Mr Unbelievable!
Chris Kamara

Fighting Like Beavers on the Front Line of Football

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of my parents Irene and Albert

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

A Note to Reader

Team Sheet

Foreword by Jeff Stelling

THE FIRST HALF

CHAPTER ONE GROUND-HOPPING WITH KAMMY PT 1 (ON THE ROAD WITH SOCCER SATURDAY)

CHAPTER TWO ‘HE COULDN’T HIT A BARN DOOR WITH A BANJO!’

CHAPTER THREE SMILE, YOU’RE ON KAMARACAM…

CHAPTER FOUR KAMMY’S TV TWERP

CHAPTER FIVE UNBELIEVABLE, JEFF! (HOW I CAUGHT A CATCHPHRASE)

CHAPTER SIX GROUND-HOPPING WITH KAMMY PT 2 (TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM ON SOCCER AM)

CHAPTER SEVEN KAMMYOKE!

CHAPTER EIGHT JEFF AND THE CRAZY GANG

CHAPTER NINE EASY LIKE SUNDAY MORNING

CHAPTER TEN NAME DROPPING

HALF-TIME KAMMY ANALYSIS AND STATS

THE SECOND HALF

CHAPTER ELEVEN I’M NO ZINEDINE ZIDANE, BUT…

CHAPTER TWELVE KICK IT OUT

CHAPTER THIRTEEN IN THE DRY DOCK

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (NOT) THE LAST OF THE INTERNATIONAL PLAYBOYS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN CSI: SWINDON – DEATH THREATS AND POLICE ESCORTS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN BUZZING WITH BOWLESY

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN MY RETURN TO SWINDON…(OR, HOW NOT TO BE A PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALLER)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN FRANK MCAVENNIE: THE TRUTH

CHAPTER NINETEEN SERVING SERGEANT WILKO

CHAPTER TWENTY WISH YOU WERE HERE? (MY LIFE ON THE MOTORWAYS)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE LIFE IN THE DUGOUT

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO UNBELIEVABLE, GEOFFREY!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE THE SACK RACE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR THE FAX ABOUT STOKE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE THE LAST WORD

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

A Note to Reader

Like an afternoon in front of Soccer Saturday, Mr Unbelievable is a game of two halves, complete with some big-match punditry from your host Jeff Stelling and plenty of shouting, giggling and nonsensical babbling from your author. Get the kettle on, put your feet up and watch the fun kick off. Enjoy the show…

Kammy

A Premiership touchline near you, 2010

Team Sheet

MR UNBELIEVABLE!

TIME: MONDAY NIGHT, KICK-OFF 8.00 P.M.

WHERE: FRATTON PARK, VALLEY PARADE, ELLAND ROAD, WEMBLEY AND MANY, MANY MORE…

HEROES

Kammy… | Himself
Anne… | Mrs Kammy
Ben, Jack… | The Kammettes
Albert Kamara… | Dad
Irene Kamara… | Mam
George… | Brother
Maria… | Sister
Jeff Stelling… | Mr Soccer Saturday
Le Tiss, Thommo, Merse, etc.… | The Soccer Saturday panel
Johnny Giles, Eric McMordie… | Boyhood heroes
Sir Alex Ferguson… | The Best
Vic Wakeling… | Sky impresario
Steve Gibson… | Boro chairman, schoolpal
Harry Redknapp… | Top, top bloke
José Mourinho… | The Special One
Sven-Goran Eriksson… | Dinner date

SUPPORTING CAST

Howard Wilkinson… | Visionar
Ian St John, Frank Burrows… | Pompey managers
Stan Bowles… | Gambler
Terry Hurlock | Hard man
Vinnie Jones… | Actor
Gordon Strachan Lee Chapman, etc.… | Leeds team-mates
Danny Williams, Bobby Smith, etc.… | Swindon managers
Lou Macari… | Disciplinarian
Frank McLintock… | Brentford manager
Gazza… | Genius
Mick Mills… | Stoke manager
Alan Ball… | World Cup winner
Neil Warnock… | Loose cannon
Papa Bouba Diop… | The Man Mountain
Geoffrey Richmond… | Bradford City chairman
John Hollins’s backside… | Goal thief, Arsenal
Radley Smith… | Brain surgeon
Frank McAvennie… | Injured playboy
Referees… | Know-alls
Stephen Bywater… | Pottymouth

VILLAINS

Jim Melrose… | Opponent
Bobby McGuiness… | Dodgy car salesman
Geoffrey Richmond… | Bradford City chairman
John Hollins’s backside… | Goal thief, Arsena
Radley Smith | Brain surgeon
Frank McAvennie… | Injured playboy
Referees… | Know-alls
Stephen Bywater… | Pottymouth

Foreword
THE BIG-MATCH BUILD-UP

With your host, Jeff Stelling

Good morning/afternoon/evening (delete as applicable), dear reader, and welcome to your copy of Mr Unbelievable, one of the most anticipated literary fixtures of the season. Well, at least in the Royal Bank of Kammy, where shares have taken a slight tumble following collapses in the Soccer Saturday accumulator. According to our very own financial analyst (Paul Merson), Kammy has clocked up more negative numbers than a Manchester City financial report. Your shrewd investment will keep his Goals on Sunday shirts bright and pristine for the forthcoming season. You should feel very proud.

It’s also money well spent, because Mr Unbelievable delivers far more than your average ex-footballer’s autobiography. I’ve noticed that this work doesn’t pull any punches when discussing former team-mates, managers and Soccer Saturday panellists.

Anyway, I’m honoured to be introducing such a literary masterpiece. As the suave, granny-magnet host of Countdown, I think I’m amply qualified for the task, but I have been pondering on how best to whet your appetites for the chapters ahead. Chances are you’re already familiar with Kammy’s role on Soccer Saturday, so I’ll avoid detailing his greatest moments or blunders. The author does this very ably himself, somewhere around the front of the book.

You’re probably also familiar with Kammy’s day job. It won’t come as a surprise to you that in Sky’s lengthy contract, the details of his role include giggling like a schoolgirl, mispronouncing the names of Europe’s football elite and shouting ‘Unbelievable!’ into my earpiece at Glastonbury Festival volumes. All of this is covered, too. Instead, I’ll list five amazing, incredible and tantalising facts about his playing career which should prepare you for the excitement ahead.

1/ UNBELIEVABLE!

Kammy’s had more death threats than George W. Bush. And not from viewers of Soccer Saturday. As one of the few black players in English football during the 1970s and early 1980s, Kammy was a target for racist organisations such as the National Front. He came through this horrible affair unscathed.

2/ UNBELIEVABLE!

He’s played at Wembley. For a real football team. No kidding.

3/ UNBELIEVABLE!

He’s managed a club to Wembley glory, too. I won’t tell you which one. Giving it away would be like revealing the end of a J.K. Rowling novel, though some of you should know already.

4/ UNBELIEVABLE!

Eric Cantona was his replacement at Leeds. Seriously, I’m not drunk. Though Eric was hardly filling the boots of Cristiano Ronaldo, it has to be said.

5/ UNBELIEVABLE!

He played for England. Once. But not in the way that you’d think.

So with these tantalising nuggets delivered, it’s time for you to enjoy the rest of the show. It’s quite a performance. Just don’t believe any of the scurrilous gossip featuring yours truly. I can assure you it’s all lies.

Jeff Stelling

Winchester Service Station (northbound), 2010

Dictionary Corner

UNBELIEVABLE!

COLLINS DICTIONARY DEFINITION: Unbelievable adj unable to be believed; incredible. Unbelievability n. Unbelievably adv. Unbeliever n a person who does not believe, esp. in religious matters.

UNBELIEVABLE!

SOCCER SATURDAY DEFINITION: Unbelievable adj incredible; (loosely) Magic! ‘Worldy!’ (world class) Top drawer! Out of this world! Unbelievably adv. Unbeliever n a person who does not believe in the goal, tackle, fluffed pen or refereeing decision that has taken place in front of his very eyes; a habitually incredulous person; Kammy.

THE FIRST HALF

CHAPTER ONE GROUND-HOPPING WITH KAMMY PT 1 (ON THE ROAD WITH SOCCER SATURDAY)

To the untrained eye of your girlfriend or granny, Soccer Saturday looks like a nuthouse in action. If you haven’t seen it, here’s the basic idea behind the show: four ex-professional footballers of varying repute – Phil Thompson (Liverpool fan club), Paul Merson (reformed gambler), Matt Le Tissier (saint) and Charlie Nicholas (playboy) – sit at a News at Ten style desk every Saturday afternoon and each watches one of four Premiership games on a row of tellies positioned in front them.

