by Roy Keane
It was shocking.
*
We had a great start, three wins, against Middlesbrough, Palace and Bristol City, and two draws – Burnley and Portsmouth. We were third. I was delighted. We were taking off. We had a settled team. We were playing one up front, and hitting teams on the counter-attack. It had worked really well against Middlesbrough. A week later, mid-September, we were second, after we beat Cardiff City. But we’d lost three players.
I had a bust-up with Jon Walters.
He wanted to leave. We were four or five games into the season. He’d heard that Stoke were interested in him. Tony Pulis again – he hadn’t been in touch with me about the player.
I said, ‘Jon, I haven’t had a call from anybody.’
I couldn’t blame Jon for wanting to leave. He’d been a good player for us and he had a chance to go to the Premiership. But he did it the wrong way.
He came back a few days later.
‘They’re definitely after me.’
I said, ‘I’ve heard nothing. If there’s a bid, I’ll tell you. I’ve nothing to hide from you. You can ring the owner. I don’t do the business deals.’
‘I’m not having this.’
There was effing and blinding, a bit of shoving.
‘Why don’t you fuckin’ believe me?’
I didn’t begrudge him the move, although I was losing one of my better players – and maybe my job. I got carried away, and Jon got carried away. I dropped him for the next game, against Burnley. We were 1–0 up, but they scored in injury time. At the press conference after the game I said that Jon would never play for the club again. That was a big no-no. His value was down already.
He was sold to Stoke a week later. It could have gone better, but I played my part. We’ve shook hands since.
I came in one morning.
‘Where’s Jon Stead?’
‘Oh, he’s gone for talks – to Blackpool.’
Nobody had told me about it.
A week later, he was talking to Bristol City.
I rang Simon.
He said, ‘Oh, I wasn’t sure if I should tell you.’
So, Jon Walters, Jon Stead and Alex Bruce had left. Jon Walters, in particular, was a big loss. We’d a couple of injuries to important players – Gareth McAuley and David Norris. The players I’d wanted, Kilbane, Derry and Carsley, would have been vital to us now.
We got a keeper, Asmir Begović, on loan from Portsmouth, but only for six games. I hadn’t really seen him play but, just by the way he walked into the building, I liked him; he lifted the training ground. We were unbeaten in the six games he played, but Portsmouth called him back; I think David James was injured. Asmir’s at Stoke now, and he played for Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Brazil World Cup.
They let me bring in Márton Fülöp, another keeper, from Sunderland. I wanted to bring him in on loan.
I said, ‘A loan deal – a loan deal all day.’
But the owner rang and told me that they’d done a permanent deal – I think it was for £750,000.
I said, ‘You know why they did a permanent deal. They obviously wanted him out the door.’
I brought in Mark Kennedy, from Cardiff, but he was injured most of the time. Jason Scotland came in, from Wigan, but he didn’t pull up any trees. And he only arrived after Jon Walters and Jon Stead had left. He hadn’t been part of any plan for the season.
I was looking for players on loan. I tried to call in a few favours from a few old team-mates, but I wasn’t getting it back. I did get Andros Townsend and Jake Livermore, from Tottenham. But, in 2010, they were very young, and having Tottenham tendencies in a place like Ipswich is never good. They were young lads, coming in with other young lads – all of them on small wages. We got Jack Colback from Sunderland, but then Steve Bruce needed him back for a Cup tie. Sunderland were playing Notts County.
I said, ‘You’re bringing him back – for Notts County?’
He said, ‘Ah, yeah – we need him.’
Notts County beat them.
In mid-November, we lost six on the spin – Derby, Barnsley, Hull, Norwich, Swansea, Preston. We were down to eighteenth. We beat Leicester, 3–0, and had two games postponed because the pitches were frozen. We drew at Coventry on New Year’s Day. Then, two days later, we lost to Forest, 1–0, at home. We weren’t bad, we played well – but we lost. An og – Damien Delaney, a player who I was maybe quite hard on.
