight minutes at the end of the game as a substitute for Les Ferdinand. I had played two other games for my country, both friendlies against Brazil and Japan, but I had missed out on the festival of the 1996 European Championships in England even though I was playing the best football of my career. Terry Venables chose Alan Shearer, Teddy Sheringham, Robbie Fowler and Ferdinand as his four forwards for that tournament.

I missed out on the World Cup in 1998, too. That was why I was free to go on that tortured trip to France with Ulrika in the first place. I had been in Glenn Hoddle’s squad for the qualifying game against Italy the previous October but my form had collapsed by the following summer and I was injured anyway. Apart from that, Hoddle didn’t really fancy me, even though I had agreed to go and see Eileen Drewery, the healer he put so much faith in, with a few of the other lads.

In the autumn of 1997, before the qualifying tie in the Olympic Stadium in Rome, Hoddle had said he felt I would benefit from a trip to see Eileen. I went with Ian Wright and Paul Ince in Les Ferdinand’s Range Rover to her little bungalow somewhere near Reading. I was last in. Eileen laid me down on the bed and put her hands on my stomach and my head. ‘Do you drink a lot?’ she asked. I said I didn’t. ‘Do you smoke a lot?’ she asked. I said I didn’t. ‘Have you slept with a lot of women?’ she asked. I said: ‘Well, yeah, actually, I have.’ She nodded her head in a kind of knowing way. She seemed happy then.

I felt a bit worried about openly admitting such a thing, even though I had managed to keep my trap shut about the times I had sneaked out of the England team hotel at Burnham Beeches to go over to nearby Cookham Dean and shag Ulrika. I mentioned the questions Eileen had asked me to Les in the car on the way back. He just laughed. He said he’d given her the same answers.

Hoddle seemed pleased. In fact, he was more friendly to me than he ever was before or since on the day after I had been to see Eileen. ‘It’s much better having you around now,’ he said. ‘Eileen told me she’d cleansed your chakras. I can sense a more positive aura around you now.’ Bastard still never put me in the team against Italy. Or in any squad after that, for that matter. And I never got close again.

In another era, I would have won more caps. I scored 41 league goals in 65 games for Nottingham Forest and my only reward was a couple of appearances in the Umbro Cup in the summer of 1995. Think of how few goals Wayne Rooney has scored and how many caps he has got. Think about my pal Darius Vassell and his comparatively spartan returns for Villa and how many caps he has got. I’m not knocking Rooney or Darius. It’s just that England caps seem easier to come by these days. If my career had started three or four years ago, I would have had 40 England caps by now.

I had one glimpse of what might have been. In my debut, against Japan at Wembley, Shearer burst through in the first five minutes. There was a defender between him and the goalkeeper but I was free on his left. If he had squared it, I could have passed the ball into an open goal. What a start that would have been. Of course, the greedy bastard went for goal and missed by a mile. On such moments, international careers stand and fall, especially if you are pigeon-holed as a maverick, as I was.

I knew in my heart that my £7 million move to Aston Villa from Liverpool in the summer of 1997 had been a step down for me, and that my career was starting to slide. When I had joined Liverpool from Forest two years earlier, they had paid £8.5 million for me, a British transfer record at a time when the popularity of football was exploding in this country. Shearer usurped that, too, when Newcastle paid £15 million to take him from Blackburn to Newcastle, and in the years after the 1998 World Cup I started to live my life in football’s shadows.

The Ulrika thing. The thing in Paris. I can never quite bear to say ‘the night I hit Ulrika’. I think it’s a device I use to spare myself the full horror of the recollection. Whatever euphemism I use to refer to the moment when I hit her, it can’t disguise the fact that that moment and its repercussions nearly killed me. I know some people will say that’s my fault, that I am just reaping what I sowed, and I will never ever seek to suggest that I did not do a terrible thing that night. But it was six seconds of madness, something I have never done before and something I will never do again. And yet it has stayed with me. It has stuck to me more than anything I ever achieved for Forest or Liverpool or Villa. It has blighted my life from that moment to this.