Over the course of 90 minutes, their job is to explain the action as it happens, usually through a series of shouts, groans and girly squeals. Meanwhile anchorman Jeff Stelling (or ‘Stelling, Jeff Stelling’, as he introduces himself to members of the opposite sex) delivers the news of every goal, booking and red card around the country via a vidiprinter that runs at the bottom of the screen. Even to the well-trained eye, Soccer Saturday looks like a loony bin.

My role in all of this is to act as a roving reporter. Every weekend, I’ll be sent to some far-flung corner of the country to report on a game from a TV gantry, whatever the weather. It’s a risky business. One day I’m standing in front of thousands of Pompey fans at Fratton Park in the pouring rain, the next I’m dangling under the roof at White Hart Lane. I bloody love it.

There are a lot of perks to being an intrepid touchline reporter with Soccer Saturday. For starters, I stay in some of the best hotels around the country and can eat as many motorway service station sarnies as I want. I also get a complimentary Sky Sports coat, which makes me look far more important than I am. When it comes to a Saturday afternoon, I watch some of the best footballers in the world strut their stuff, for free.

The biggest bonus as far as I’m concerned is that I’ve got the freedom of most of the stadiums in the Premiership. I can pop into the manager’s office at White Hart Lane or wander into the dressing-rooms at Sunderland without any hassle. I’ve sat in the stands with Arsène Wenger at the Emirates and made reports from the dugouts at Craven Cottage. I’ve even had a heated discussion with Gérard Houllier on the touchline at Anfield, though I always draw the line at taking liberties at Old Trafford. The thought of getting a Sir Fergie ‘hairdryer’ scares me, although I have to say I get on well with him these days.

Generally, I get a greater access to the inner workings of a football club than most other football reporters would because people know me from the telly. If I’m at Goodison Park or Stamford Bridge, I rarely have to flash a pass and I can sometimes have a free run of the stadium, which is a bit like getting the keys to Disneyland. It also helps that I’ve built up a level of trust among the boys in the game. Most managers know that I won’t take the mickey too much when I’m wandering around their ground with the cameras. Often they will tell me things over a cuppa that they wouldn’t tell another reporter (but only if we’re off air). They know I’m a football person and I’m not going to blab my mouth off for the viewers. Well, not all of the time.

Most of the Premier League managers and Football League managers look after me when I’m on the road. Harry Redknapp at Spurs is as good as gold. I’ll visit him before a game when I’m reporting at White Hart Lane and we’ll have a chinwag, usually about football and horses. We’ll watch the early kick-off together, then around ten to three he’ll kick me out: ‘All right, Kammy, off you pop, I’ve got a spot of work to do.’

Most of the gaffers will invite me in for a drink with them after the game. Sam Allardyce is good for a beer in his office. Alex McLeish at Birmingham, Steve Bruce at Sunderland and another old-school manager, Roy Hodgson, will always tell me to come into their offices for a bevy. I used to have a small shot of brandy with my old mate Gary Megson when he was in charge at Bolton. Once or twice it was before the match. Who can blame him? The abuse some of the fans were chucking his way at that time was unreal. They didn’t like the way Bolton were playing and would boo him, whatever the result. And I just needed it (hic!).

As a former manager myself, I know when I’m not wanted. If a mate’s team has lost or even drawn, I’ll always stay away from the office, unless I’m invited in. Losing is bad enough for a player, but I know from experience that losing as a gaffer is much, much worse. You feel a real pressure on your shoulders and Big Sam or Brucey wouldn’t want me sitting at their desk, taking the mickey with a complimentary bottle of lager, especially if they had been hammered at home.

I always used to love seeing Bobby Robson whenever I travelled around the North-east, because he was such a great man. He was always hospitable at Newcastle and he would talk your ears off about this player or that player. Sometimes he wanted to chat about a game he had watched on the telly, and it was always a joy because he was so knowledgeable. It was hard to see him as he fought cancer at the end of his life and he was being pushed around in a wheelchair. Bobby wasn’t the same person and it was heartbreaking.

It won’t come as a great shock to learn that I still feel intimidated when I bump into Sir Alex Ferguson. He has an attitude which makes you feel like you’re imposing on his time, wherever you are, but the little insights you get from him in interviews are always fascinating. In general, the managers from the likes of Arsenal, Liverpool and Chelsea have kept me at arm’s length, so far. I’ll always talk to Arsène Wenger when I’m at the Emirates, but I don’t go into his office, and Rafa Benitez has never invited me into the famous Liverpool boot room either.

The exception to that rule was José Mourinho. He was great with me when he was in charge at Chelsea. Well, he was for a while. It eventually turned sour with Sky and The Special One after an incident involving Chelsea midfielder Michael Essien, but we’ll come to that in a moment. We first met before a Carling Cup tie at Fulham and seemed to hit it off.

‘I like you very much,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘I like listening to you and Andy Gray. You educate the public on the game.’

It was really uplifting hearing it from a football man like him. I could hardly get the headphones on my swelling bonce afterwards. We struck up a great friendship immediately and he always made me feel at home whenever I visited Stamford Bridge. José loved Soccer AM and its silly humour and I remember we really took the mickey on the show while he was serving a European touchline ban after an ugly bust-up with referee Anders Frisk.

It happened during a Champions League game with Barcelona in 2005–06. José had been unhappy with the way the game had been handled and made some derogatory comments about Frisk. UEFA were not happy and banned José from the touchline for two games. They even called him an ‘enemy of football’. The punishment also prevented him from having any contact with his players once they had arrived at the ground, which meant he effectively had to stay away from the game completely.

That didn’t stop José from influencing the match. On the evening of Chelsea’s next Champions League fixture, he sat at home (well, that’s what we were told). On the bench, his coaching staff were wearing woolly hats; it was cold, but not that cold. I watched the game on the telly and noticed that Steve Clarke, José’s assistant, was continually touching his ear and relaying information to the players immediately afterwards. I put two and two together and came up with a scam in which José was keeping touch with his staff via high-tech headsets. I wasn’t the only one with the same theory. It was also just the sort of clever stunt that José would pull. He denied the rumours when they were floated in the press the next day, but it looked so obvious. It was even suggested that José had been smuggled into the ground in a skip, to get as close to the action as possible, without being visible to UEFA. Nothing was actually proven and the club have never admitted it.

By luck I was at Chelsea the following weekend with Soccer AM, the Saturday-morning show then presented by Tim Lovejoy and Helen Chamberlain. José had given us permission to use the dressing-rooms for filming, as he always did, but I had a surprise up my sleeve. Chelsea’s kit man, Billy Blood, had given me an official woolly hat. I went into the home dugout to film a report, and the hat was pulled over my head but a mobile phone was stuck to the fabric with Sellotape, mimicking the antics from the week before. When our cameras went live, I could hardly stop laughing as I did an impression of Chelsea’s backroom staff that night. I heard José took it in good spirits, too.

Sadly, our relationship changed when Sky’s use of the action replay annoyed José. It happened during a Champions League game between Chelsea and Liverpool when Michael Essien clashed with Liverpool’s Dietmar Hamann at Stamford Bridge. It was an ugly tackle and it was shown over and over again on Sky Sports News. Once it was out there, UEFA had to act, and Essien was banned retrospectively. Because it was the Champions League, the incident was televised on different stations around the planet, but for some reason José personally blamed Sky for Essien’s suspension. He cooled noticeably whenever our cameras were on him and his attitude towards me changed. He wasn’t as friendly or welcoming as he had been in the past.

He was entitled to do whatever he wanted, of course, but the truth is, I was disappointed. José was a breath of fresh air when he first arrived from Porto and he was a joy to work with. I’ll be honest, I thought the sun shone out of his backside. The Michael Essien incident put a big, grey cloud in the way, which was a real shame.

A less imposing character was the former referee Paul Alcock. If that name rings bells it’s because he was the Premiership ref who was infamously pushed over by the former Sheffield Wednesday and West Ham hothead (and brilliant striker, it has to be said), Paolo Di Canio. It was a fiery situation. Paolo had been sent off during a game between Wednesday and Arsenal and he reacted to the red card by pushing the ref over. Alcock had barely been touched, but judging by his tumble, you’d have thought he’d been thumped by Mike Tyson. The fall was so exaggerated it was hilarious.

Our paths crossed for the first time several years later when Alcock was the referee’s assessor for an FA Cup tie between Southend and non-league Canvey Island. I was there as co-commentator for Sky Sports. It should have been a fairly run-of-the-mill evening, but trouble started as we waited for the teams to come out for the warm-up. I had spotted Alcock chatting to my colleague commentator Martin Tyler in the tunnel. When they’d finished I couldn’t help myself and I gave Alcock a little playful shove. I thought it was really funny, but he was stunned. He lost it.