That was me out the door.
We were struggling. We were third from the bottom of the table. But the call still surprised me. I didn’t see it coming.
I was sitting at home the next afternoon, and the owner rang me.
I’d lost my job.
I rang Charlie McParland – he’d come back to the club after Gary became ill.
I told him the news, and he went, ‘Oh, I knew we’d be gone today.’
I said, ‘I didn’t.’
I was really hurt by it, not far from distraught. But you hide it. I was hurt for my family – my pride. I always felt that I’d left United on my terms. It had been my decision. I could have stayed; I was still under contract.
When the manager said, ‘I think we’ve come to the end’, I could have said, ‘No, I don’t think we have.’
I was shown the door, but I opened it and walked through.
With Sunderland, I fell out with the owner; I thought leaving was right. But I was getting the sack this time. That hurt. And I felt I hadn’t really made a good go of it.
I did the school run. I picked the kids up. I went home to tell my wife.
She was holding an envelope.
‘That was put under the door while you were up at the school.’
Someone had dropped it off from the club: the termination of my contract.
I didn’t mind the phone call. But the letter – I thought, ‘You fuckers.’
I didn’t mind the owner ringing me. Even today, I’d have time for him. In his industry, I’m sure he has to do it all the time. I was another sacking.
Within forty-eight hours, my conversation with my family was, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
We’d bought a house, and we’d renovated it. But I wanted to get back up to Manchester. Our house there had been up for sale but, luckily, we still had it. We moved back up one or two months later.
When we got back – back in the house, kids back in St Bede’s, their old school – I felt like I’d been in a coma for the last eighteen months. I wished it had never happened – but it had.
Your pride is hurt.
‘It didn’t work out – it could have worked out.’
One story sums up my time at Ipswich. I had to go to my first shareholders’ meeting, after four or five months in the job. Marcus Evans was the major shareholder, but there were others. So I went – shirt and tie. We’d had a poor start to the season, but I was told not to worry about the meeting; it would be very straightforward.
The media man told me, ‘Don’t worry, Roy. There might be a bit of Q & A. They’re quite low key around here. They might just ask you about the programmes or the pies.’
They’d gone through the financial aspects of the club, and there were thanks to Marcus Evans for his backing, and they noted that the academy was doing well.
‘Any questions from the floor? Pass the mic down—’
The first question was, ‘My name is such and such. I think Roy Keane should resign immediately from his position as manager of this football club.’
I felt like saying, ‘Can you give me till tomorrow, pal?’
I’d only been in the door two minutes.
My biggest failing has been recruitment. Whether the problem was with my relationship with the scouts, or whether I brought in the wrong characters – ultimately, your signings will make or break you. I sold Jordan Rhodes, a goalscorer. Did I take the wrong advice? I wondered sometimes, ‘Are they listening to me?’
I should have followed my own gut feeling.
Ideally, now, I’d like to watch play
ers a bit more. I’d focus on what a player is good at, instead of talking constantly about what he can’t do.
I also have to remember that Ipswich hadn’t done much before I arrived and they haven’t done too much since. I didn’t take Barcelona to the bottom of La Liga. I took over at Ipswich, and we went back a bit. Self-pity kicks in too easily.
I was only gone a week when Ipswich played Arsenal in the first leg of the League Cup semi-final. I’d said that too many young lads would get eaten up in the Championship. But the young lads had done very well in the League Cup. We beat Exeter, away, after extra-time; Crewe, away; Millwall, away; Northampton, at home; West Brom. Roberto Di Matteo got the sack within two weeks of that game, after a 3–0 defeat at Manchester City. Then we were drawn against Arsenal – two legs – in the semi-final.
Ipswich beat Arsenal in the first leg. It was the first time they’d been in a Cup semi-final in thirty-odd years.
