Well, call me Mister Picky, but was I the only one not rejoicing and putting up the bunting when I heard the great 'Gazza' had signed to pull on the famous Claret and Blue?
Oh I know all the arguments for: wonderful ball skills, 'greatest player of his generation', 'should have run the England team', 'can still cut the mustard at the highest level', "This kid has got the lot" - Jackie Milburn, c. 1987, 'can change a game in a second', etc., etc., ad infinitum, snore, snore, zzzz, zzzzz.
Well, for me, you see, that bit is only a tiny part of the story, a small weekend holdall amidst the Jumbo jet hold full of baggage that comes with the man. He’s the quintessential 'if only' man. If only he hadn’t attempted THAT tackle; if only he could have re-fuelled properly; if only he’d had some decent advisers instead of Mel Stein and Five Bellies; if only he’d preferred Seven-Up to seven pints. And so on.
Paul Gascoigne was, beyond any doubt, at one stage in his precocious youth, a fine ball player of top-drawer quality. He had the ability to beat an opponent in a one-on-one situation and also had the vision to conjure up a defence-splitting pass (a) before anyone else had thought it was on and (b) had completed it before the opposition could counter it. He had a very quick footballing brain. He also, for a short time, had real pace over ten yards which, allied to ball-on-a-string type close-control, could catch a whole back four off-guard. In short, he had vision and speed in quantities greater than most players you’d hope to come across in a lifetime.
He could also take a wicked free-kick, with both power and swerve.
OK , big deal. Those qualities didn’t make him unique. I could certainly ream off a host of others I’ve seen play who could do more or less the same: do something in a split second that changed a game, a competition, maybe an entire season. A player who, now and again, once in a while, when he got the ball at his feet and the bit between his teeth, made the crowd held its breath . How about this lot for a start? Jim Baxter, George Best, Tony Currie, Stan Bowles, Alan Hudson, Rodney Marsh, Matthew Le Tissier, John 'Mr Sartorial' Barnes. Dear old Glenda Hoddle. I’ve even seen Spice Boy McManaman do the odd thing (few and far between, admitted) that’s made me go 'wow', and which obviously impressed Real Madrid enough to sign him. Do I also hear Joe Cole? If I had a few beers and half an hour, I could probably come up with another five who 'had it all' and didn’t quite fulfil all that the media and various others had mapped out for them.
So what makes Gascoigne so different to these other nearly men?
Well, he’s had some pretty big stages on which to strut his stuff : Newcastle (on the up), Tottenham (big at the time, with Lineker and apprentice Lucifer waddle), Lazio (they don’t come much bigger), Glasgow Rangers (big fish in a small pool), Middlesbrough (Bryan Robson, high profile, lots of foreign imports), and Everton (once big club playing catch-up with near neighbours and failing miserably). And a World Cup thrown in for good measure, something George Best never managed.
Yes, the greatest stage there is – World Cup Finals, Italia 90 - where he shed tears for being yellow-carded after getting suckered into a tackle with a play-acting German , and entranced not only the Great British Public and tabloids, but most of the Europeans as well, along with every pre-pubescent female in the land. For a while – how long? – he was THE man. He was probably the first footballer since Best twenty years and more before who was genuine 'star' quality, in that he was in demand in any section of the media. We had television and newspaper coverage (front ,back and middle pages), we had top of the range money transfers, we had 'fly on the wall' documentaries, and eventually, we had the 'Hello' or was it 'OK' star-studded wedding overkill. In short, the most up-to-date media-saturated superstar the British public had ever beheld. The nascent soccer salary explosion merely added to the aura. Depending on who you listened to, he was the kid from next door, the most generous person you could ever wish to meet, the man you would gladly give your daughter’s hand to in marriage. All this coinciding with a genuinely pleasant, innocent persona with a 'Jack the Laddish' approach to life. Everyone loved him. What a laugh he was, no-one had a bad word to say about him, and as for his indiscretions off the pitch, well, he was a real Geordie lad after all, wasn’t he? So what if he got legless with disturbing frequency, had weird 're-fuelling habits' and slapped his new wife around a bit? We could forgive him that much, couldn’t we?
So what about his antics ON the pitch?
Some of us had serious concerns about his manic behaviour in that German match at Italia 90. Most neutral domestic and foreign observers were already asking serious questions about the temperament of a supposedly world-class footballer openly shedding tears because things weren’t going his way on the pitch. This smacked of spoiled-brat immaturity – not far wrong there.
However, he was capable of pulling the odd rabbit out of the hat. To this day, his free kick past an astonished Seaman at Wembley in the Spurs - Arsenal semi-final of ‘91 provokes comment from anyone with a remotely passing interest in the game. It was a truly memorable football moment and seemed to confirm what so many people wanted to believe – that this was indeed true greatness personified. However, it is at this point that I would argue Paul Gascoigne’s career had reached its zenith.
Observers watching the subsequent Spurs v Forest Cup Final would see a Gascoigne emerging from the tunnel looking like a man possessed, sweating profusely and twitching uncontrollably. He began the game looking intent on doing something (anybody, ball included) serious harm. An indulgent referee, Roger Milford, (who, by the way, was interviewed in cup final week having his hair permed specially for the occasion – give me strength!) shied away from booking, or even red-carding the smouldering Adonis for a waist-high tackle. We had only to wait a few minutes before our hero launched himself into Forest’s Gary Charles. Sometimes, as they say, the rest is just history. In this case, it isn’t, and wasn’t.