‘You are a joke!’ he screamed, in a funny high-pitched squeal. ‘A chuffing disgrace’ (only he didn’t say ‘chuffing’).

Alcock then turned to John Smart, Sky’s senior floor manager (the grey-haired bloke you’ll always see at live games, sticking his thumb up on the touchline so the ref knows when to start a match). ‘I want him reported because that’s out of order,’ he shouted, not seeing the funny side. Thankfully, John ignored him and Alcock shuffled off to the referees’ room in a right strop. I turned to John, completely confused by the reaction.

‘What the hell was all that about?’ I asked. Before I could get an answer, the door to the referees’ room reopened. A red-faced Alcock emerged and kicked off again.

‘Four years ago that happened and I have been getting it in the neck ever since,’ he yelled, clearly upset.

I raised my hands in apology. ‘Paul, if it upset you, I’m sorry.’

‘Apology accepted,’ he said, sulking off to his room.

I couldn’t believe it. If anything, Alcock should have been dining out on the Di Canio incident. I obviously touched a raw nerve that night, but I’ll say one thing, he did well to stand on his feet in the Canvey tunnel because it was a fair push I gave him. Far harder than the one Di Canio dished out.

Paul Alcock wasn’t the only person I annoyed that night. Stan Collymore was also in the ground because he was hoping to make a comeback as a player-manager at Southend. Stan had played for Villa and Liverpool and was one hell of a striker in his day, but word from Roots Hall suggested a successful return to the game was unlikely. I told Sky Sports the sad news.

‘I’m not sure he is going to get the job,’ I said. ‘And it would be difficult for him to get back to being even half the player he was. Even then he looked bloated and overweight and I don’t know what Southend would be letting themselves in for.’

Stan was really annoyed by my analysis. My mobile bleeped shortly afterwards.

‘You’re out of order about my weight,’ read the text. ‘Thanks for your support. Stan.’

I sent a reply, telling Stan that I always said it as I saw it and that I hoped there were no hard feelings.

Gérard Houllier, the Liverpool boss between 1998 and 2004, was somebody I shared a prickly relationship with. It all started during Sheffield United’s memorable Worthington Cup run in 2003, when they were eventually tied with Liverpool in the semi-finals. In a lively first leg at Bramall Lane there was a spicy touchline spat with United gaffer Neil Warnock – a self-confessed trouble-starter – and Liverpool’s assistant manager (and Soccer Saturday panellist) Phil Thompson. Somehow, I got caught in the crossfire.

A row between those two was always on the cards. Neil is the first to admit that he thrives in an argument. Thommo, meanwhile, is a one-man office of the Liverpool Supporters’ Association (Sky Sports wing). Opposition fans used to sing ‘Sit down, Pinnochio’ whenever he raced out of the dugout, (a) because he liked to moan and (b) because he has a massive hooter.

My problems started when Gérard had given the details of the Liverpool line-up to Sky Sports commentator Ian Crocker in the build-up to the game. As I was the co-commentator for the game, Ian passed it on to me about four hours before the kick-off. This is common practice for companies who have the broadcasting rights for live matches. It’s also helpful inside information. It gives the commentators and support staff some time to prepare themselves on the players and tactics for the match. Importantly, there is also an agreement that this is confidential information which should never be revealed to the opposition manager.

When I saw Gérard by the side of the pitch before kick-off, I asked if I could go through Liverpool’s formation with him. He was as good as gold and willingly went through the team in detail. This is something I attempt to do with all the managers before a game. I want to be familiar with their systems, formations and teams. I don’t pretend to be a smart Alec. I would rather know exactly what a manager is thinking before the match. It also allows me to analyse any tactical changes as the game unfolds.

Despite Liverpool being the better team that night, two late goals from Michael Tonge meant Sheffield United took the home leg 2–1. Just before the final whistle Gérard and Thommo had a massive touchline bust-up with Warnock. It was all handbags stuff. Something must have been said, but it soured the mood between the two camps.

At the time, I remember, results weren’t good at Anfield. Gérard was being criticised for the team’s performance and the media were raising eyebrows at his work in the transfer market. It didn’t help that Soccer Saturday decided to put the boot in. The following weekend, the show ran an analytical piece on Liverpool, which basically asked the question, ‘Where are Liverpool going wrong?’

During the inquest, Gérard Houllier’s unsuccessful signings were listed on the screen (complete with transfer fees), and several angry fans were interviewed outside Anfield. To make matters worse, the programme was then watched by the Liverpool players and coaching staff as they ate their lunch before their evening game with Southampton.

Gérard was furious, but it was to get worse. I was then shown presenting Neil Warnock with the Scottish Mutual Performance of the Week Award in the United dressing-room immediately after the first-leg Worthington Cup win over Liverpool. The award was for their away win against Championship league leaders Portsmouth the week before. As the players celebrated their result over Liverpool, Neil and I were having a good laugh in front of the cameras. I was just doing my job and never considered for one minute this piece would cause me problems with anyone.

Gérard and Thommo didn’t see the funny side. They were still smarting from the Soccer Saturday criticism, especially Thommo, who had previously been a panellist and took the analysis very personally. He didn’t talk to Jeff for a while afterwards. They made up when he was invited back on to the show a year or so later, but at that point the Liverpool staff naturally put me and Neil Warnock together as mates.

Before the second leg at Anfield, Gérard refused to give details of the Liverpool team to Sky, and I heard I was getting the blame. Although I was advised against it, I went to look for him. I knew I’d find him by the side of the pitch, because that was always his pre-match ritual at Anfield. When I caught up with him I asked him what the problem was.

‘You are very friendly with Warnock,’ he said. ‘You will tell him my team line-up.’

Bearing in mind Neil Warnock was going to get the team shortly anyway (they have to be in one hour before kick-off, and this was 90 minutes before), I couldn’t really see the problem. Clearly he did.

‘I am very friendly with a lot of managers, Gérard,’ I said. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’ll go running to them with team news or bits of gossip. I’m employed by Sky, not Sheffield United. If I got the sack from Sky tomorrow do you really think Neil Warnock would give me a job just because I’ve given him your line-up and formation?’

He mulled it over for a bit. ‘I didn’t think about it like that,’ he said. He backed down and named his team for me, but it was a lesson. It emphasised how my role could be misinterpreted, or how my friendliness towards certain managers might be misconstrued. Without question, Gérard had overreacted. I was merely an innocent victim in the war of words between the two managers.

The good thing was that after winning the second leg and seeing off Sheffield United to reach the Worthington Cup final, Gérard invited me into the Anfield boot room, where I sat with him, Thommo and Sammy Lee. We had a drink and a laugh. As far as he was concerned the whole thing was forgotten. If only Paul Alcock could have been as forgiving.

UNBELIEVABLE, JEFF!

Three weeks after my disagreement with Gérard Houllier, Neil Warnock actually did offer me a job – he asked me to become part of the Bramall Lane coaching staff. Sheffield United were still in the FA Cup and on course for the play-off final. He thought my experience would be a valuable addition. After careful consideration and a visit to the bigwigs at Sky, I turned it down. I knew I could do the coaching job part time, but it meant I would have to give up commentating on the Championship games. I had to be impartial at Sky and that would have been impossible if I was working for Sheffield United. A missed opportunity? Maybe, but thank goodness Gérard Houllier hadn’t got wind of the job opportunity on offer. He really would have thought there was a conspiracy going on.

CHAPTER TWO ‘HE COULDN’T HIT A BARN DOOR WITH A BANJO!’

PORTSMOUTH 7 READING 4

FRATTON PARK, 29 SEPTEMBER 2007

When people ask me just how exciting it can get when I commentate on Soccer Saturday, I’ll tell them about the cracker between Pompey and Steve Coppell’s Reading in 2007. Harry Redknapp was in charge at Fratton Park and had built quite an entertaining team. Meanwhile, Coppell’s side played some tidy football, but nobody predicted the game was going to give us 11 goals.

Looking back, there probably could have been a goal with every attack. To watch it from the sidelines was great. To report on it was even better. I was screaming at producer Carly Bassett (daughter of the legendary manager Dave ‘Harry’ Bassett) in the studio, desperately trying to get back on air because so much was happening. The way the game was going, I could have talked for half the programme. It was the match I’d always dreamt of getting as a reporter.

It’s rare that I watch myself on the telly after a day on Soccer Saturday, but when my sons told me that the Sky reports – complete with me screaming into a microphone – were getting a lot of hits online at YouTube, I had to take a peek. It was weird to watch and I felt like a bit of a wally, in fact it made me side with those who reckon I can look a gibbering wreck at times, but if it has made for great TV viewing – unless you are a Reading fan, of course – then that’s fine by me.

