On my second day in Cape Town, I was given my toughest assignment yet. Probably worse than Friendly Fire, or hanging on for Košice, tougher than mixing it with gangs on the Czech border or protecting three legends through Surobi, more action-packed than Juárez or more discreet than Zim, this was what I was paid to do. I had to find the lads a safe bar to retreat to after the live Match of the Day shows.
This was important stuff. I joke, of course, but it is one of those situations where if Alan Shearer or Gary Lineker wanted to have a drink in private after the game, and they ran into a swaying mob of drunk St Georges or petty crooks, then I’d get it in the neck big time if Lineker couldn’t go on air because he was too shaken or physically marked – or worse. As much as you laugh, this was my job.
So, in total, I visited three bars. At each, Whitey and I would sit at the counter, knocking them back, watching for trouble. Twankey’s was the favourite, and often the boys wouldn’t pile out of there before 01.30. There was another on the corner by a hotel, and the third was too far into town to be safe, and we didn’t want to be walking there. If you like, I was a body double for Shearer’s right arm that would hold his pint. But security on a petty level was key.
At the same time, I got a call from the guy I had charged with security for the Johannesburg end. Already the fun and games had begun. A BBC engineer in the suburb of Melville had been robbed of his wallet containing $200 and his iPod. Back at our studios, I felt it wasn’t secure enough. Unbelievably, the security hut had been plonked at the wrong end of the compound. I had to get that moved. The next day – the Sunday – one of the engineers came up to me to say that he’d had money stolen from his hotel room on Mandela Road and that one of the girls had had an attempted break-in on her suitcase. Her loose change had been plundered. It was always the engineers.
Lots of minor time-consuming irritations were starting and we had only been here a couple of days. There was an undercurrent of opportunism – the BBC was a good target. It was time to see the head of security at the hotel, Thys Van Der Meer. He came back swiftly and refunded the money, whether or not he had the evidence. It emerged that he had a float and at the start of six weeks of the Beeb in house, he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. I would be back and forth to see him two to three times a week. Things were bubbling.
The next day, the big guns started flying in. If my staff were being targeted in the run-up to the tournament, the whole thing was surely about to change when the millionaire household names rocked up.
On the Monday, Philip Bernie, the deputy head of Sport called me. Emmanuel Adebayor needed round the clock protection. In the January, his Tonga team bus had come under attack at the African Nations Cup in Angola – three were killed and nine injured.
‘I can arrange security but what does he need it for?’ I said. ‘Does he really want it? Has anybody actually spoken to him or is it his agent bigging him up? And who’s going to pay for it?’
Philip gave me the number of his representative.
‘I’m looking after Gary and all the others here. I’ll meet you at the airport and bring you to the hotel. It’s safe here. If he wants to go out in the evening and wants security, we can arrange that: it will cost about $500 per day,’ I broke it gently to him.
‘Oh, the BBC can pay for it,’ he said.
‘No, I’ve been told they won’t,’ I replied. It was the usual game of bullshit with agents. I knew that they were trying it on. Did Adebayor get special protection from Manchester City? Was he armed driving through Moss Side on the way to training? No, utter bollocks. I told him to speak to Phil about the costs. I would happily arrange it, but buck-passing as to who was paying was well and truly underway. However wealthy you were, a gig on the BBC overrode any financial motive. I knew we would freeze them out and they wouldn’t not show up.
On the Tuesday, Alan Shearer and Mark Lawrenson arrived. I couldn’t move for golf clubs. A bus fetched them and I met them at the hotel. Shearer asked me about the standard of the hotel – his missus and his daughter Chloe were coming out. Chloe was doing work experience and he really wanted her to put a shift in and not just dine out on his name.
Then he handed me the watches. He must have had close to a hundred grand in timepieces. Hublot had rung him when he took over at Newcastle United. They wanted him to wear one on the touchline. He had been sent a catalogue to pick from and they duly obliged. All managers like to look at their wrist a lot. As it turned out, he was on borrowed time – just nine games in the job before taking Newcastle United down from the premiership. He was given a second one to wear on TV. I don’t know why he brought them. They were only going in that safe he had asked about!
