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

campaign. We drew Port Vale in the League Cup in September, and the gaffer decided to throw us in en masse for the first leg. Gaz, Nicky, Becks, Scholesy, Simon Davies and myself all started the game, and John O’Kane came off the bench. After falling behind early, Scholesy scored twice to take a lead back to Manchester for the second leg a fortnight later which ended in a comfortable victory.
    I was taken off with half an hour left, and was disappointed about that until the gaffer stopped me on the sideline and said that I’d be making my Premier League debut at Sheffield Wednesday that weekend.
    He kept his word, and gave me the nod for Hillsborough. We lost 1-0, but I was happy with my contribution. Scholesy replaced me with 15 minutes to go. Incey approached me in the dressing room to ask if I’d taken a knock. “No”, I said. “Why the fuck did you come off then?” he replied, shaking his head.
    Two quickfire games with Newcastle later that month were the next step. First was a 2-0 League Cup loss on the Wednesday. The atmosphere was incredible; we all talked about it on the way home.
    On Saturday, they came to our place in the league. Dad was over for the game with a supporters’ club from Newtownards. My best pal, Jim, had also decided to come across. Neither had any idea I’d be involved. They were in luck.
    We were a goal up when I was sent on for Giggsy midway through the second half. Shortly after, I cut inside from the left on a weaving run, threw a few shapes and smashed the ball home. Old Trafford erupted. I don’t remember what the gaffer said after; I think the applause was still ringing in my ears.
    That night, in Royales, I got the rock-star treatment. I didn’t need an introduction from Sharpey. I took home a girl whose father I happened to know. He was a wheeler dealer guy from around the club. The phone rang the next morning, and I ran down to get it. The father, was on the other end. “Uh oh,” I thought.
    “Is Chantelle there?”
    “Yeah, yeah, she’s here...”
    “That’s ok, just wanted to make sure she was all right.”
    And that was that. I guess a different set of rules applied once you made the breakthrough. Maybe I was son-in-law material.
    From that night onwards, I was permanently in contention. I was part of all the squads, with the exception of the Champions League games, where the manager was snookered by UEFA rules that limited him to five non-English players. Two of those had to be assimilated and the club initially thought I met that criteria until it transpired that you needed to be in the country permanently for five years. It cost me a couple of starts, and Becks capitalised. I was in illustrious company, and found myself sitting next to Schmeichel in the stands for the 4-0 thrashing to Barcelona at the Nou Camp. I’m often asked if I saw Alex Ferguson’s hairdryer in full flight. He had a major blow-up with Incey in the dressing room afterwards, but I was already outside, itching to get home. By all accounts, it was an epic argument, although you’d expect some kind of row after a humiliation like that. More significantly, it was a night that made the boss realise what was required to succeed in Europe. In the short term, buying English was his priority.
    Another positive of my progression was a full participation in Christmas party festivities. Unfortunately, it didn’t go so well. I was in a group with Roy Keane that enjoyed a few drinks before rocking up to the Hacienda, a legendary Manchester hotspot. They thought we’d drunk too much and wouldn’t let us in. It was all a bit chaotic. Mark Hughes had just been ejected from the premises for saying something to Incey that a bouncer had taken offence to, even though Incey was fine with it.
    So, a gang of us were having words with the door staff when, out of nowhere, a fella hopped out of a car, barged into the middle of our group, and started throwing punches. Perhaps he recognised us, but it all happened so