One of England’s worst players? No, I deserved more caps than Le Tiss
THERE are people out there who don’t think I should’ve been an england player. I watched a television programme describing the worst players selected for england and I was one.
A group of non-footballing ignoramuses — most of them comedians whose names I didn’t recognise — spent an hour talking about a game they didn’t understand and players they didn’t know.
The brief was to be entertaining and to an extent they succeeded, although it’s easy to be amusing when you’re finding fault.
I understand I’m not everyone’s idea of what a footballer should be. My greatest strength, my physique, makes me vulnerable to criticism. The spider legs, the gawkiness, the gangling gait, flailing windmill arms. The Freak. I’ve heard it all. nor am I the most skilful or elegant player.
I had to push myself to be effective against footballers who were more gifted technically. I never saw myself as having poor technique, just not as accomplished as some.
ron Atkinson gave me belief and was always encouraging. he signed me three times (and it would have been four if I had gone to Villa rather than Leeds), frequently reminding me that whenever I arrived at a club results picked up.
Chris Waddle often told me I was a much better passer than people gave me credit for — and I don’t think he was taking the p*** in this case.
I felt I was a better defender than Gareth Southgate, who went on to win a load of caps but there was no bitterness from me. If someone had told me when I was a boy that I would play for england just once I would have settled for that.
MATT Le TISSIer was on the radio answering a question about lack of success for england by saying it’s because we picked players ‘like Carlton Palmer’. he had a pop at me in his autobiography, calling me a bully, and I let it go but this latest barb, unwarranted and cheap, p***ed me off.
The subtext is that england did not pick players like Le Tissier, that he is a sublimely gifted footballer who wasn’t given enough chances, that if he’d been picked, england would have done better.
The subtext is that england persist in picking players who are not as good or as talented as Le Tissier and that Carlton Palmer epitomises all those players.
The subtext is that Le Tissier is a much better player than Carlton Palmer, and it’s just not fair that I played 18 times (one goal) for england and he played only eight times (no goals).
everyone loves Le Tissier and his easy-going, jokey persona on television, his well-upholstered body, snaggle-toothed grin, and boy-next-door mop of hair allowing him a non-threatening, cosy, almost neighbourly demeanour.
So when he says something apparently funny and deliberately hurtful about me it can be made without too much fear of contradiction and plays to an uncomplicated, gullible, guffawing audience. And, of course, Le Tissier yearns for recognition and acceptance.
I played with him at Southampton and he was very gifted. Two good feet, terrific skill, and an excellent finisher. he scored a lot of goals. Mind you, he also took all the penalties and free-kicks.
Despite his folk-hero status there was also a sense of having squandered his gift. he was just too content and cosy at Southampton and I reckon some of it was to do with a lack of ambition. Le Tissier never seemed to want to challenge himself and improve.
The one- club- player tag is endearing from the outside and nourishes the view of him as a loyal and principled man, but the reality was different. he just couldn’t be arsed. The reality was Matt Le Tissier: plenty of talent and no hard work, eight england caps; Carlton Palmer: not so talented and plenty of hard work, 18 england caps.
It p***ed him off. It would have p***ed me off. The difference is, I’d have done something about it.
There’S one moment in a game against Manchester United that sums up what I’m about as a footballer. eric Cantona receives the ball and I close in. he flicks the ball over my head and I spin round, uncertain where the ball is and wondering what’s happened.
As I recover my position and close down Cantona again, he lifts the ball over me for a second time, causing me to rotate, my eyes wide and swivelling like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon.
It is as if he were somehow orchestrating my baffled movements, as if I were a puppet. But by the time the ball comes down again, I’ve worked out what’s happening and manage to get in a block. his face, previously alert and mischievous, sags with disappointment.
The whole incident lasts maybe a couple of seconds. For much of that time, Cantona, supremely gifted, makes me look like a t**t. But in the end, I do what I’m there for, to somehow stop him playing.
All teams need a player like Carlton Palmer. That’s why managers kept picking me.
That’s why I’m one of the least substituted players of my position in the history of the Premier League. That’s why, for most of the time, I left it to others to decide how good I was.
Though as I get older perhaps I feel the need to say something to the uninformed w****rs who offer their opinions in programmes like the one about england’s worst players. And: ‘F*** you’ is what I want to say.
GRAHAM WAS NOT SO GOLDEN
ALMoST immediately, I didn’t like George Graham when he took over at Leeds. he arrived carrying an Arsenal bag and seemed intent on picking on all the high wage earners, one of whom was me. he was a swaggering man, his debonair appearance never quite able to obscure the jutting, single-minded chin and resolute, unbending jaw. In many ways, he was a throwback and emblematic of a dying breed, the old sports teacher who thought naughty children could be made better by making them do 10 press-ups.
DUCHESS QUIZZED ME ON VILLA MOVE
AT The 1993 Cup final with Sheffield Wednesday the Duchess of Kent shook my hand and asked: ‘You’re going to Aston Villa, aren’t you?’ her briefing had clearly been thorough but I was startled she had remembered. I said: ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet, ma’am’. But what I was actually thinking was: ‘F*** me, even the Duchess of Kent knows I might be moving on.’
BIG RON AND HIS RED BRIEFCASE
one time at Sheffield Wednesday we were all in Marbella, lounging around on the beach, waiting for Big ron Atkinson, who had called a meeting. he strolled up carrying his trademark red briefcase, similar to the one used by the Chancellor on Budget Day. he sat down and waited for us to gather round. he was enjoying the anticipation and sense of theatre, an old hand at playing the moment with theatrical bravado. he looked at us, then lifted the red case on to his lap, opening it with an over-the-top flourish and producing our passports. Despite the contrived melodrama, the comedy of a lobster-red englishman on a foldaway chair, we were hanging on his every word, and he knew it. ‘I’m telling you,’ he said. ‘We are going to win the league and do it
in style. If you don’t want to stay at Wednesday and be a part of that, you can have your passport and f*** off back to england.’ Silence. He threw the passports back into the case and took out a wad of money, gave it to nigel Pearson, our captain, and closed the case. ‘If anyone gets locked up in the next few days, you’re on your own,’ he said. ‘now f*** off and have a good time’. And with that, he walked back to his hotel — a different hotel from the one the players were staying in.
GAZZA SUCH A RUDE BOY
GAZZA was on the phone, obviously to a woman, and having a lewd and familiar discussion. We were on england duty and I sensed the need to give him privacy and signalled that I’d give him a few minutes by himself. So I went for a quick drink, which lasted about 15 minutes and then went back to the room. Gazza was still on the phone, still talking in the same intimate and vulgar way. I gave him a quizzical look, wondering whether I should make myself scarce again. He looked up, beckoning me to stay and mouthed, ‘almost done’. A couple of minutes later, after some fond farewells, he handed me the receiver and said: ‘It’s your missus, CP.’ And, of course, it was.
IAN WAS WRIGHT ALL ALONG...
It ALL started in the tunnel before the game, the cursing and the insults designed not just to wind up opponents but also to jump-start Ian Wright’s own cheeky genius. the chat and banter continued on the field and made him a nuisance to play against. Playing for Leeds, we were winning 1-0 and Wright came up to me and said: ‘Listen, C, I’m having a nightmare but you know I’m going to score the equaliser.’ ten minutes later he did.