stock it is?’ said Gino in disbelief. ‘Every chef worth his salt knows what stock he’s using. What is it, Kammy?’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘Laughing stock.’
He was impressed and giggled out loud. Gino wasn’t wowed by my cooking, though. He took one taste of the Kammy Curry and pulled a face at the camera. ‘I am not eating this,’ he said. ‘Oh my God, it tastes like sheet.’
This wasn’t the first curry disaster I had caused either. When I was a young player at Pompey, my dad virtually lived off his home-made African curries at home. It wasn’t unusual for him to make one and leave it in a pot for me to reheat when I got home. He lived in Middlesbrough with my mam, and when I got back from the south coast it was always a little taste of heaven.
One night during my first close-season break back in the Boro, an old school-mate Denis Alderson and I came back from a heavy night out in the town and put the pot of curry on the stove. We both fell asleep on the sofa. As we drifted in and out of consciousness, the pan caught fire and a small blaze started. Thankfully mam smelt the fumes and came down to rescue us. It was a close shave. Definitely the hottest curry Middlesbrough had ever known – so hot it nearly set fire to the street!
My stint as a ‘Chef-chenko’ was nowhere near as dangerous, though I have to say, Gino was right. The Kammy Curry – OK, the Kammy-kazi curry if you like – did taste like ‘sheet’. I’m just pleased I didn’t poison anyone! It would have left a bad taste in their mouths.
UNBELIEVABLE, JEFF!
This is probably as good a time as any to tell you about another famous phrase and explain the title of the book. When I claimed that Spurs were ‘fighting like beavers’ in 2007, the jokes came flying in. It happened during a north London derby at White Hart Lane and I have no excuses at all. It was a total blunder. I distinctly remember it was the first half of the game, Spurs were a goal ahead, but Arsenal had them well pinned back in their penalty area. The studio cut to me for an update.
KAMMY: ‘Their football, Arsenal, is on another level, but Spurs are fighting like beavers, defending for their lives. It’s a terrific game. Still one–nil…’
JEFF: [Laughing] ‘Did I hear that correctly? Fighting like beavers? Ha, ha, ha! Not tigers or lions, but beavers, those ferocious little devils.’
I wanted to describe how hard Tottenham had been defending. The phrase I’d meant to use was ‘working like beavers’ (what do you mean you haven’t heard of it?), but in the excitement, the words tumbled out all wrong. I tried to correct myself moments later but, by then, the damage had been done.
KAMMY: ‘The game, as a spectacle, is magnificent. Spurs, working like beavers but the football from Arsenal is out of this world. It’s sensational. They’re carving them up as easy as … as easy as … well, as easy as anything, Jeff.’
JEFF: [Laughing] ‘They’re carving them up as … as easy as … beavers was the word you were looking for, Chris.’
Jeff wasn’t going to let it go; he was in floods of tears. I think he dined out on the story for weeks. In fact, it could have been months, judging by his waistline, but I couldn’t help it. It was a spur-of-the-moment reaction and I’ve been unable to live it down ever since. But who cares? I want the viewer to know that I’m in the middle of an exciting game.
CHAPTER SIX GROUND-HOPPING WITH KAMMY PT 2 (TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM ON SOCCER AM)
If you think that messing around in front of the cameras for Soccer Saturday is a laugh, then you should see what I get up to on Soccer AM. For those of you unfamiliar with the show, or fans of Saturday Morning Kitchen, it starts at nine in the morning – that’s three hours B.J. in Sky Sports terms (before Jeff). Any of you who can struggle out of bed would have seen me offending Premiership players, breaking into dressing-rooms and catching top-class managers on the hop. Over the years I’ve probably become an unbelievable pain in the backside, but I hope in the nicest possible way.
I got the job several seasons ago when presenter Tim Lovejoy asked me to walk the cameras around the dressing-room before a game. I would always be at a Premiership or Football League ground to cover a match for Soccer Saturday anyway, so it made perfect sense. It also gave me the opportunity to mess around, because there was a simple brief when it came to anything Soccer AM related: always take the mickey.
The show made its debut in 1995, but at the time it was quite a serious programme. It was first presented by a guy called Russ Williams and the former Spurs and England defender Gary Stevens. But when Tim Lovejoy took over in 1996, the show changed completely. Suddenly football fans were laughing at ‘The Nutmeg Files’ (which shows players being nutmegged during the week) and ogling The Soccerettes. It was and still is a brilliant laugh.
My introduction, when the camera comes to me at each and every ground begins, ‘Welcome to the Home of Football.’ This is a segment of the Soccer AM show where the cameras go behind the scenes. I get pretty good access. Over the years I’ve rummaged through the boots at Sunderland, ruffled the shirts at Arsenal, Manchester United, Leicester and Fulham, and annoyed the stewards at pretty much all of the top-flight grounds. Typically, there’s been a bit of controversy along the way.
Just before Gary Megson was sacked in 2009–10, I went up to Bolton to present a report for the show. The club had allowed me to go wherever I wanted, so, unannounced, I strolled into a meeting-room where the coaching staff had been going through the team analysis of Manchester City – Bolton’s opponents that day. By the looks of things, ‘Mega’, as he’s nicknamed, had been showing the squad a DVD of City’s strengths and weaknesses. Clearly, he hadn’t banked on me going in there. When I got to the TV, I noticed it was paused. On the screen somebody had written ‘Manchester City’s defence is disorganised’.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I could hear howls of laughter in my headphones as I turned to the camera. Manchester City fans saw the offending words on the screen and went nuts. Loads of them texted in to complain. ‘How the hell can he say that just before kick-off?’ they wanted to know. Maybe it was tactless, but you couldn’t fault the manager, because he was right. City later conceded three goals in the game. Then again, so did Bolton, so maybe he should have been a bit more careful himself.
My fooling around backfired quite painfully when I visited Sunderland during the same season. Steve Bruce is an old mate of mine and he gave me carte blanche to use the dressing-rooms. I had a good look around, as I liked to do, and although nobody was in there at the time, I noticed the giant striker Kenwyne Jones had left his boots out. They were enormous, probably a size 12 or 13. I held them up to the camera.
‘Look at these, Helen,’ I laughed. ‘You know what they say about a man with big feet…’
In the studio Helen’s jaw dropped open. ‘No, Kammy!’ she screamed. ‘You can’t say that!’
I was laughing my head off. ‘No, not that! I mean, he’s got big toes!’
I left the dressing-room and wandered down the players’ tunnel. Along the way, there were pictures of Sunderland’s recent successes hanging from the walls. I pointed them out to the viewers.
‘Look at the photos here,’ I said. ‘Some of them show the glory days from when they were promoted. There’s [then manager] Mick McCarthy and there’s an old friend of the show, [former Sunderland player] Liam Richardson, celebrating.’
It was a massive blunder. ‘Liam Richardson’ was, in fact, Liam Lawrence, who later moved to Stoke City. The moment I got off air, I turned on my mobile. A voicemail message flashed up. It was Liam.
‘You pillock, Kammy,’ he said,