Autobiography

I will be driven in the Phantom to London, but
if I am going to the midlands (or need to get to
West Ham quickly) I will travel in the
helicopter, and if I am going to Manchester I
will use the Lear Jet. The choice is about
speed, not indulgence. I don’t stay over and I
don’t drive for ten hours a day.
But I have to admit there was another nasty
moment a few years ago. I was flying my fourseater
Cessna 182 from my house to the
Birmingham City training ground the day
before we were due to play Liverpool at Anfield
in our first season in the Premier League. I had
landed at the same place many, many times,
but on this occasion I applied the brakes,
skidded and crashed into a ten-foot earth bank
at the end of the training ground. Early that
morning they had been cutting the grass and it
never occurred to me that there would be
cuttings on the ground that would act like ball
bearings, and when I braked it was like
skidding on ice. I scrambled out of the plane in
case the fuel tanks exploded.
I was extremely relieved to walk away from
that one, though I did bite off the end of my
tongue and the harness cracked my ribs. The
first thing I did was to arrange for the dirt bank
to be removed, and then I ordered a new
aircraft. But what I hurt most was my pride.
Fortunately, training had finished and there
were only a few people around, but the story
quickly got into the press and around the
dressing room.
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