There was more action to come when Reading got stuffed by Spurs 6–3 later on that season. I was there to cover that for Soccer Saturday as well, and by that time I reckon Steve Coppell must have had me marked as a curse. But for those of you not from the Madejski Stadium, here’s a re-run of the afternoon’s action from Portsmouth, which you will find most entertaining, unless you are a Reading fan of course – then skip to the next page.

THE SOCCER SATURDAY TICKER TAPE…

GOAL! 1–0

JEFF: ‘Goal at Portsmouth, which way has it gone? Chris Kamara…’

KAMMY: ‘He couldn’t hit the proverbial barn door last season, he didn’t know where the goals were, but he certainly knows where they are now. It’s Benjani for Portsmouth. It was so, so simple. Utaka took the ball down the left-hand side, looked up and saw Benjani in the middle and just put it on a plate for him inside the six-yard box. One-nil to Portsmouth.’

JEFF: ‘I almost bought that when I was down in Portsmouth last season. Saw it advertised. One barn door, barely used.’

GOAL! 2–0

KAMMY: ‘Unbelievable stuff here, Jeff, I’m telling you. I told you already last season, from a yard out, he couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo. Now he is absolutely on fire. He just picked up the ball in midfield, he ran past Shorey, he ran past Ingimarsson, he shifted the ball to the side of his right foot [I gave a drop of the shoulders for the benefit of the viewers at home] and then, bang! Away from Marcus Hahnemann, into the bottom corner. What an absolute beauty. Two-nil.’

GOAL! 2–1

KAMMY: ‘It’s amazing, Jeff. They’ve scored. They’ve scored! It’s amazing really because it’s their first decent attack. The assistant referee on this far side has given the goal. He is certain that the ball from Rosenior crossed the line. I am not as certain as he is. I’ll have to see it again in the morning. Certainly Kitson and Hunt were trying to claim it and the assistant flagged when Rosenior shot. Two–one.’

GOAL! 2–2

KAMMY: ‘That goal has given Reading renewed vigour. They have come out in the second half and they are a different team totally. But David James, hang your head in shame. What are you doing? He has come chasing out his box for a ball that’s virtually in the right-back position, Jeff, and he doesn’t get there. Kitson does, James leaves the goal gaping and Kitson has enough quality in that left foot of his to ping it and guide it into the bottom corner of the net. Two–two.’

GOAL! 3–2

JEFF: ‘Fratton Park is not a place for people of a nervous disposition. Chris Kamara…’

KAMMY: ‘Jeff, unbelievable. I have to say, what a game this is. Magnificent. But who’d be a goalkeeper? Sylvain Distin goes down the left-hand side, crosses the ball into the box, Marcus Hahnemann comes out like Superman – only difference is, Superman gets the job done. Marcus Hahnemann doesn’t get the job done [cue: laughter in the studio]. Hermann Hreidarsson gets to the ball before him and the net is gaping. It’s in the back of the net off the top of his head. Three–two.’

MISSED PENALTY!

JEFF: ‘Penalty at Fratton Park. Chris Kamara!’

KAMMY: ‘Yeah! Thanks for coming to… I’ve been screaming at you for five minutes. Papa Bouba Diop [the penalty kick is taken behind me. Pompey keeper David James saves] … he’s given away a penalty, Nick Shorey has just taken it and what a save from David James. He’s made up for his error, he’s dived to the left-hand side, he’s grasped the ball, it’s bounced off his hands after he got hold of it, it squirmed away and there was Hreidarsson to kick it away. Papa Bouba Diop should be going for a bath right now because it was a ridiculous penalty, he just handled the ball for no reason. Still three–two.’

GOAL! 4–2

JEFF: ‘Only one word for it, Chris…’

KAMMY: ‘Well and truly buried the banjo. That’s four words, innit? [well, actually, that’s six]. Unbelievable, Jeff! One on one with Benjani and he just strolls past Marcus Hahnemann like he does it every week. There’s the hat-trick, there’s the ball in the bag and there’s the game in the bag for Pompey. Four–two.’

GOAL! 5–2

KAMMY: ‘They are absolutely running riot, Jeff! Reading have just thrown the towel in [I throw an imaginary towel to my left to emphasise the point. More laughter]. It’s Niko Kranjcar. Portsmouth were showboating down the right, the cross came in from Sean Davis and Kranjcar had no right to get the ball, but he did. Five–two.’

GOAL! 5–3

KAMMY: ‘Incredible. You have to admire their resilience because they have come back. It’s James Harper this time with a volley from 16 yards. Bang! David James didn’t see it. Five–three.’

GOAL! 6–3

JEFF: ‘There has been an … it is a rugby score now, isn’t it? Chris Kamara.’

KAMMY: ‘Unbelievable, Jeff. Ha Ha. It’s amazing. It’s raining goals, as they say. This time it’s Sean Davis with a speculative shot from 30 yards which took a slight deflection and sent Marcus Hahnemann the wrong way. What a game. What a game! Six–three.’

PENALTY!

KAMMY: ‘Benjani has gone off the pitch, he got a standing ovation. It is Sunny Muntari with the penalty…’

GOAL! 7–3

KAMMY: ‘And they have scored again, Portsmouth. There were five players fighting over the ball, Muntari got it first, Kranjcar was the player brought down. And I have lost the score, Jeff! What is it?’

GOAL! 7–4

JEFF: ‘There has been another – I know you’re going to find this hard to believe – there has been another goal at Fratton Park. Chris Kamara…’

KAMMY: ‘Jeff. Reading have scored, Nicky Shorey has just plundered one in from about 20 yards. It took a deflection off Sol Campbell. I can’t believe it. I honestly can’t believe it!’

JEFF: ‘Kammy is the only person who hasn’t scored. Referee Mark Halsey must have writer’s cramp by now. Goodness me. Phew. What a game.’

Indeed, what a game it was, one of those rare games that make me realise I should have stopped gaping out of that school window at the football pitches back in Middlesbrough and worked on my maths. Number of goals, not a clue. Number of penalties, not a clue. Number of times he should have hit a barn door with a banjo, not a clue. I own up: adding up isn’t my strong point and that game was the proof. As for hitting a barn door with a banjo, perhaps I should have studied a bit harder at English too, but hey, I’ve got the best job in the world and wouldn’t have got a better one if I’d got a degree or two.

CHAPTER THREE SMILE, YOU’RE ON KAMARACAM…

I’ll admit it, when I was first asked to take on the job as a touchline reporter in 1999, I was sceptical. Following my departure from managing Stoke City I flung myself into the media, working for anyone, anywhere who wanted to hire me. I loved my football and needed to be involved, and radio and TV was a good substitute for being on the touchline. Sky producer Jonty Whitehead invited me to work on a show called Soccer Extra with presenter Matt Lorenzo and journalist Brian Woolnough. I also became a regular guest on the Football League live games. I really enjoyed the media work and the lads at the studio seemed to think I was pretty good at it. One of the reporters at the time for Soccer Saturday was my good friend Rob McCaffrey, who convinced his producer Ian Condron to get me involved with Soccer Saturday.

At the time, the programme was finding its feet in terms of reputation and audience, and it was nothing like the cult phenomenon it is today. They also had a pretty heavyweight crew of pundits. The panel was a Who’s Who of top-class footballers: George Best was one of the greatest players in the world in his time, Frank McLintock won the double with Arsenal in 1971, Clive Allen scored 49 goals in one season for Spurs in 1987, and Rodney Marsh was a flair player who excited fans of England, QPR and Manchester City. The fact that they had plenty of medals and top-class experience between them meant that they could criticise the best players and teams in the Premiership.

Meanwhile, I’d had a decent playing career, including an international call-up for Sierra Leone – if I remember rightly they reversed the charges – and I had managed Bradford and Stoke. I had a lot of experience for sure, but my medal haul didn’t match the other guys. Condo had heard me on other programmes talking about the game and he just told me to go ahead and do more of the same for him. Things went really well. Besty was not just a legend but a really top bloke and Marshy kept you on your toes. I loved the odd Saturdays when I was with them, and I became a permanent fixture on the midweek shows which Jeff Stelling used to present in those days. After six months of me being a studio guest Condo decided he had a different role for me.

‘Kammy, I want you to put a camera on you during games,’ he said. ‘As you know we are not allowed to show the action live from the grounds on a Saturday afternoon for contractual reasons, but we want to film you watching the game with the fans in the background.’

I was unconvinced. ‘It won’t work,’ I told him. ‘People are not going to be interested in me watching a game from the stadium.’ Besides, I liked my stints in the studio. Working with Besty and Rodney was a dream come true. Even so, I decided to have a stab at it because it was a new format and nobody had ever tried it before. To my amazement, Sky didn’t help me out at all as regards how I should approach this new venture. I was thrown in at the deep end and shoved in front of a camera, which is generally how they operate. It’s very sink or swim – if you’re good at something, you survive. If you don’t, you’re out.

