A horrendous thing now surrounded English footy. It was as if a carpet of disease had been placed over us and England were banned from entering any European tournaments. The press called it “the English disease”. On the pitch, the players were not performing; off the pitch, coach Bobby Robson was the subject of a press hate campaign. So, the World Cup was set to be a disaster – there was even talk of a ban – and all were expecting English fans to riot and cause havoc. Instead, something else happened, something incredible happened, and Italia ’90 is known today as a milestone in English football because of it. Italia ’90 was a PR exercise. Everyone expected the worst, but instead of giving us riots, England gave us something else: Gazza.
*
During my hitchhiking days, I grew close with my three Roman nephews. They were sons of my sister Maria and one of them happened to know a production assistant on a Bruce Willis film. He knew that the producer had rented an apartment overlooking the Forum for a year, but that it would be vacant for the World Cup, because they didn’t want to shoot the film during the tournament. I rented it for a month and it was the most fantastic flat. I had a party attended by my nephews and their well-to-do, well-connected Roman friends, but none had seen a view like it in Rome, across the Forum to the Colosseum. I simply wasn’t to know how phenomenal a trip I was about to have as I sat drinking a cold beer, admiring that view. I didn’t know how essential the events of the next few weeks were to be in the future of English football, or for England.
Against the hard battering on the team by an unrelenting press, everything was going great. Paul ‘Gazza’ Gascoigne had announced himself on the world stage and was appearing as something of a phenomenon; Lineker was banging in goals all over the place; and Robson was proving himself as an experimental, confident and capable manager. The boys’ performance was having a knock-on effect across the country, and receiving word back from London, the pubs were filled with smiling, happy people. Everyone just loved Gazza, and Bobby Robson was no longer the country’s enemy. Some people were even dancing on the streets.
Adam Whittaker, a friend from London, came to stay. He was managing director at Limelight, Siobhan and Steve Barron’s company. Adam brought with him someone called Keith Allen and a girl called Helen who had a commercials production company. I didn’t know Keith at that time, but he has since become well known as an actor, writer, singer and, of course, father of singer Lily Allen. Keith knew John Barnes, as he had written the lyrics to the England team World Cup song ‘World in Motion’ – a song that Barnsie rapped on – and this was how it all began…
*
The England team had done it the right way. Robson told them all to get it right on the field and all the problems would vanish. They did just that and football, not scandal, was grabbing our headlines. England had made it through to the semis to play West Germany in Turin. The four of us flew there and went to the stadium and John Barnes passed us tickets through the fence. The nation was on the edge of their seats. We needed out of this hooligan culture for good. Come on England!
Today, the game has gone down as one of the most important in English football. It was the game that saw Gazza receive his second yellow card. It was when Lineker turned to Bobby Robson (famously) and gestured for him to keep an eye on Gazza. You see, Gazza’s second yellow meant he would not play in the final and Lineker was right – Gazza would burst into tears. But not yet; first they would need to lose to West Germany on penalties. One photographer captured the moment of Gazza lifting his shirt to his face and it was the image that came out of the World Cup for Britain. It was poignant, it was patriotic and it was England’s first ever penalty shootout. For West Germany, it was their third. Shilton was in goal and was acting captain at the time, but he was not experienced at shootouts. Our kickers, Lineker, Beardsley and Platt, had scored, but Stuart Pearce hit it down the middle and Illgner blocked it with his legs. The country knew that the boys had taken us to a great place so far and the PR campaign had been a success; getting to the final would have been nothing but extra. Chris Waddle’s shot left-footed over the bar to the left as Illgner guessed correctly. The question remains: if Waddle had scored and Berthold then missed, who would have taken England’s sixth pen? My guess… Gazza, but it’s academic now. The boys had lost to West Germany and they were out of the tournament. The thing was, they hadn’t lost lost, they had done what the country needed of them: they had kept their dignity, they had remained gents, but… the celebrations had not yet begun.