When I was trying to build a new career in broadcasting, doing some summarising for Five Live and presenting a few shows of my own in the Midlands, it gave me intense satisfaction, a real buzz that was as good as the buzz I got from football. But, even before they dropped me like a hot potato when The Sun revealed I was involved in dogging activities, I still felt obstacles were put in my way because of that terrible night in Paris that had happened six years previously. The truth is, some people still remember it as if it was yesterday.

I’m not complaining about the criticism I got at the time. Even if it was all a bit bewildering, even if it felt as if I was about to be ripped to pieces by a lynch mob, I accept that what I did was an appallingly stupid, misguided and awful thing. I had built myself into a state about various things surrounding our relationship. I was jealous. I was deeply in love with her. But those are not excuses. They are just meant as statements of fact.

I realised how hard the struggle to rebuild my reputation was going to be one Saturday night before the 2002 World Cup when I was doing the 606 phone-in show with the radio commentator Alan Green on Five Live. We had got to the last few minutes of the programme when a punter rang in and said he thought I should be in Sven-Goran Eriksson’s World Cup squad. England were due to face Sweden, Argentina and Nigeria in the group phase but this was obviously a set-up because I had retired by then. Anyway, like an idiot I gave the guy his cue and asked him why he thought that. ‘Because you’re good at beating Swedes,’ he said. I was embarrassed. In fact, I was mortified. Greenie got rid of the guy straight away but it was awkward. Afterwards, the producers said not to worry about it and I did my best to put it out of my mind.

I was due to do a third consecutive 606 the following Saturday, too, but some time in the middle of the week, I got a call from Peter Salmon, the BBC’s Head of Sport. He said there had been a change of plan. They weren’t going to give me the show because there was no time delay and they didn’t want to risk any more dodgy calls.

I was desperately, desperately disappointed. And I was angry. I just felt so insulted. I was doing the job well, but because this thing reared its head they just caved in and took me off the air. I thought that was the end of it. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to broadcast. I thought if people were going to knock me at every opportunity, what was the point. I thought that if I wasn’t even going to be allowed to get past ‘Go’, what was I going to do?

For a while, I had tried to be whiter than white. When I was summarising for the BBC, I made sure I got to the game two hours early. I behaved like Mary Poppins, basically, which didn’t give me too much scope for having a bad day or coming down with the flu or something like that. I was professionalism personified, but even before the dogging scandal I was still blackballed by the BBC governors for a celebrity Come Dancing programme they were putting on. The programme-makers wanted me but the people higher up put a veto on me. They binned me and chose Martin Offiah, the former rugby-league player, in my place.

I know I did wrong that night in Paris, but sometimes the punishments that I am still suffering seem out of all proportion. Look at people like Johnny Vaughan and Leslie Grantham who have been rehabilitated after crimes they committed many, many years ago. My crime was to hit a woman, a woman who happens to be a very popular and attractive television personality. It was wrong and I will regret it bitterly until the day I die. But I didn’t put anyone in hospital. I didn’t kill anybody. I didn’t run somebody over when I was drunk behind the wheel. And yet, sometimes it feels that some people treat me as if I had.

The fresh bout of depression the 606 incident plunged me into led me to the brink of suicide. I had lost the joy I used to get from football long before that, and from the time I joined Liverpool right through to when I went into the Priory and beyond, it felt like I was having to endure on a weekly basis the kind of crises most people only have to deal with once or twice in their lives.

Perhaps that sounds self-pitying. Maybe it is. But it felt like I was having to put up with a lot. The media impinging on my private life. All the shit that went with that. And I knew I was barely dealing with it. I knew I was barely keeping a lid on everything. I had to do something about it or I knew I wouldn’t see 40. Ending it all was starting to seem increasingly tempting. But I also thought about all the things that would be a waste if I ended up topping myself.

I thought about my son, Tom, my child from a relationship with a Cannock girl called Michelle Green. Tom was born in 1996 while I was away with England at Burnham Beeches. You want to know how I met Michelle? I saw her washing her car in the driveway of her parents’ home. I was driving past but I stopped my car, wound down the window and asked her out. We only had a brief relationship, but she got pregnant and we had Tom.

