Stan: Tackling My Demons

Dedication

To Mum, quite simply the best,and to my babies Tom and Mia.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

ONE: In the Beginning: An Unwanted Legacy

TWO: Walsall: A Mixed Bag

THREE: Crystal Palace: The Issue of Race

FOUR: Southend and Forest: Opportunity Knocks

FIVE: Liverpool: Living the Dream

SIX: Villa: Going Nowhere

SEVEN: Paris 1998: The Ulrika Affair

EIGHT: Summer 1998: The Aftermath

NINE: Leicester: Second Chances

TEN: Real Oviedo: So This is the End

ELEVEN: 2004: Doggin’

TWELVE: Life Beyond Football

THIRTEEN: From Farmhands to Scumbags

Career Record

Index

Picture Section

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE BEGINNING: AN UNWANTED LEGACY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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