I know the Beeb sent Gary Lineker away for media training before he started hosting Match of the Day. He returned perfect and polished. There was none of that with me. Instead they just shoved me in front of a camera to see how it worked and, in the beginning, it didn’t. In fact, it looked to a lot of people as if we were filming in a garage with a cardboard cutout of the fans behind us. For some reason we kept getting our angles all wrong. I remember during the 1999–2000 season we did one practice show, but it took well over a month for us to get the look right.

Our first attempt took place at Cambridge, and thankfully it was not live. As I stood on the touchline, I was a nervous wreck. My shakes weren’t helped by the fact that I had managed only three hours’ sleep the night before because I’d been covering a match between Lazio and Chelsea in the Stadio Olympico for Radio 5 Live with Alan Green and Mike Ingham. I arrived back in London late and had to get up very early to make it to Cambridge. I soon discovered that this was an occupational hazard for a ground-hopping touchline reporter.

By the time I got to the post-match interviews, I was all over the place. My chat with Cambridge manager Roy McFarland was a complete disaster. He kept taking the mickey out of me because I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. ‘You don’t know what’s going on, do you, Kammy?’ he kept laughing as I faffed around with my microphone. I really wanted it to work as the recording was going to be shown the following weekend on Soccer Saturday and I knew people would all have opinions on how it went. So I ignored the wisecracks and ploughed on.

The following Saturday I sat in front of the TV to watch Jeff and the boys. I was devastated when it got to three o’clock and the piece had not got an airing. I thought, ‘That’s the end of that, then.’ I had told everyone I knew, and a few thousand that I didn’t know, that I was going to be on with this new format. I thought my TV career as a roving reporter was over. After a sleepless weekend I rang Condo, and he explained that Jeff and the boys had overrun with all their yakking and my piece would be shown the following week. Even better, it would become a regular fixture in the show.

After our second game I really did think that my Sky career was over for good. Oxford versus Walsall was my first live game. Before kick-off, because I was new to the job and unhappy with the camera angle we were giving back to Sky, I was driving rigger/cameraman Colin McDonald crazy! ‘This looks like we are in a garden shed,’ I grumbled. I can’t tell you what he mumbled back under his breath, but I think he wanted me to go forth and multiply. The crowd just looked a hazy mess behind me. With contact made back to the studio through my new headphones (an essential piece of equipment I am never without!), Condo told me, ‘You are going live in 30 seconds.’ That was the cue for a rival cameraman to make himself busy. He had arrived late and hurriedly began setting up his own gear, regardless of me, the keen new reporter getting ready for my big moment. He reckoned I had taken his regular spot. ‘I’ve been coming here for 20 years,’ he ranted. ‘I am here every week.’ He was not a happy man and was not going to bow down to anyone that day. But it didn’t matter to me – he was late, we were ready to roll and I was staying put. Still, I wasn’t expecting him to make an attempt at settling our differences on air! As I went live, he walked across in front of me and the camera, momentarily blacking out the screen for the viewers at home and in the studio. Then, just to make his point, he tried to walk back again, but this time I was ready for him. I put out my left arm to keep him at bay as I spoke to the cameras, but there was clearly a struggle going on. God knows what the viewers at home must have thought. In the studio, Jeff looked pretty surprised, but I put his mind at rest.

‘Don’t worry, Jeff,’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘he won’t be doing it again’, and still holding my adversary at bay I continued with my pre-match report.

When the camera had stopped rolling, the pair of us went toe to toe. We were both braying at each other until Colin pulled us apart. I was furious with him, but moments later I was furious with myself for losing my rag live on air. I was convinced the boys at Sky would be thinking, ‘Thanks, Kammy, but no thanks.’

Thankfully, with the help of Tim Lovejoy and Helen Chamberlain on Soccer AM, the producers saw the funny side. Tim and Helen showed the clip on their Saturday morning programme and absolutely loved it, laughing their heads off. By the second viewing, even I was laughing. By that time, I knew that my job was safe and I was so surprised, it may have been the first time I used the term ‘Unbelievable!’

In those early days, in order to get things right for Kamaracam, myself and Colin the cameraman would often go to the stadiums a day early. We’d scope out the best places to stand and get the background shot just right. At first, I think that a lot of the people who watched the programme back then really believed it was all just a gimmick and we were producing the show in a studio with a blue screen behind us on which we then played crowd images. To shut them up we included more crowd scenes. Occasionally we’d even encourage the fans to jump up and down, just to prove we were really there.

It was important for me to work on my delivery too. My mate Rob McCaffrey – who would later go on to be my co-presenter on Goals on Sunday – spotted the Oxford United incident and called me shortly afterwards. He had found the whole thing hilarious, but said, ‘That wasn’t the Kammy I know, you are coming across like a TV news reporter on location. It was as if you were trying to be like Kate Adie, on the front line in the Falklands.’

He went on to explain that I should be myself in front of the cameras. He knew I could be a very excitable character and he reckoned I should make the most of it, no matter how much of a wally I looked. It was the best advice anyone had given me. These days, I act as naturally as I can. It seems to be popular with quite a few people.

Sometimes it can be tough work, because for every four-all thriller, there can be a crap, goalless draw. Generally, though, there’s always something to get excited about, whether it’s a goal-line clearance, a controversial penalty decision or even a sending-off. I’ll try to inject as much enthusiasm as I can into each incident, because I think that’s what Soccer Saturday fans expect of me. They don’t want me to be negative – they can get that from the guys on the other channel! It also comes naturally because I’m genuinely buzzing to be watching football for a living. I act like a fan when I’m reporting on any game of football: I’m so excited, and I just can’t hide it. Hang on, perhaps I should have been a songwriter thinking up words like that!

Sometimes, it’s very easy to get lost in the moment. I remember Heurelho Gomes dropped a clanger when Spurs lost to Fulham at Craven Cottage in 2009. The ball bounced in front of him and he flapped with his arms as the ball dropped into the net. It was the easiest catch to make, but Gomes blundered big-time. I patched through to the studio that a major incident had taken place and Jeff lined me up.

JEFF: ‘Heurelho Gomes, the Tottenham goalkeeper, has his head in his hands at Craven Cottage. Let’s find out why: Chris Kamara…’

KAMMY: ‘Ha, ha! And so he should have, Jeff! He is absolutely shocking. There’s a shot from Simon Davies … well, he could have thrown his cap on it. And it’s bounced in front of him and, somehow, it’s bounced off his chest and gone into the back of the net. It’s laughable. Unless you’re a Spurs fan…’

I felt bad afterwards because I had got carried away. I was laughing my head off at him. It’s not intentional, you just lose it when you’re commentating. Thankfully, I’m able to say now what a fantastic player he is. A season later he played out of his skin for Spurs at Craven Cottage and kept a clean sheet. I was able to say, ‘Look, this is a different fella. He’s a class goalkeeper.’

Over the years, the mistakes made on the programme have given TV critics – the likes of Ally Ross in the Sun and Ian Hyland in the News of the World – plenty of material. I’m as likely as anyone to make a faux pas. I’m not precious. I love people taking the mickey out of it because what we do isn’t rehearsed. It can’t be. Most of it comes straight out, instinctively, and I’ve always been pretty good at saying it as I see it and retelling the action as accurately as I can.

The official term is Kamaracam. Everyone who goes out on the road now – whether it’s Ian Dowie, Scott Minto or John Solako – works under that title. It’s even on the production sheet, and it used to confuse people at first. I’d have friends from Everton or Newcastle ringing me before games. They’d say, ‘I see you’re at our ground today – fancy a beer after?’ I’d have to explain to them that I wasn’t actually going to be there, it was another presenter working under the term Kamaracam.

I don’t really have any preferences on where I do my reports. To be honest I love going to all the grounds. I’ve always said that you should never judge a book by its cover. In a football match you don’t really know what’s going to happen. I could be freezing my nuts off in front of Bolton versus Wolves, but then you might get a wonder goal out of the blue that could change the whole complexion of the game and indeed unfreeze my nuts. Stoke versus Wigan could be 5–0, but unpredictability is the beauty of football.

There’s no class distinction either, because you’re just as likely to get a flat game at Old Trafford or Stamford Bridge as you are at Goodison Park or the Stadium of Light. When it comes to choosing the games, I try to share it around as best I can. People also moan on about how often I go to the grounds of other teams. They say, ‘You never come to the Emirates, you must hate Arsenal,’ or ‘What’s your bloody problem with Liverpool? You’re never there.’ In truth, it all comes down to geography. I have to think about how easy it will be for me to get back to London that night to present Goals on Sunday the next day. Some grounds are harder than others – Hull is tricky to get back to London from; getting in and out of Birmingham is always a headache. Until I have a massive win at the Grand National, my private plane – Air Kammy – will remain grounded.