On the way to the restaurant that night, we got chatting for the first time proper.
‘Are you our bodyguard?’ he small-talked.
‘No,’ I refused to rise to any ego.
‘Would you take a bullet for me?’ he asked. He was bantering.
I told him about Friendly Fire and some of the other scrapes. I’d hated him for all the times he had scored against West Ham but I respected what he had done. I wanted the same back – so that he knew he was in safe hands rather than with some bouncer that the BBC had lifted off the streets. No, I wouldn’t take a bullet for him, or any of them, I wasn’t paid enough to go that far, but I would break up a scrap if it all got a bit tasty and, yeah, it was a great feeling at the bar that night getting the drinks in.
‘I’ll get these, Al. What do you want?’
‘Craig, I’ll have another one, please,’ the legend replied.
Dreams – and the stuff they were made of. Just like with Dicko, I momentarily forgot that humourless celebration and all those goals that Shearer had banged in against us.
The next day I was up early to the airport – the serious players were landing. In fact, I was on almost a daily run back and forth to Cape Town International, mindful of the fact that in the next couple of days I would be coming here again alone, to abandon the World Cup temporarily for Sue’s dad’s funeral. But today – more golf clubs rattling their way through Arrivals – Hansen and Lineker were touching down!
There was a massive press pack there – it was also the day huge numbers of English fans were arriving. By the time the British tabloids had written this up with a picture of a beaming Lineker, I was a £1,000 per day ex-commando escorting potential kidnap victims Lineker and Hansen, five years younger than I actually was, and a fully honoured war hero.
I wouldn’t argue with any of that. It was complete bullshit, of course.
With Lineker’s arrival, all eyes began to focus on the first game. England were due to play the USA on the Saturday night. The boys were pretty unanimous on two issues – that Joe Hart should have been in goal and that England couldn’t win the tournament. Alan Hansen, in particular, could see no way the Three Lions would triumph. With their arrival, it meant curtain up. Things were getting serious now and Cape Town was the place to be for St George. Many were based here for the better social life than Johannesburg. It was a very different clientele to Stuttgart and Charleroi. Most of the hooligans were watching back home down the pub.
Gary had a couple of hours to get settled, then it was straight out to film. Yes, there was lots of golf and wine, but we were off to Signal Hill next to Table Mountain to shoot, then to the beach before heading on to the Apartheid Museum. We had to get as much in the can as we could before a ball was kicked because then the games would come thick and fast. These were the little two- to three-minute films which would pop up from time to time, and help justify the whole BBC spend.
Alan Hansen went off to the studio to record a piece for Football Focus. I liked him instantly – he was just a normal, down to earth guy. He won me over straightaway when he told me about the work he had done with Help for Heroes and how important it was to him. The slightly aloof downbeat misery that you might see on the telly wasn’t the real deal. He was a good man.
The atmosphere was great. Egos, as
they say, were left at the door. Everyone from the talent down to the make-up girls would meet each other at night in the bar. It was one big team but with many individuals in it. Gary would have a wine and hit the sack, but then he had a much younger more gorgeous other half who required his energy; Alan Shearer and I would talk about what I was going to wager on in my Betfair account and he would shake his head jokingly; Dicko would be up most mornings cycling like a freak; and I loved having the confidence to talk football with them all. There was no ‘Listen, son, I’ve played the game and you ain’t’ about them, and they were all generous to a tee. Goodness, at one point, even Hansen put his hand in his pocket! And Lee was still loving his wine.
On the Wednesday night, I pissed myself. Heston rang! The two had owned a restaurant together and were great mates but this was big knob territory. He was on the way out as Lee’s guest. It was unbelievable fantasy land. Here I was, sitting there at dinner with Lee Dixon, a man I have called a wanker from the terraces dozens of time, and Heston Bloody Blumenthal rang to discuss Lee’s wine selection. You couldn’t make it up.