The four of us drove our rental car, looking for the country hotel where the England team was staying. Eventually, we saw some carabinieri with submachine guns and we knew we had found it. We blagged our way past the police and were in the lobby of the hotel. Gazza was on the phone to his father back in Newcastle, in tears. Sometimes, there’s nothing more heart -wrenching than seeing a man cry, especially over something so important in the world as football. I gave him a consoling hug and he cried on my shoulder. The rest of the team were in a small bar, dealing with the loss a different way. We were the only people there apart from the team. I sat next to Lineker and I still remember what he told me: “It’s a scandal that important games end in penalties.” The truth was, West Germany had a lot more experience in shootouts than England, and penalties were now to haunt England way into the future. Lineker told me that Pearcy (Stuart Pearce) was crying in his room because he had missed, but to understand this, non-football fans need to see it in context.
Football is something that is built into the English culture, like pubs or the weather. It is one of the essential ingredients that make England, England. The working class needed heroes, and for most of the country, those heroes weren’t politicians, they weren’t bankers, or any other upper echelon of society. No, they were football players. Representing the country in football at the World Cup is a lot of pressure, but Italia ’90 was something else. There were political ramifications and we, the people, needed them to perform. It’s worth noting as well that football was different then, and the likes of John Barnes, Gary Lineker and Gazza were heroes for British folk; they were men who kids could relate to. It was different to today, with all the money and the glamour. The players now are often seen as superheroes, but back then in Italia ’90, they were human beings – Gazza, crying on my shoulder, was surely proof of that.
Bobby Robson kept coming around trying to get the players to go to bed. “You have an important game on Saturday, you can party after that,” he said, but the boys were not convinced. Lineker said to me that no one cared about that game; it was the third-place play-off. Robson came back once more trying to get them to go to bed but he was struggling; these lads had the weight of an entire nation on their shoulders. Something happens during the World Cup and it is unique, much like the Olympics: but everyone on British soil comes together and manages to shelve any prejudice or forget any history of the empire, and instead support England. It’s football that does it.
In the bar, Bobby Robson looked down at me and told me, “You are a very bad influence on my lads.” Bobby Robson became a national hero for taking the England team to the World Cup semis, and he was knighted as a result. Sir Bobby Robson passed away in 2009 and will be remembered for a long time to come as a national treasure. I was proud to have met that man.
We were in the third-place play-offs, which was in Bari in the South. After the game, which England lost (because they couldn’t give a damn), we went back to the hotel and arrived just as the team were finishing dinner and presenting commemorative medals to their coaches, trainers and physios. When the dinner and presentations were over, the players picked up Bobby Robson and threw him in the pool. I have some great shots of that. The boys were out of the World Cup and they had lost their play-off, but they had won the world’s respect back and had done a great thing for the country. The job was done in a lot of ways and the pressure was off. As expected, they got drunk – and did they get drunk! We stayed up all night, boozing and singing anthems until it was dawn. I
recall John Barnes even rapped out his famous ad and they all went skinny dipping in the pool. The players had their swimming costumes on, but we four from Rome did not! I’ve got great shots of that too, but I won’t include those in the picture section of this book!
At 8am, all the wives and girlfriends (WAGs) arrived. They weren’t allowed to travel with the team during the tournament, so they were shipped out for the last game and final party. After a month-long tournament, all the poor girls wanted was a night to celebrate with their men, but the players objected and didn’t want any of their women at the final party. Our friend Helen was the only girl there, and I think she made the most of it with one of the better-looking players… who, of course, I will not mention. So, having flown from England especially, the WAGs were put up in a distant hotel and only saw their fellas when they collected the players on the way back to the airport. They had an open bus ceremonial ride when they got back to England. It was famous because Gazza was photographed for all the newspapers wearing a pair of fake female breasts. The beginning of Gazza’s antics had just begun. I spoke to him on the phone later. He told me they were all completely hungover when they did that ride through London.
