How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography by Keith Gillespie

Pontins League.
    That summer, the club sent myself, Becks, Gaz, and his younger brother Phil – who the youth coaches were very excited about – off to the US to do some coaching at a kids camp in Santa Barbara around the World Cup. After a few days work, the rest of the trip was a holiday in scorching heat. We joined 93,000 others in the Rose Bowl for the fateful encounter between USA and Colombia. The latter’s Andres Escobar, who scored an own goal, was shot dead upon his return home. Again, perspective was close at hand.
    You never know what’s coming next in life. I knew that Mum and Dad had been having issues in their marriage; I spoke to my sisters on the phone all the time, and they informed me there were problems. Being away from home meant that I missed out on it. Still, it was a shock when they told me they were splitting up. It’s a normal thing, it happens – as I would find out later down the line – but it takes a while to get used to it. And it did upset me, although it was much harder for Angela and Heather who saw it develop before their eyes.
    There was no big drama; they just grew apart. Mum had become a born-again Christian. Her faith was very important to her; she stopped drinking alcohol and devoted time to the church. Dad was a different type of personality. He liked a drink and a bet. So, they divorced. Mum met a lovely man named Ivor, who I grew very fond of, and Dad eventually settled down with his new partner, Marlene, who I’ve also warmed to. The important thing was that I remained close to both of them. I suppose it was another stage of growing up.
    Things were moving fast in Manchester so I didn’t have too much time to dwell on it. When I returned from the US, I moved house. The club wanted the new apprentices to lodge beside the Cliff, so I left Brenda’s and relocated to a different digs in Irlams o’ th’ Height – we called it The Heights – which was around 10 minutes drive away. Colin Murdock moved in as well, which was handy because he owned a car.
    Viv, my new landlady, was great. It was a more adult environment. We’d sit and have dinner with her and her partner and just chat away in the evenings. She realised we were young men now, and gave us an extra bit of independence. Within reason, we could do what we wanted. For example, there was no problem if we wanted to bring girls back. That was never an option in Brenda’s, although it wasn’t like I was overcome with offers. You needed a bigger first-team profile for that.
    I had started to drink a wee bit, if not excessively. My first proper taste of alcohol was on Manchester United duty as a 15-year-old. I’d been flown in for a game with Colin, and Nicky Butt invited us out to Gorton after. I drank nine cans of Woodpecker cider and threw up all over the back of a cab. That experience scarred me for a while. I drank Bacardi and other stupid stuff until I started going out a bit more regularly, and developed a taste for beer.
    The senior players had a good social life. Most Wednesdays and Saturdays, they’d be out and we had a good idea where to find them. Our ambition was always to track Lee Sharpe down. Good things happened if you hung around Sharpey for long enough. He loved a night out – too much as far as the gaffer was concerned – and women adored him. A huge three-storey club called Discotheque Royale was his playground.
    We had a little Manchester United ID card that was enough to get us in for free, so I’d go in with the likes of Becks, Colin and John O’Kane. There was a bar out the back of Royales where you’d find a gang of the lads, with Sharpey at the centre of the banter. Giggsy would often be about too.
    Women would flock around them, and if you hung about long enough you might get Sharpey’s cast-offs. They wouldn’t have any idea who I was, but probably thought, ‘well, if he’s with Sharpey, he must play as well.’
    Our chances, on all fronts, improved at the beginning of the ’94/95