I’d trust myself a bit more now. At Ipswich, I’d be talking to a member of my staff, and I’d have to remind myself that I’d played more games at the highest level, I’d managed at a higher level – and I was taking advice from people who couldn’t match that experience. That’s not to say they’re not worth listening to – I don’t mean that. But don’t underestimate yourself.
The talk is constantly about players – the players you want.
‘I think he’s brilliant.’
‘I think he’s great.’
‘I think he’s good.’
‘I think he’s bad.’
‘He might be available.’
‘He mightn’t.’
‘I think he’s a great lad.’
‘I think he’s a cunt.’
We were at a reserve match, and I said, ‘What do you think of the boy Iverson?’
And two of the staff said, straightaway, ‘Nah.’
It had pissed me right off.
I came in the next day, and I pulled the two of them.
‘Lads, the next time I mention a player, don’t fuckin’ dismiss him without considering it first.’
You get the experience by making mistakes, so – again – I have to go easy on myself. Ancelotti, van Gaal – they learnt from experience.
I would try and enjoy it a bit more. I’d try and be myself, a bit more. I think the pressure of being the boss made me play up the role. There is a role, of course. I’d played it when I was a player. But I had more control of it. I was out on the pitch; it was easier. As manager, you want the players to play for you. Ancelotti can manage Real Madrid and be a good guy. If I come up short, I can at least say, ‘Well, I was myself.’
At Ipswich, I acted a bit. It was a sleepy town, and I was, ‘I’ll fuckin’ rock this place. I’ll bring them to the army. We’ll eat fuckin’ pigs all night.’ It backfired, a bit. I made the point about Ellis Short talking to me like I was something on the bottom of his shoe. I think I spoke like that to some people at Ipswich.
Paul Jewell came in after me, and immediately said, ‘Oh, I’ll have to fix this mess.’
It wasn’t a mess. We were well organised, we trained properly.
He brought in people like Jimmy Bullard, from Hull; he was on about twenty or thirty grand a week. It happens – there’s trust in the new manager. For a while.
ELEVEN
I was a reluctant pundit. That attitude helped the quality of my commentary, I think. I tried to talk as I played – very simply. I sometimes saw Adrian looking at me, letting me know, ‘We need more.’
And I was, ‘You’re not getting more. I’ve said my bit.’
I don’t think I’ve ever used the word ‘unemployed’ to describe myself. I don’t want the label, and it’s one of the reasons I started doing things that I wasn’t so sure about – PR events, signings, charity matches. They could be a fill-in, and bring in a few bob. They’d fill my soul, a little bit. I didn’t want to sit around, waiting for the calls to start coming in. There’s an element of shame in doing nothing. I know – it’s often not a choice. But, for me, it was.
When I left Sunderland I thought I’d achieved enough to get another job. After Ipswich, I thought, ‘I’ve not done enough to carry me into another job. Get ready for the worst.’
People say, ‘When one door shuts, another one opens’, but that’s not always the case in football. One door shuts, they all shut. I never thought for a minute that my phone was going to be red-hot. I was eventually offered an international job, and I spoke to a Turkish club. But they didn’t feel like the right opportunities. I also spoke to a Premiership club and a Championship club, and I didn’t hear anything back.
I heard a college professor in his fifties tell a group of students not to worry about what they were going to do with their lives – ‘I don’t know what I want to do yet.’ I liked that; it gave me hope.
I ended up in Nigeria, doing a gig for Guinness, in September 2011.
Guinness VIP got in touch, through Michael Kennedy. A big lump sum was offered. I’d be away for three or four days, and I’d be going with Marcel Desailly.
I asked myself, ‘Do I want to go down this route?’ and I thought, ‘Well, I’ve got nothing else on and I’ve never been to Nigeria.’
I was being warned, ‘The money’s good but there are a lot of kidnappings over there.’
When my wife and kids heard about that, they were keen for me to go. There’d be nobody paying the ransom.
I thought, ‘I’ll try it – I’ll see if I can enjoy it, or appreciate it.’
