Free How NOT to be a Football Millionaire - Keith Gillespie My Autobiography by Keith Gillespie Page B

searching for answers about why they were being let go but I understood his reasons for doing the deal. My mind was already focused on the future.
    I had an idea that a hectic few days lay ahead, yet it was only the following afternoon, when the news broke, that the scale of the transfer really hit home. It was a British transfer record deal, valued at £7 million, with Newcastle receiving £6 million and my £1 million valuation making up the rest. Keegan had refused to do business until my presence in the switch was guaranteed.
    The rest of that week was a whirlwind. I went to the Cliff, grabbed my football boots, said my goodbyes and then a car arrived to bring me to Newcastle. Just like that. After spending so long at the club, it ended abruptly. That’s how it goes in football. You may live and work beside people every day and then, out of the blue, you are shaking hands and wishing them well on their next journey.
    Up in Newcastle, Keegan was firefighting, so I posed with his assistant, Terry McDermott for the publicity photos. I was whisked away to stay in Freddie Fletcher’s house to throw any press off the scent. Some Newcastle fans were so furious at Cole’s departure that they gathered at the ground to protest. Keegan went out to the steps of the Jackie Milburn Stand to address them, and plead for patience.
    I admired his approach. Few managers would have done the same.
    On the Thursday, I reported at Newcastle’s Maiden Castle training ground in Durham to be introduced to my new team-mates and stretch the legs. I wouldn’t be involved in that weekend’s game as, by freakish coincidence, Manchester United were visiting St James’ Park. Part of the deal was that neither myself or Andy would be involved. So, after my driver took me down to Viv’s to pick up the rest of my possessions, I was given permission to fly to Belfast and appear on the main late-night talk show in Northern Ireland which was presented by a guy called Gerry Kelly.
    Four days after heading to Sheffield as a low-profile Manchester United player, I was sitting in a green room with Michael Flatley from Riverdance and the actress, Dame Thora Hird. I have little recollection of what I said. My mother was invited on stage and asked if she was a calming influence in my life. She said my feet were firmly on the ground already. That balance was about to receive a stern test.
    The following morning, I checked into the Gosforth Park Hotel, my home for the next five months. Shay Trainor, a Northern Irish guy who I’d befriended in Manchester, came up with a few of his pals and we decided to head out and see what a Saturday night in Newcastle had to offer.
    We didn’t know where the hot spots were, so headed in blind, down to the Quayside where we dropped in and out of a few bars. Suddenly, I was the centre of attention, on a different level to anything I had tasted in Manchester with people queueing up for photos or looking for me to sign this and that. Eventually, we wound up in Tuxedo Royale, a nightclub on a boat, with an attractive entourage. Some of the girls came back to the hotel’s late bar. I didn’t kick a ball, but I had no problem scoring on my first weekend in Newcastle.
    I woke to an unexpected headache on the Sunday morning. The back page of the Sunday Mirror claimed that Ferguson had got rid of me because he couldn’t control my behaviour off the pitch. There was nothing to back it up. I turned up at the ground for the game, fearing some kind of backlash, and Keegan was sitting there, laughing, waving the paper at me. “What’s all this then?” he said, with a smile. He could see right through it.
    (Shay knew solicitors in Manchester who got on the case, and Ferguson offered to come forward as a witness. A year later, I received my first libel settlement, a sum of £17,500.)
    Sitting on the bench that afternoon was a strange experience. I was rooting against Manchester United for the first time in my life. I’d been invited