The relationship with Michelle hasn’t exactly been plain sailing either. I suppose with my attitude towards fidelity, plain sailing is never really going to be too high on the agenda. I had a blazing row with her about access to Tom just before Christmas in 1997. It ended with me storming out of the house I had bought for her and slamming the door hard on my way out. I drove my car round the corner to talk it all through with my mates Paul and Caroline at their house and parked outside.

Half an hour later, the police arrived and arrested me on suspicion of assault. Michelle had called them and claimed I had knocked her out cold and kicked the door off its hinges to get to her. I was released and then re-arrested on Christmas Eve. The second time, you could have been forgiven for thinking they’d just found Osama Bin Laden. I walked out of the door and there was one black maria parked on the pavement to my right and another to the left. Both full of coppers. The only thing missing was a sniper on the roof and a helicopter circling overhead.

I pleaded not guilty and the case went to Crown Court and a two-day trial. We both gave evidence and the jury found me innocent. There was no evidence against me because I had not done any of the things she said. There was no damage to the door and there was certainly no damage to Michelle. The judge said there was no stain on my character and I could go. However, when Paris happened people remembered the false charges Michelle had made and wondered whether there had been some substance to them after all.

Michelle and I don’t talk about any of that now. We treat it as if it never happened. We have a good relationship. I pay her Child Support and I see Tom, who is eight now, whenever I want. Tom was one of the reasons I decided to quit playing football and move back to Cannock in 2001. I wanted to see more of him. I resent the years I missed when he was growing up. I had him a lot when he was a baby, but then, as what was left of the relationship between Michelle and me degenerated into wrangles about pay-offs and maintenance, I hardly saw him again until he was five.

More than that, I resent the years my mum missed because she was caught up in the bitterness between us. Michelle used to say my mum could see Tom as long as she didn’t take him anywhere near my house. So she used to push him around Cannock in his pram in the pouring rain just to snatch a few precious hours with him.

Tom’s growing up fast now and I love him to bits. He plays for one of the kids teams at Cannock. I think he might have the talent to make it as a professional if things go his way. When I was thinking about suicide, I didn’t want to leave him. I thought about Tom, and about my mum who had suffered so much and sacrificed so much. I thought about my wife, Estelle. For some of the time when I first began what has become a recurring flirtation with suicide, she was pregnant with our daughter, Mia. Estelle had stood by me for so long and weathered so many storms and tolerated so many indiscretions.

From the time I went into the Priory in January 1999 until the beginning of 2003, I was so low generally that thinking about suicide actually gave me a lift. It was a way out that was a clean no-brainer. I think that’s why a lot of people do it. Part of me wanted it because I knew that if I did it I wouldn’t have to think about the things that were torturing me any more.

I was a total mess back then. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t structure my day properly. I’d be sitting in bed in the morning watching Trisha and all these people with their problems. I couldn’t face having a shower or getting dressed. Those all seemed like major events I didn’t want to confront. And, of course, Estelle was growing increasingly exasperated with me because I was sitting around the house like a zombie.

I came close to doing myself in a few times in that period. Estelle found me sitting in my flat in Birmingham with a belt round my neck. I was just sitting there like a fucking dick, my hands tightening this belt, the telly flickering in the corner. On another occasion we had a row about something, she walked out and I slit my wrists. I didn’t do it big. I didn’t want to go the full way. I just wanted to give myself the option to do it. It wasn’t even really a cry for help because I didn’t tell anybody about it, but it bled badly enough for me to have to bandage myself up.

Mostly, I used to think about hanging myself. I thought that would be the best way. In fact, I was reading a lot of stuff about quick ways to die at that time. It was all the stuff about making sure the length of rope was right for your weight.

