Mr Unbelievable

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.