On Saturday mornings I’m up and running from the moment I awake, often with a sore head after a night out with Jeff Stelling and the gang in the hotel bar. The boys – Jeff plus Charlie Nicholas, Phil Thompson and sometimes Matt Le Tissier – always meet up on Friday for a drink. It’s a great night out and an essential part of the show. Jeff will usually hold court over several pints of Hoegaarden (I hear he’s angling for a sponsorship deal), while I’ll go to the steam room with Charlie Nicholas for a gossip. After that we’ll go for a drink, usually into the early hours.

This might sound like a jolly boys’ outing to most of you, but the truth is, the hotel bar plays an important role in the success of Soccer Saturday. What we talk about that night usually sets the tone of the show the next day. Jeff will go through all the hot football topics that week and gauge everybody’s opinions. He’ll also pick up rumours and news of what’s been going on in the game from us, the stuff the papers might not have reported. I’m still involved on a day-to-day basis with players, agents and managers, as are Thommo and Charlie, so we can pass on plenty of info to Jeff. He would never categorically come out and reveal the gossip we have passed on, but he might float an idea or an opinion as a result of that confidence.

Different presenters have different methods of preparation. Jeff, for example, drives to a motorway service station in Winchester with a bag full of newspaper cuttings, magazines and an info pack from Sky on all the players, goals and stats. He’ll memorise as much as he can. For me it’s Sky Sports News from the moment I am awake. If I’m covering Stoke against Liverpool at the Britannia Stadium my preparation would be to watch the games of both teams from the previous weekend. I’ll take a look at the teams and if there are any new faces in the side, I’ll ring around and find out a bit more about them. If there’s nothing new, then my work is done. I’m not there to deliver stats and facts on the teams, that’s down to Jeff.

When Jeff comes to me on air, he wants to hear what’s going on in the game, as do the viewers. They want the goals, the drama, the blunders and the controversy. It’s no good me yelling, ‘Unbelievable, Jeff! This is Everton’s sixth win in 10 games! Tim Cahill has just delivered his eighth assist of the season!’ The hard stats are Jeff’s party piece and he works tirelessly on getting them right all week. I’m not going to tell anyone how to do their job, but some Soccer Saturday reporters try to cram their broadcasts with facts and trivia. That’s wrong. You have to tell the studio what you’re seeing, how both teams are playing and who has scored the goals or who has been booked, rightly or wrongly. In other words: ‘Unbelievable, Jeff! Louis Saha couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo! Phil Jagielka is as useful as a fish up a tree today! Marouane Fellaini hasn’t trimmed his beautiful haircut for nine weeks! One–nil!’ I wouldn’t dream of telling the viewers that I had the same hairstyle as Fellani when I was a player. The referees used to blow on my head like a dandelion to check the 90 minutes was up but I’d rather keep that a secret – whoops!

In the words of Roy Walker in Catchphrase, ‘Just say what you see.’

From mid-morning, Kamaracam is up and running. I usually get to the ground as early as I can so I can catch up with the team news and have a chat with a few people at the ground, just to get some extra background on the game and what’s going on at the club. At around 2.30, climbing into the commentary gantry can sometimes be an uncomfortable business. I remember our position at Portsmouth used to be particularly dangerous, until they eventually moved us. Nobody ever actually got injured, but that was a miracle really.

Once the game gets under way, Carly Bassett will communicate with me. She can see me on camera in the studio, but I can only hear her. The production guys also watch all the games, so as soon as someone scores in my game or an incident of note takes place, they can cut to me shortly after.

As the game progresses, Carly will tell me when I’m due to go live. ‘We’ve got three waiting to come in and you’re next.’ It’s a bit like air-traffic control at Heathrow, but without all the drunk pilots and near misses, though some people would argue that we suffer a lot of those as well. It can be a frustrating business. Sometimes there might be a penalty decision or goal and the studio can’t get to me until minutes later. Other times they want me to give a report even though absolutely nothing has happened at all. That’s when I have to say, ‘Boring game, nothing has happened here.’

Sometimes, though, the action goes on behind me without me even knowing. The most famous instance of this – and I say famous because everyone who missed it on Soccer Saturday could watch it on the internet, and plenty have ! – happened when I was commentating on Fulham against Middlesbrough at Craven Cottage. My monitor shows all the action so I can see in detail what’s happening on the pitch when I have to turn my back on it to deliver my report. At one point that day the monitor decided to pack up. Typically this was the moment Fulham chose to score, as you can see from the action replay:

JEFF: ‘Is there any way back for Fulham against Middlesbrough, I wonder? Chris Kamara…’

KAMMY: ‘Well they’re trying, Jeff. Papa Bouba Diop, the man mountain himself, is playing as a striker and he’s got [David] Healy on one side of him and Diamansi Kamara on the other side and … it’s Papa Bouba Diop with a header! AAAAGH! AH! It’s a goal! It’s a goal, Jeff! Is it David Healy? He’s running away… Andy D’Urso’s playing on… Sorry, my monitor’s down again! [Turning around frantically] I’m looking over my shoulder… What? I don’t really know … the assistant… Has he given it? [Complete panic flashes across my face] Oh, the assistant hasn’t given it, I don’t think, Jeff. No! The referee hasn’t given it either… Don’t really know what’s happening, Jeff. Ha, ha! [cue: laughter from the studio panel] Could be, could be not… Ha, ha, ha!’

JEFF: ‘I tell you what, Kammy, it’s not the first time you’ve not known what’s happening, but I can tell you, well, the ball went in from close range, Schwarzer got both hands to it, it’s over the line! There’s no question the ball is over the line, but the referee has not given it. And Fulham, well, 2–1 behind, Middlesbrough still lead, but that ball was a foot and a half over the line before Schwarzer managed to scramble it clear. They’re still playing and there’s going to be real controversy over that one.’

These little disasters have made the show an unbelievable success. Soccer Saturday has definitely revolutionised football coverage – other TV channels have tried to copy it, but they’re still nowhere near as good as we are. It’s also made a name for all the lads working on the show. Most of them had much greater success and fame during their playing careers than I did, and yet today my popularity as part of the Sky gang never fails to amaze me.

CHAPTER FOUR KAMMY’S TV TWERP

OK, you’ve heard of Harry Hill’s TV Burps, so now let me introduce you to Kammy’s TV Twerps.

Over the years as Soccer Saturday’s roving reporter extraordinaire, I’ve made some bloopers and gaffes, usually at the rate of three an hour. Most of these are available for you to laugh at on the internet and, believe me, a lot of football fans have thrown them back at me over the years. But for those of you away from your computer at this moment, here’s the transcript of the more calamitous moments. And please excuse my poor use of the English language in these following clips as I do tend on occasions to have trouble with my worms. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I can get very, very excited … unless you ask my wife, of course – she’ll tell you she doesn’t remember the last time I got excited, but that’s another story, even another three chapters.

These are the clips that change this particular roving reporter extraordinaire to roving reporter extraordinary.

ON ALEX McLEISH

‘Alex McLeish has his hands in his head.’

IN THE BUILD-UP TO WIGAN v. WEST HAM

KAMMY: [Smirking] ‘I’ve had a chat with both managers and obviously I can’t tell you the teams, but Wigan are unchanged and Lucas Neill plays for West Ham.’

JEFF: [Sighing] ‘OK, thanks very much for keeping that to yourself, Chris.’

ON A STRUGGLING NOTTINGHAM FOREST

‘It’s real end-to-end stuff, but unfortunately, it’s all up Forest’s end.’

ON AN ALAN SHEARER GOAL

‘They’ve one man to thank for that goal: Alan Shearer. And they’ve also got to thank referee Alan Wilkie.’

ON JUNIOR LEWIS

‘Not only has referee Graham Poll shown Junior Lewis the red card, but he’s sent him off!’

ON BURNLEY

‘For Burnley to win, they’re going to have to score!’

ON CHELSEA 0 SCUNTHORPE 1

JEFF: ‘It’s not 0–0 at Stamford Bridge, the deadlock broken very early on, but it’s Scunthorpe who’ve scored!’

KAMMY: [High-pitched laughter] ‘Jeff, you’re not going to believe this, it’s incredible… Can they believe it? I can’t believe it! Ha, ha! They’re winning one–nil!’

ON FULHAM

JEFF: ‘Have Fulham got their just deserts?’

KAMMY: ‘They have and they deserve it!’

ON A HUGO RODALLEGA INJURY

‘Hugo Rodallega fell over the advertising hoardings as he was running in on goal.’