But when it came to it, I didn’t have the bottle for that either. Not then, anyway. Now it’s not bottle that’s stopping me. I’m not sure what stops me now. Sometimes, especially since the dogging was exposed and I was ridiculed again and my relationship with Estelle finally crumbled, I still think suicide is just around the corner. But back then I used to sit there thinking about what would happen if I was on a fucking tree branch 30 feet up and I’m just stuck there dangling and I can’t breathe but I don’t die. If it had been a case of just doing it so it would all be over and done with, then great. But it never happened because I think more than anything the mere thought of suicide was just this release valve. Rather than staring into space thinking about ways of dragging myself out of this depression, rather than taking tough decisions, I could just go out into the garden or into the woods and it would all be over. How I got through that time, I don’t know. I just kept telling myself to grind on through it. But there were plenty of days when I thought the only way out was to pull the chain on it.

Perhaps I didn’t do it because my mum never pulled the chain on me. Perhaps it was because when I thought about what she had been through, it seemed somewhere in the back of my mind like cowardice to take an easy way out. Perhaps it was because when I asked her about what her life with me and my dad was like, the realisation of how strong she had had to be gave me some strength, too.

It wasn’t easy for her talking about it. When other families go through their photo albums, they see happy, smiling faces staring back out of them. But one of the pictures we remember best is one of my birthday parties. She’s there with a birthday cake, gazing into the camera with a black eye that my dad had given her. She wept when she talked about those days in my early childhood:

I made a dreadful mistake when I left my first husband. He was a really nice fella. He was a director of a small firm in Cannock and he worked hard. When he worked in Wolverhampton, he would cycle all the way there and all the way back. But we married when I was 19. We had three kids. I suppose there wasn’t much glamour in my life.

Stan’s dad was a charmer. He was a good-looking fella, tall and handsome. Everyone liked him. Particularly women. I had a blonde beehive hairdo back then and I caught his eye. When I left my first husband, we went to Barbados for a few weeks and stayed in a kind of shack amid the sugar cane where he had been brought up. I started to realise I’d made a terrible mistake when I saw him smash that shack up in a fit of anger.

I tried to leave Barbados without him but he followed me back to England. By then, my first husband had found somebody else so Stan’s dad and I moved back into the council house I had been living in before. He was 13 years younger than me. He went to work in the tax office in Cannock and pretty soon Stan was born. But everything had already gone terribly wrong by then.

When I was seven months pregnant with Stan, we had an argument about something and he put a telephone cord around my neck and tried to strangle me. I called the police, obviously, but in those days they were far more blasé about domestic violence. They just said, ‘Have a cup of tea and talk it over and everything will be all right after a good night’s sleep.’

When Stan was a few months old, his dad began to teach at a college in Birmingham. I was called in one day to be told that one of his students had had a nervous breakdown because she had got entangled in a love affair with him. She was just the first. Soon after that, I got a phone call from a woman who said she and my husband were getting married and who then asked when I was moving out of the house.

One of his girlfriends was the daughter of the manager of the Co-op in Cannock, and that poor girl even bought a wedding dress. She was so convinced that she was his sweetheart. I don’t know if it was because he was frustrated at not being able to be with these women more, but he began to hit me regularly then and things got worse and worse.

During the four years we were married, I had to go to the hospital several times. He broke my jaw with a punch once. On another occasion he cut me over the eye when he clouted me with a heavy brush. That was the time Stan tried to intervene; that is Stan’s first memory. I went up to the hospital to have it stitched because the cut was bleeding dreadfully and they found the bruises on my arms and stomach. I told them I had fallen off a ladder.

Mostly, he would drag me up to our bedroom by the hair and beat me there. I think his logic was that the bed sagged when he was hitting me so the punches wouldn’t bruise me as badly and it wouldn’t be so obvious what he was doing. The lady that lived next door to us always knew when there was a problem, because when I knew I was going to get a beating I would beg Stan’s dad to let me close all the windows first so the neighbours wouldn’t hear. I’d plead with him not to shout, so the neighbours wouldn’t know I was being beaten up.

He was such a strange mix, Stan’s dad, very formal and always immaculately dressed to the point where he might change his shirt two or three times a day. He would ring me from work and tell me when I could go shopping but that I mustn’t be away more than an hour. And I would have to be back, because if he rang and I wasn’t there he would come and look for me and I would get knocked about again at home.