Who would want to ever leave this or have it taken away from them because the Beeb would want them desk-bound in the future? This really was the life.
But I had to go. Sue’s dad’s funeral was on the Friday, and the tournament hadn’t begun. I couldn’t not go, nor did I want to miss it. Amid all the showbiz and good times, and the chance to follow England abroad on the BBC payroll with all my footballing heroes, I wouldn’t forget that my life had turned a corner and Sue had met me round the other side. Now, she too had made that journey.
Dirk from Zim flew in for three days to stand in for me. Before I left on the Thursday, my last task was to help shoot the promo for Match of the Day. There I was, standing half way up a hill with Gary Lineker, waiting for the hired helicopter to fly up the hill, hover, pick up Gary, then move to the shots over Cape Beach. My job was to bring the helicopter in. I was back in the A-Team again! Loads of fans began driving up to Signal Hill. You could see Robben Island, the stadium and the whole of Cape Town from there. We had to block the road off. They all wanted a piece of Gary. He would sign a few autographs, then call a halt; do a few more then move on. It was a nightmare but Gaz was a pro.
And then I had to fly – literally.
I said goodbye to Gary, who wished me well for the funeral. Next, I briefed Dirk on Adebayor, before making it to the airport with minutes to spare. I didn’t really want to leave, but it was the right thing to do. That was what partnerships were about. Lineker, Shearer, Hansen and Dixon would be there when I got back.
At the airport, maybe I was feeling sorry for myself. The Beeb had got me a hire car from Heathrow and arranged World Traveller Plus for the flight home. ‘Fuck this,’ I thought. ‘I’m not travelling World Traveller; I’m going Business.’ I marched up to the check-in desk. ‘My wife’s father just died,’ I told them. ‘And I work for the BBC … and I’m a Gold Card holder. Is there any chance of an upgrade?’
‘Look, the flight’s not that full,’ she replied.
‘I didn’t ask that question,’ I said.
‘I can’t do it, Sir.’
This was a challenge to me – I was the King of the Upgrade. I decided to wait for the manager. ‘Look mate, I’m heading up the BBC security, I’m a Gold Card holder, my wife’s dad just died …’ I repeated the whole shebang.
‘Look, I’m sorry, I cannot do it,’ he reiterated after a quick search. ‘We’re not even three-quarters full in Economy; there’s only one or two free in Business.’
‘Well, I only need one,’ I bullshitted.
He told me it was all computer-driven now and he wasn’t allowed to play with it any more. ‘If anything changes, I’ll let you know,’ he promised.
In the lounge, I resigned myself to a couple of beers and a big kip all the way home. Then there was a tap on my shoulder. ‘Mr Summers,’ the voice said. ‘Would you come this way?’ Here we go, I was thinking. ‘Look, we can’t upgrade you,’ he began. ‘But we’ve looked at your ticket: it should be £400 but we can sell you an upgrade at a rate of £200. That’s the best we can do, Sir.’
I jumped at it, laughing all the way home, and had my fillet steak and champagne before Sue picked me up at Heathrow, driving us straight to the funeral.
We gave the old boy another great send-off. There were about 200 people there. Jack would have been proud.
The difference in the two funerals was huge – one in a foreign church with a few family and the old folk from the town, done very much the Spanish way; the other was a right big piss-up on home soil that left me with a big hangover the next morning. My dad loved a drink. He was the real life and soul of the party. It saddened me a little that because he’d moved to Spain, there weren’t hundreds turning out for him. Both, despite seven years age gap, were from the no-nonsense era before PC went mad. Baa baa black sheep or the golliwog on Robinson’s Jam, that was all they knew. If a policeman wanted to smack you round the lughole because you were having a crafty teenage fag then that’s what happened. You got on with it and made good of the little you had. They weren’t politically incorrect, bigoted, selfish or sexist. They were just plain-talking. That had rubbed off on to me. It was a miracle I had survived over a decade at the new BBC. I was the least PC person in the Corporation and I think they let it go because I did a good job. What you saw was what you got.