I went to London, to a hotel at Heathrow, and met the middle man – there’s always an agent involved; I can’t remember his name. He introduced me to Marcel. I hadn’t met him before, although I’d played against him. We had a good chat, a bit of banter. I liked him.
We flew out to Lagos the following day. It was a nightmare getting through security at the airport – proper chaos. You look at a movie scene set in an African airport, and you say, ‘It can’t be that bad.’ But it was. We had security lads looking after us, and they got us through.
The gig was called ‘Guinness VIP’. We were on a stage, but it was intimate – a hundred people, maybe a touch more, sitting around us. You could turn, and engage with people. And there was a live internet link-up.
The first question was about what we’d both been doing since we’d retired from football.
I wasn’t that long out of the game, so they passed me the mic and I told them that I’d been doing a bit of travelling, and that I’d tried my hand at management. But the only face they saw up there was Roy Keane: Manchester United. They weren’t seeing Sunderland or Ipswich. When we’d been called up on stage, they’d listed off our honours. Mine aren’t too bad. But next to Marcel’s – World Cup, Champions League with Milan – they weren’t that hot. So, I’m telling them all about the travel I’d been doing with my family – Australia, Vegas.
It’s all fairly quiet – a muted response.
Then they go to Marcel.
‘What have you been doing?’
Fuckin’ hell – I thought it was the Pope I was listening to.
‘Oh, I’ve been building schools, I’ve been working on projects in Africa, for the kids – because I am one of you.’
The roof came off.
It carried on for about another hour. The night was over, and we were walking off the stage.
I’d only known Marcel twenty-four hours, but I knew him well enough to say, ‘You, yeh fucker – thanks for that.’
‘What?’
‘I’m on about Vegas and Sydney and fuckin’ Bondi Beach, with my Speedos on. And you’re building schools with your bare hands.’
He says, ‘Roy – you’ve got to play the game.’
He was laughing his head off.
The next morning, we were going north, to Ibadan. There was a helicopter for us.
Marcel said, ‘I’m not getting on. Flying’s not for me – not in a helicopter.’
So, a minibus was organised. I’m a team player, so I got in. Th
ree or four hours in the minibus and Marcel never said a word. It was all emails and the internet.
We get to the hotel about three hours after the helicopter.
We do the gig.
The first question: what have we been doing since we finished playing football?
So, I say, ‘I’ve been doing a bit of charity work’, and I mention the Irish Guide Dogs – I get that one off my chest straightaway.
I get the look from Marcel – ‘That’s better.’
We were flying back to Lagos the next morning. Down to the hotel reception, back outside, and Marcel got into the helicopter. We were back in Lagos in half an hour.
We landed in Heathrow. I was due to get a connecting flight to Manchester. But the screening machine at security started making noises as my bag went through. There was some sort of explosive residue on the handle of my bag. It must have been on the hands of one of the security lads who’d been carrying my bag in Nigeria. They were ex-SAS. Wherever we went, they’d been with us. They’d followed us everywhere.
I mentioned my connecting flight.
The Heathrow lads looked at me: that is the least of your worries.
‘It’s important that we trace it.’
‘But I’ve been to Nigeria.’
‘Oh, well. We’ll put the bag through again. But if it comes up again, you’re going nowhere.’
It was fine the second time through, and off I went.
Then I did a signing session with some other ex-players, at the NEC Arena, in Birmingham. People came to get our autographs.
I was sitting at a long table with other players. I remember looking at people like Denis Law, and thinking, ‘You shouldn’t be here – you’re better than this.’ Then I was looking at others, and thinking, ‘I can see why you’re here’, because it was a good earner; the money wasn’t bad. And a lot of these men played their football before the big money came in.
But people were paying for the autographs in front of us, a fiver a signature, or something. I don’t think I’ve ever been as embarrassed in my life. I could almost hear them: ‘I’ll pay for his, but I’ll not pay for his.’
It wasn’t for me. I was cringing. I couldn’t wait to get out. I’d have paid double the money to escape.