SOUTHAMPTON v. WEST BROM BUILD-UP

JEFF: ‘Is West Brom a good game for them to have today, you know, in the sense that expectations might be slightly less than if they were playing another team who were struggling?’

KAMMY: ‘Very much so, George. Oh, sorry… I’ve just been speaking to … er, George Burley, Fred… I mean Jeff [cue: fits of unstoppable laughter]’

ON CARLOS TEVEZ

‘They’ve got this man with a heart as big as … as big as … a plate.’

ON DARIUS VASSELL

‘Darius Vassell has had a lot of weight on his shoulders but someone’s just taken those shackles off his feet.’

ON THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

‘That’s the beauty of football. Sometimes it starts off crap, then it gets a bit better.’

So forgive me, Harry Hill, I don’t know which is the biggest gaffe, Carlos Tevez’s big heart or Fulham’s just deserts. There’s only one way to find out… FIGHT! Come on Carlos Tevez…

CHAPTER FIVE UNBELIEVABLE, JEFF! (HOW I CAUGHT A CATCHPHRASE)

Every great showman has to have a catchphrase. For some people it’s a gimmick to grab the excitement of their audience. I remember that Bruce Forsyth used to open The Generation Game with the words, ‘Nice to see you, to see you – nice!’; Dale Winton was forever saying ‘Bring on the wall!’ during Saturday night favourite Hole in the Wall (well, I loved it). Other TV entertainers have yelled something to raise a comic reaction. When Frank Spencer fell out of a window and clung on to the back of a double-decker bus (while attached to a pair of roller-skates, usually) the only words he could scream were ‘Ooh, Betty!’ It always got me giggling.

In truth, I’ve probably got more in common with Frank Spencer than Brucie. But instead of bus surfing or injuring myself in a calamitous fashion, every Saturday afternoon I watch footballers kicking lumps out of each other. Each goal, booking or Fergie tantrum is greeted by the word ‘Unbelievable!’, which is then boomed into the homes of millions of Soccer Saturday viewers. Often ‘Unbelievable!’ arrives attached to the name ‘Jeff!’ as I relay the action to the show’s anchorman and Smurf-in-chief, Jeff Stelling. It’s become a bit of a cult phenomenon. For some reason, a lot of people seem to like me shouting into their living-rooms at jetplane volumes.

When Soccer Saturday first started, I had no idea how much I said ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ on the telly. This sounds crazy, I know, because I must have used the adjective at least half a dozen times a weekend. I think I first got wind of my conversational tic (and it is an affliction, just ask Mrs Kammy) around six or seven years ago when the production team at Sky decided to run a Christmas special. This 30-minute programme showed all the gaffes and bloopers from the season. A lot of them were mine. Take a look online – it’s all on youtube.com if you don’t believe me. If you can’t be bothered, here are the highlights:

‘This is unbelievable, Jeff!’

‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’

‘Jeff, unbelievable!’

‘Jeff, you’re not going to believe this! Unbelievable!’

And so on. The day after the Christmas special, I covered a match between QPR and Manchester City at Loftus Road. Kevin Keegan, then the manager at City, came out of the tunnel as I was preparing to deliver a touchline report. Just as we were about to roll, he crept up behind me and shouted, ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at the top of his voice. At that moment, I knew exactly how Jeff felt whenever I yelled into his ear piece. I also knew my big gob had been running on overdrive. My stock description of a dramatic incident in football as soon as I was linked to the studio was shouting the words ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’, and everyone in the English game had known it. Everyone apart from me.

Kevin was laughing his head off. Apparently the whole City squad and coaching staff had seen the funnies that morning. ‘It’s all you ever say, Kammy,’ he said. ‘Let’s go down to Kammy at Loftus Road [the home of QPR, where we were]. Unbelievable, Jeff ! Unbelievable, Jeff! Unbelievable, Jeff…!’

I knew then that I had unintentionally created a monster. By all accounts, the boys in the studio had picked up on it months before, but the reason I wasn’t conscious of saying ‘Unbelievable Jeff !’ was that I wasn’t thinking about making a catchphrase for myself. I was just acting naturally. If I had deliberately tried to invent a saying, it wouldn’t have worked and I would have looked wooden and awkward on air.

When it comes to Soccer Saturday fans, we all attract different ‘types’. Jeff usually gets the grannies, mainly because of his work on Countdown, but also because he reminds them of a garden gnome and they want to pop him in their window boxes. Former Arsenal star and gambling disaster Paul ‘Merse’ Merson attracts Gunners fans and masochists looking for a no-hoper tip on the horses. I tend to get the lot – kids, OAPs, stattos and fanatics – because I do three shows on the telly, Soccer AM, Soccer Saturday and Goals on Sunday. There’s never a day when somebody doesn’t shout ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at me. This morning it was the delivery guy with my supermarket goods.

I think the first time I really noticed the attention was when I went to Japan with Jeff and Soccer Saturday producer Ian Condron for the 2002 World Cup. From the minute we stepped off the plane, football fans were shouting ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at us from across the street. Tourists were coming up, asking for photos and autographs. It was so weird. I loved it, but I think Jeff was quite taken aback.

‘Bloody hell, Chris, it’s like Kammymania out here!’ he said. I think he ended up working the camera as a line of fans posed for a picture with me. I think it’s fair to say that these days it would be me holding the camera for him – his popularity is immense.

The attention there in Japan was a bit of a pain in the nicest possible way. We were blocking walkways as crowds gathered around us. Traffic came to a standstill. At one point we had to duck down a side street like the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night and run for our lives. Or was that the night we jumped out of the taxi without paying? I can’t remember, but it was upsetting at the time, because it was almost impossible to get a pint! The English fans were there in force, and so were the Irish. Between them, they had taken over pretty much every bar in the country. We were in double trouble. I signed so many autographs that writer’s cramp had set in by the end of the trip and none of us could get to the bar without being recognised.

It’s my own fault. I’ll chat to as many people as I can. I always remember a time when I was a kid and I approached Stuart Boam. He was the captain of Middlesbrough during the seventies and when I saw him in the street one day I asked for an autograph. Boam just brushed me aside. He might have been in a hurry, but it really stuck with me. Because of that, I always try to give attention to people if they want a photo or a signature. Besides, most people want to talk to you about their club, which is great because it sometimes gives me the inside track on what the fans think about various issues affecting them and I can use the info for Soccer Saturday or Goals on Sunday.

You might get one or two idiots who say, ‘You hate our club and never say anything nice about us.’ I only say what I see: if a club does well, I shout it from the rooftops; if it’s not so good, then I say so. Thankfully those people are in the minority, but they’re wrong. I don’t hate any team. I don’t support any particular one either, but they don’t seem to take any notice when I tell them that. Leeds fans think I should be more like Jeff when he talks about Hartlepool, because I used to support Leeds as a kid. My old school-mate Steve Gibson, the Middlesbrough chairman, used to think when I was talking about Boro on the TV I was more against them than for them! Yes, they are my home-town club and he is my big pal, but I’m really 100 per cent unbiased. Unlike Matt Le Tissier, who wears Southampton socks under his Soccer Saturday desk when he’s working.

When we returned from Japan, we were all aware of just how popular Soccer Saturday had become. It also dawned on me that my vocabulary was quite limited and I should have made more of my time at St Thomas’s School in Middlesbrough. Still, I decided to play up to the ‘Unbelievable, Jeff’ saying from then on, as did Jeff. On New Year’s Day during the 2003–04 season, I remember, I was commentating on the game between Manchester United and Wolves. Of course, I shouted ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ in my report. When the producers flipped back to the studio, Jeff looked into the camera, his face deadpan. ‘There you have it,’ he said. ‘Chris Kamara, the first unbelievable of 2004.’

Each year it has become customary to film a Soccer Saturday Christmas Special, which is always light-hearted and great fun to record. A few years ago, we had an athletics challenge in the style of Superstars. If you’re too young to remember the original, it was a programme made in the 1980s where sportsmen from various fields competed in a mini-Olympics competition. The events included running, swimming and cycling. I remember Kevin Keegan spectacularly left his bike during one heat and injured himself quite badly. Thank God he was wearing a helmet … or maybe he wasn’t – it could have been his hair. I think Bryan Robson had a bash too and came away unscathed: not bad for a bloke who could break his collarbone on A Question of Sport with ease.

Our competition was just as chaotic. When I jumped into the swimming pool, I was wearing children’s luminous plastic armbands and splashed around pretending to be struggling. A concerned Alan McInally immediately dived in to help me to the side of the pool. Much to the lads’ annoyance, when the race started for real I powered forward like Michael Phelps in top form, leaving Rodney Marsh, Charlie Nicholas, Jeff Stelling and Matt Le Tissier in my wake. McInally won the race, but I am sure he jumped the gun!