I saw Sue’s dad’s funeral as the ceremony mine would have had if he had died at home, and I took a good look at myself in the process. That gave me some comfort, and some distance. Having the two deaths so close helped me for the first time come to terms with my dad leaving us. Now it was Sue’s turn to grieve and I could channel my emotions through her, I was in a much better place to deal with my own dad, though, of course, two funerals in a month meant that I re-lived the whole thing again. Life had to go on, though, as much as it still cut through me when I would see a picture of Dad.
The next morning was the Saturday. England were to play the USA that night. That afternoon, the football helped me move on as I watched the Argies beat Nigeria 1–0. There would be so many games now that, actually, the funeral couldn’t have happened at a better time in terms of moving on. It was very strange to have set the whole thing up and see the boys getting ready but instead be tearing back down the M1 with a sore head. I felt it was important to spend a couple of days with Sue but, of course, once the action kicked off again, I just wanted to be back out there.
I was always able to move on very quickly once a new day had started. From London, I could visualise the boys in the studio and remember their words after Robert Green’s howler. They all had said Joe Hart should have been in goal, and they all turned out to be correct. I had watched Robert Green all season and knew he was a brilliant goalkeeper. Twenty-four hours after burying Sue’s dad, I felt gutted for someone else – the West Ham keeper.
It had the makings of the usual England performance at a tournament. The hopes of a nation had all the potential to be crushed again. I needed to get back out there before it was all over, and by the time I was reduced to watching Celebrity Come Dine With Me on the Sunday, I knew it was time to go.
The plane was rammed. This time I couldn’t swing it. I had to face Economy. I would rather not talk about it!
Very kindly, when I touched down hot and bothered with a sore neck, they were all there to meet me. The two Alans, Gary, Roy Hodgson, Dicko, Heston were all waiting in the hall. Were they fuck?!
I rang Dirk, my stand-in, straightaway. Emmanuel Adebayor hadn’t wanted anything at all. It had all been a bit of a game – the usual bullshit and brinkmanship. His brothers were acting as security, and his middleman had backed off. It had been a quiet weekend. I had missed nothing – except the fallout from the England game. Shearer told me he felt Robert Green had looked nervous even walking out against the USA.
My first job back at the compound was to file paperwork – more bloody paperwork. The now daily Sit Rep (Situat
ion Report) contained little, but it was done, boxed off and covered somebody’s backside thousands of miles away. What I lived for was to be out and about and I couldn’t have been happier when I got a message that they wanted me out with Shearer in a township.
That Tuesday we were gone for around five hours – just to make a six-minute piece. No golf for Alan that day, though he was brilliant with the crew, the locals and then, after all that hanging around, on camera, too. So many professional footballers want to be and think they can be pundits, and most can’t – let alone doing unprompted pieces to camera on human stories. Alan just had that normal touch about him. Despite being able to buy the township himself, he never forgot where he’d come from; my respect for him went through the roof as he became more than just a gob on a stick and really was genuinely warm to, and interested in, the people.
The township of Khayelitsha was about half an hour away, to the left of the motorway – a shanty town that used to be a big drugs place and was well known for its violence. Literally translated, it meant New Home. It was the fastest-growing township in South Africa, one of those places that you would have seen on a Lenny Henry Comic Relief piece. The authorities would turn a blind eye. Here was a problem that they couldn’t really get their teeth into – a community of helpless people born into poverty, which society was largely ignoring, even though it was clearly very much alive. And that was the thrust of Alan’s piece.
It would be wrong to walk away from the human story while the greatest show on earth was in town. I had seen this sub-standard living so many times around the world, but it didn’t half show how the other half lived. The BBC didn’t want this to be the untold story of the World Cup – and rightly so. It really opened my eyes to Alan Shearer. I thought it would be beneath him. It wasn’t. It was the least he felt he could do.
Bodyguard Page 31