After the all-night party, the four of us from Rome drove back – also with hangovers. I dropped the others off at the flat and in great shock I realised I had a ticket to the final: West Germany and Argentina! I turned on my heels and ran for the car – but didn’t arrive at the stadium until half time. I remember thinking as I walked into the stadium, I must be the only man in the world to get a ticket to the World Cup final and miss half the game! On that note, and after what I had experienced… my god, what a boring game! Or maybe I was just one of the ninety-nine percent of Brits who once again didn’t give a damn about football now England were out? No, it wasn’t true – and that game is now renowned as one of the most boring finals of all time. The England vs. West Germany match, however, is renowned as being the most dramatic and intense in the entire tournament.
I went to another World Cup final in Los Angeles in ’94, between Italy and Brazil. That was also a boring one: 0-0 and it went to a penalty shootout. The biggest tragedy was that Roberto Baggio, who pretty much single-handedly got Italy to the final, was the one who missed. He took the kick just below where I was sitting, and I have a photograph of him with his head lowered in shame and disappointment. My heart went out to him. He had been so brilliant throughout the tournament, and all I could do was think of the boys: Pearce, Lineker, John Barnes, Peter Shilton, Bryan Robson, Chris Waddle, Peter Beardsley, David Platt, Gazza. Football isn’t the same today. It was different then; then it belonged to us. Like all of these things, it was a time. Even now, twenty-five years on, English football still rides the crest of the wave those men created on that field and the massive names that go with that squad – heroes to today’s players. Everyone will remember the squad from Italia ’90, especially me – I got pissed and naked with them! For Germany, it would be the last tournament to feature a German side representing a divided Germany. We were in the nineties now: Thatcher was out, Major was in, and Britain was changing. England were allowed back into European competitions. Change was coming, to us all.
Chapter 30
The New Heart Valve and the Farmhouse
I needed open-heart surgery again… the pig valve was falling out. It was possibly because of my cocaine habit through the eighties. In September of 1990, I went back in to have a carbon fibre valve fitted. I used the same hospital, the Princess Grace, and the same surgeon. By now, I guess he thought of me as an old chum. He came into my room the evening before the operation and sat on my bed. I think remembered my old sense of humour, so he thought he could confide in me. He put his head in his hands: “I’ve got to get out of this bloody game.” Faced with the prospect of my surgeon having a nervous breakdown, I rushed to reassure him what fantastic work he did… for society, doing four operations a day; how impressed I had been eight years earlier that he was still doing his ward rounds at 11pm; how well the pig valve had been doing in me and how much younger he looked than the last time I… I was practically putting my arm around the man. “All I want to do is go to my vineyard in Hampshire,” he said to me. “Now, come on old chap,” I told him. “One more valve… for old times’ sake.”
These days, hospitals want to get rid of you soon after surgery, and after about a week in the case of open-heart surgery. They can’t make much money off you when you’re convalescing and just paying the daily room rate. The big money is in the surgery, so they want to free up the bed – but because I lived alone, I insisted on staying a few extra days – I was on insurance anyway. The surgeon would put his head in the door on his rounds: “As far as I’m concerned, you are on holiday,” he’d tell me.
After I left the Princess Grace Hospital, I still didn’t want to go home alone. I’m not sure why, but it happened to me occasionally. Sometimes I guess it just got a bit… lonely. I went to the Champneys Health Club in Surrey and Jimmy Page was in the next room, trying to lose some weight for the Led Zep comeback concert at Knebworth. We discussed cars – I had quite a collection by then – and he told me he had a Cord, which I knew was a very rare 1930s streamlined American car. “Hang on a minute…” I asked him, “I didn’t think you could drive?”
“I can’t!” he told me.
Also at Champneys were my friends Mike Rutherford from Genesis and his lovely wife Angie. It was quite funny, actually, seeing a load of mates in there; I had seen them very shortly before in New York at a Mike and the Mechanics concert. Hanging out in Champneys and clearing my head up after the surgery was the right move, and I took the rest of 1990 off work on convalescence.