And then, of course, there was the abuse we used to get as a family, the racial abuse that almost hurt more than my husband’s punches. Jeff’s mum was one of the worst. It was always stuff about how I should move away because I had married a black man. The things she said to me were so dreadful that once, when she had said something particularly cruel to Stan, I went round and asked her to come out into the garden so I could give her what she deserved. I’m ashamed of that now. I wonder if she’s ashamed. She wouldn’t come out into the garden anyway.

Stan won’t talk about it much but they used to do terrible things to him, too. One day, I was walking over to the garages at the other end of our circle of houses and I saw a group of boys coming across the field, making another boy crawl through the grass on his hands and knees. The boy on his hands and knees was Stan and they were weeing on him, actually weeing on him, as he crawled.

Stan used to get it from his dad, too. Not physical abuse, but he would do really strange things. He bought Stan a toy cat once and then one day when he came round he took the cat upstairs with him and disappeared for ages. When he had gone, I went to look for it and he had cut it up into tiny pieces and left it scattered across the bed.

People always wonder why I didn’t leave him earlier but where was I going to go? My mother lived with us and by that time she had Alzheimer’s disease. There was nowhere to go. They didn’t have refuges for battered wives then. And I felt I had made my choice and I had to live with it. I’d lost a lot of my friends, too, because they were too ashamed to come round and see me any more. I found out afterwards he had been visiting a few of them and they … well, they liked him.

Eventually, though, I just couldn’t put up with it any longer. He started hitting one of my daughters, too, so I got a divorce and got him kicked out. Even after that he would prowl around on the land at the back of the house. He rang me and threatened to cut my throat, and I had to make Stan a ward of court to keep him away. Sometimes, I could just sense his presence outside. I just knew he had come to watch us. They stopped him coming into Cannock but he never disappeared. He kept writing to me, kept saying he knew that I had never married again because I still loved him.

Stan isn’t like him. Just because he has been a womaniser doesn’t mean he is like him. Stan has got friends. Stan tries to do his best for others. I was ashamed of him when he hit Ulrika but that’s the only time I have been ashamed of him. I had always pleaded with him, ‘be kind to ladies’. But that one incident doesn’t make him like his dad. Not by a million miles.

I know wives who have been victims of violent husbands sometimes say this, but in many ways I blame myself. You see, I never loved Stan’s dad. Even my first husband, I never missed him after I left him. I think that’s just my way. Perhaps it’s just that I never met the right fella, but I don’t think I’m capable of loving anybody apart from my kids.

I’ve never tried to find my dad. But just after Christmas last year, he found me. He sent me an e-mail after I’d written a piece in the Daily Mirror touching on some of the abuse he had handed out to my mum. He said that he considered I was lost to the black side of my family and that I had been corrupted by white ways of thinking. He said that if I ever criticised the black race as a whole, I had better keep looking over my shoulder because he would be coming for me.

It made me laugh really. Partly because he hadn’t wasted any time trying to renew my acquaintance ten years or so ago when he suddenly realised I might be earning a decent wedge at Nottingham Forest. Funny that, isn’t it? Him and my Uncle Don, who’d combined to make life so difficult for my mother, united by a love of money that conquered all their hostility towards my mother in a trice. What a pair of sad bastards. Pathetic specimens of humanity.

I laughed, too, because my dad’s threats made me think of the time when I was at Forest and I had my hair dyed blonde. I looked like a right twat, to be honest with you. Frank Clark, the Forest manager, said I should spend more time on the training pitch and less at the hair salon and I might improve myself as a player. Point taken.

A couple of days later, I opened a newspaper to see a picture of my dad staring out at me as large as life. I hadn’t seen him, even a picture of him, for more than 10 years. He had a handsome face and he was wearing smart, elegant, Seventies-style clothes. He wasn’t being very complimentary about me, though. It was the same sort of stuff. How I was trying to turn myself into a white boy. How he had always wanted me to play cricket for the West Indies, not be a common footballer. What struck me most was that I did not feel a thing. No hurt. No hatred. No despair. Why should I after what he had done to us? Why should I after the legacy he had bequeathed to me? If he had a soul left, my dad had just sold it. And I didn’t feel a thing.