To me, as a self-styled purveyor of the beautiful game, Paul ‘Gazza’ Gascoigne stood head and shoulders above his compatriots.
In his prime, no matter how briefly that flame flickered, he was unplayable. He had strength, skill, speed, never shirked a challenge, and he could dribble more competently than a teething baby.
Yes, we’re all aware of his personal demons that have, and continue, to blight his existence, but to me, as a superfan, there were none finer, that was, until Friday night.
For many, a sell-out crowd in a leisure centre would be a career highlight, maybe if you were a Love Island contestant or ‘influencer’ but I couldn’t fathom how far he had fallen as we sat in the cheap seats (wooden benches at the back of the gymnasium), while the gilded queued with their gold passes to go behind a white sheet at the far corner of the hall to have an overpriced selfie with Gazza.
Nothing was cheap, as staff continued to try and upsell at every opportunity, be it ‘merch’, raffle tickets or ticket upgrades and then, a few minutes after 8pm, Gazza took to the stage to face his employee/inquisitor for an hour’s live interview, which was akin to being mauled by a care bear.
It was heavily scripted and rehearsed. The pre-ordained questions were never going to win the interviewer a Pulitzer Prize, and Gazza set off on semi-coherent ramblings as he recounted tales I had heard scores of times in recent years.
By 10 minutes in, I was bored as he again told the Les Ferdinand ‘lucky charm’ yarn or his sister being offered a sunbed should he sign for Spurs.
It came across as increasingly bitter and venomous, and as if Gazza blamed everyone else for his self-induced downfall.
Don’t forget he had the word at his feet: He had the potential to be a brand and a true global superstar, aka Beckham, but he, and he alone, screwed it up, despite his inability, it seems, to take that responsibility upon his own shoulders.
Am I disappointed I went? Truthfully, yes. I wish I’d stayed home and kept the man on a pedestal – I could not get over the unpleasant bitterness that seeped from every pore.
Still, I have, from many years ago, a signed Gazza crying photo which, at current rates, must be worth £700 after a few beers, as I hum, “No more heroes anymore”, and begin the search for a new icon in which to worship from afar.
- Brett Ellis is a teacher.