By now, I had a beautiful seventeenth-century farmhouse in Wiltshire, on the 11,000-acre Fonthill Estate owned by Lord Margadale. I had bought it in 1985. I was in my office one Friday afternoon in June of that year. Our office on the North Wharf Road had big picture windows overlooking Paddington Station and I saw a train snaking out of the station. I said to my PA, Domenica Fraser, “Look at those lucky bastards, they’re probably going down to Devon for the weekend.”
Domenica is very posh (but gorgeous with it). Her uncle was Lord Lovat, Chief of the Scottish Clan Fraser. I went to her wedding later to Philip Dunne. He had apparently been an old boyfriend of Princess Diana, and she was at the wedding in the Brompton Oratory in Knightsbridge. After the service, I went outside and stood at the side by the columns to wait for Diana to come. I wanted to get a look at her, as it was surely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I suddenly heard a rustling and saw Diana, standing behind me and a column. I turned to her. “Are you hiding behind me?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m trying to hide from them,” she said and pointed across the road.
I hadn’t noticed, but there was a battery of about a hundred cameramen over the road, all with their telephoto lenses pointing towards us. The next day, there was a photograph of her and me in the News of the World. The headline on the article read, ‘Diana Sees Old Flame Wed’. The people in my office were very happy to put the clipping on the wall, having cut off the word ‘wed’, so it was just a picture of the Princess and me with the title ‘Diana Sees Old Flame’. There was a similar photograph on the front cover of The Observer. This one was taken as I was talking to Diana and only showed the back of my head. I had a very short haircut at the time.
“I saw your photo in The Observer,” a friend told me.
“Don’t you mean the News of the World?” I asked.
“No, I don’t read the News of the World.”
“But you only saw the back of my head in The Observer.”
“Yeah, that’s how I recognised you.” Remarkable!
*
Domenica told me about a friend who had just started videotaping properties for house buyers. This was new technology in ’85 and search agencies were a new thing. In fact, only Pereds, owned by the pioneering Perry Press, existed at that time. I told Domenica to get her friend to come to my fl
at the following week. His name was Willie Gething and his new company was called Property Vision, later to become a huge organisation. I told Willie what I wanted, which was an isolated house needing restoration, with outbuildings for garaging. He told me he had the ideal house near to the cottage he rented on the Fonthill Estate. It was probably the easiest search job he ever had, and we went down to see it early on the Monday morning. I ran around it in ten minutes and knew it was perfect, although in a terrible condition. I was back in my office in Paddington by 11am and it was a ninety-minute drive each way. Willie told me it was coming up for auction on the following Friday, only five days away. I was going to the Cannes Advertising Film Festival on the Wednesday, but he said that that was no problem and that he could bid for me. I went home and added up what I could afford, including selling my two jukeboxes and a bunch of cars. My friend and solicitor Stephen Wegg-Prosser did all his normal rapid legal searches on the property, and Willie bid for me. I stayed on the beach of the Carlton all day on the Friday, and when I got back to my room and called London, I found out it was mine. I owned a country house within five days of starting to look for one.
The house needed renovating and Simon Elliot’s Shelston Construction did the work. They look after the Earl of Shaftesbury’s stately home near Blandford, and John Shaftesbury had recommended Simon. Simon’s wife, Annabel, is the sister of the former Camilla Parker Bowles, now the Duchess of Cornwall. Their brother was well-known man-about-town, elephant conservationist and author Mark Shand. Simon and Annabel’s son, Ben Elliot, is the owner of the highly successful concierge agency Quintessentially. I had the interior of the farmhouse done by two married friends from Wales, Lesley Sunderland and Jonathan Heale. They were friends with Julie Christie and had lived in a farmhouse owned by her. Through that connection, I saw Julie in Montgomery, and again later in Santa Barbara, California, where she lives. Jonathan designed all my furniture and had it made by Welsh carpenters. Together, they designed and hand printed all the curtains, bed covers and dining chair covers, and stencilled the walls. I had told them I wanted it to look like a famously decorated house called Charleston on the Sissinghurst Estate, but it didn’t after they were done with it – it looked better.
Johnny Cigarini Page 19