Much later, for the 2009 special, the programme was a cookery-themed competition called Making a Meal of it. We had pinched the format from Ready, Steady, Cook – the programme presented by Ainsley Harriot on the Beeb – and the producers threw Alan McInally, Matt Le Tissier, Phil Thompson and me into a fancy kitchen to see who could cook the best festive dish.

On the day we were working with superstar Italian cook Gino D’Acampo, who had recently finished first in I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here. Gino was on hand to taste the dishes as we cooked them. He had just spent two weeks eating rats, bugs and kangaroo’s testicles in the Australian jungle, but even he couldn’t stomach the delicacy I had to offer. Maybe my offering did taste worse than kangaroo’s knackers, but to be honest I have no idea and no intention of finding out by comparing them.

It didn’t help that we were nicknamed ‘The Chef-chenkos’ for the show. For those of you unfamiliar with cheap puns, the name came from Andriy Shevchenko, the former AC Milan and Chelsea striker, and it proved spot-on. When it came to our Italian cuisine, we were sharp, lethal and too hot to handle. Our English dishes were flat, cold and pretty wide of the mark.

I opted to make a turkey curry. I can tell you it’s a traditional dish, passed through several generations of Kammys… So – if you’re reading this, Delia Smith, I’m really, really sorry – come on, turkeys, let’s be having you.

Sounds great so far, right? Well, Gino reckoned it was the worst thing he had ever tasted. Our judges for the day, A-list restaurant owner Aldo Zilli and Jeff, awarded me only one point, which was amazing because Jeff will eat just about anything, especially if he’s had a glass of wine or three. The competition was eventually won by Alan McInally, who made a knockout fish supper with black pudding. He had really taken to the challenge, mainly because ‘The Big Man’ (as he’s nicknamed) had just scored himself a new girlfriend. He’d been seriously working on his culinary techniques as he wined and dined her. Judging by my work that day, the Kammy romancing skills clearly weren’t up to scratch because people thought I was taking the mickey.

To be fair, I first cooked the dish at home with Mrs Kammy, and it was lovely. I thought I was on to a winner, but when we got to the studio kitchen, we were told that we only had 20 minutes in the kitchen each. I was worried. The Kammy Curry took over an hour to make. The producers said it would be fine, and our sous-chefs would do the work for us in advance. I was messing around, thinking that I already had the finished product in the bag and I only had to add the final ingredients.

‘Sit back and relax, pal,’ I said to Gino as I tightened my apron strings. ‘You’re going to learn something here.’

I don’t think he could believe what he was hearing. He began shouting at me. ‘What sort of stock are you cooking with?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘What do you mean you don’t know what stock it is?’ said Gino in disbelief. ‘Every chef worth his salt knows what stock he’s using. What is it, Kammy?’

I couldn’t help myself. ‘Laughing stock.’

He was impressed and giggled out loud. Gino wasn’t wowed by my cooking, though. He took one taste of the Kammy Curry and pulled a face at the camera. ‘I am not eating this,’ he said. ‘Oh my God, it tastes like sheet.’

This wasn’t the first curry disaster I had caused either. When I was a young player at Pompey, my dad virtually lived off his home-made African curries at home. It wasn’t unusual for him to make one and leave it in a pot for me to reheat when I got home. He lived in Middlesbrough with my mam, and when I got back from the south coast it was always a little taste of heaven.

One night during my first close-season break back in the Boro, an old school-mate Denis Alderson and I came back from a heavy night out in the town and put the pot of curry on the stove. We both fell asleep on the sofa. As we drifted in and out of consciousness, the pan caught fire and a small blaze started. Thankfully mam smelt the fumes and came down to rescue us. It was a close shave. Definitely the hottest curry Middlesbrough had ever known – so hot it nearly set fire to the street!

My stint as a ‘Chef-chenko’ was nowhere near as dangerous, though I have to say, Gino was right. The Kammy Curry – OK, the Kammy-kazi curry if you like – did taste like ‘sheet’. I’m just pleased I didn’t poison anyone! It would have left a bad taste in their mouths.

UNBELIEVABLE, JEFF!

This is probably as good a time as any to tell you about another famous phrase and explain the title of the book. When I claimed that Spurs were ‘fighting like beavers’ in 2007, the jokes came flying in. It happened during a north London derby at White Hart Lane and I have no excuses at all. It was a total blunder. I distinctly remember it was the first half of the game, Spurs were a goal ahead, but Arsenal had them well pinned back in their penalty area. The studio cut to me for an update.

KAMMY: ‘Their football, Arsenal, is on another level, but Spurs are fighting like beavers, defending for their lives. It’s a terrific game. Still one–nil…’

JEFF: [Laughing] ‘Did I hear that correctly? Fighting like beavers? Ha, ha, ha! Not tigers or lions, but beavers, those ferocious little devils.’

I wanted to describe how hard Tottenham had been defending. The phrase I’d meant to use was ‘working like beavers’ (what do you mean you haven’t heard of it?), but in the excitement, the words tumbled out all wrong. I tried to correct myself moments later but, by then, the damage had been done.

KAMMY: ‘The game, as a spectacle, is magnificent. Spurs, working like beavers but the football from Arsenal is out of this world. It’s sensational. They’re carving them up as easy as … as easy as … well, as easy as anything, Jeff.’

JEFF: [Laughing] ‘They’re carving them up as … as easy as … beavers was the word you were looking for, Chris.’

Jeff wasn’t going to let it go; he was in floods of tears. I think he dined out on the story for weeks. In fact, it could have been months, judging by his waistline, but I couldn’t help it. It was a spur-of-the-moment reaction and I’ve been unable to live it down ever since. But who cares? I want the viewer to know that I’m in the middle of an exciting game.

CHAPTER SIX GROUND-HOPPING WITH KAMMY PT 2 (TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM ON SOCCER AM)

If you think that messing around in front of the cameras for Soccer Saturday is a laugh, then you should see what I get up to on Soccer AM. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, or fans of Saturday Morning Kitchen, it starts at nine in the morning – that’s three hours B.J. in Sky Sports terms (before Jeff). Any of you who can struggle out of bed would have seen me offending Premiership players, breaking into dressing-rooms and catching top-class managers on the hop. Over the years I’ve probably become an unbelievable pain in the backside, but I hope in the nicest possible way.

I got the job several seasons ago when presenter Tim Lovejoy asked me to walk the cameras around the dressing-room before a game. I would always be at a Premiership or Football League ground to cover a match for Soccer Saturday anyway, so it made perfect sense. It also gave me the opportunity to mess around, because there was a simple brief when it came to anything Soccer AM related: always take the mickey.

The show made its debut in 1995, but at the time it was quite a serious programme. It was first presented by a guy called Russ Williams and the former Spurs and England defender Gary Stevens. But when Tim Lovejoy took over in 1996, the show changed completely. Suddenly football fans were laughing at ‘The Nutmeg Files’ (which shows players being nutmegged during the week) and ogling The Soccerettes. It was and still is a brilliant laugh.

My introduction, when the camera comes to me at each and every ground begins, ‘Welcome to the Home of Football.’ This is a segment of the Soccer AM show where the cameras go behind the scenes. I get pretty good access. Over the years I’ve rummaged through the boots at Sunderland, ruffled the shirts at Arsenal, Manchester United, Leicester and Fulham, and annoyed the stewards at pretty much all of the top-flight grounds. Typically, there’s been a bit of controversy along the way.

Just before Gary Megson was sacked in 2009–10, I went up to Bolton to present a report for the show. The club had allowed me to go wherever I wanted, so, unannounced, I strolled into a meeting-room where the coaching staff had been going through the team analysis of Manchester City – Bolton’s opponents that day. By the looks of things, ‘Mega’, as he’s nicknamed, had been showing the squad a DVD of City’s strengths and weaknesses. Clearly, he hadn’t banked on me going in there. When I got to the TV, I noticed it was paused. On the screen somebody had written ‘Manchester City’s defence is disorganised’.

I couldn’t believe my luck. I could hear howls of laughter in my headphones as I turned to the camera. Manchester City fans saw the offending words on the screen and went nuts. Loads of them texted in to complain. ‘How the hell can he say that just before kick-off?’ they wanted to know. Maybe it was tactless, but you couldn’t fault the manager, because he was right. City later conceded three goals in the game. Then again, so did Bolton, so maybe he should have been a bit more careful himself.

My fooling around backfired quite painfully when I visited Sunderland during the same season. Steve Bruce is an old mate of mine and he gave me carte blanche to use the dressing-rooms. I had a good look around, as I liked to do, and although nobody was in there at the time, I noticed the giant striker Kenwyne Jones had left his boots out. They were enormous, probably a size 12 or 13. I held them up to the camera.

‘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!

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

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!

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