Lazio, having signed a pre-contract deal, remarkably kept the faith and still agreed to take him on, even though his knee had been severely shattered. So off our hero goes to Rome. Well what did anyone expect? Geordie Paul, bereft of his standard diet of Newkie Broon and chips, and expected to appreciate the cerebral and gastronomic pleasures of the Eternal City, including the odd olive oil, salad and glass of agua minerale, doesn’t find it quite to his liking, despite press releases to the contrary. Frequent trips home, plus the inability to rid himself of his mate, the ubiquitous Jimmy 'Five Bellies', belied his oft-expressed platitudes of wanting to live the Italian life. Performances on the pitch were average, despite much shirt badge-kissing. It wasn’t to last. More serious injuries ensued. It seems the Lazio board and Gascoigne and agent (and Five Bellies) breathed a collective sigh of relief as the (air) waves parted and the plane headed north-west.
What next? Step forward Walter Smith, and Rangers. They said he needed a rest from football. So, surprise, surprise, he entertains and clowns in varying degrees in winning several Scottish two-horse race championships and assorted Micky Mouse cups. Big deal again. If he was so good, and his re-built knee and general fitness in A1 nick, why did no Premiership club come in for him?
All the while, our hero is getting slower and bigger around the waist.
Domestically, his marriage starts, has an episode of violence (all seriously documented in the press) and ends. He has spells in clinics for alcohol abuse, and when told by Glenda he’s not in the final frame for France 98, throws a benny and trashes the hotel furnishings.
No problem. Both Middlesbrough and Everton (Uncle Walter again) were prepared to pay massive salaries to the sweating and gasping red-faced has-been, who was busily trying to prove he could still do the biz. Odd cameos, usually lasting about ten minutes out of the ninety, punctuating long spells of injury–induced inactivity, seemed to confirm some observers’ belief that he still had it in him. He didn’t; the pace had gone; the elbows were almost permanently raised to fend off challenges he would have waltzed past previously. Both spells ended in metaphorical tears.
What have I missed out? Euro 96, I hear you reply. Hmm. Cathay Pacific, dentist's chairs, Hong Kong and all that. As I recall, he scored a good goal against Scotland which involved him lobbing ex- B*st*rd Hendry (I might have fancied my chances of doing that) before mis-hitting and scuffing it past the usual dodgy Jock keeper. Now then, fair do’s: I admit, I too, leapt out of my seat at that moment and thought our Paul the world’s greatest. But it was a very average Scotland side, and if McAllister hadn’t missed the penalty – ah, well, you know what I mean – it could so, so very easily have turned out differently.
So assuming he never takes to a field in the Premiership again – a fairly safe bet, I’d say, barring miracles at the Turf – what does the Gascoigne trophy cabinet hold? Answer: not a lot if you take out the Scottish stuff, which no one takes seriously. Teddy Sheringham has more to use his Brasso on.
And so to Turf Moor. The theory (and ideal scenario) goes something like this: Chairman Barry signs Gascoigne in remarkably similar circumstances to Ian Wright. Loads of publicity, the Clarets’ waning season gets a massive adrenalin injection, bums on seats and shirt sales pay his salary and the ageing maestro pilots the largely (post-Christmas) rudderless Burnley ship into the safe haven of the play-offs and even maybe into the Promised Land beyond. Mr. Gascoigne has his swansong in the Premiership with a founder-member of the League back where it rightly belongs… Hmm.
Well, so far, it hasn’t quite worked out that way. Firstly, it’s obvious he simply can’t play for even forty-five minutes, let alone the full ninety. Secondly, every other team mate now looks to him either to initiate something himself, or simply gives him the ball as soon as possible expecting miracles to occur, screwing up completely whatever game-plan we’ve had so far this season, always assuming we’ve had one. Nothing doing so far. The slump since Christmas continues unabated, and out of the Blake, Johnson and Gascoigne arrivals, the only one which appears to have made any sense is Johnson’s. Taylor couldn’t shoulder alone total responsibility for the team’s scoresheet and Ian Moore isn’t your man to help out in that department. Step forward DJ and Bob’s your uncle.
So what exactly has Gascoigne brought to the Claret and Blue party? Forget the increased attendances, shirt sales and media hype – has anyone noticed a substantial rise in the level of the team’s performance? Any bets on the total number of minutes he will play in a Burnley shirt? How will he be remembered in five years’ time? I’m willing to wager that David Johnson, if permanently signed, will be a far greater influence on the long–term ambitions of the club, and will be revered long after Gascoigne has gone.
The jury remains out until tea-time on Sunday 21st April. Then we will have the definitive answer. It’ll have been make or break; time will tell. Chairman Barry will either be smelling of roses or having a lot of explaining to do. As for Gascoigne, he should be put out to grass gracefully, pack his bags and get some fat pay days in the States, and then the British tabloids and the rest of us can enjoy a permanent Gazza- free zone… until he decides he’s management material.
Paul Gascoigne… if only.
