Gazza: 'I'm proud to admit it, to say I'm an alcoholic'

Footballers' books don't have the best of reputations but in Gazza, Paul Gascoigne has come up with an autobiography to match his prodigious talents on the field.

Not only is the story of one of the most naturally gifted players ever to come out of these islands among the most interesting footballers' autobiographies, it is also, according to malehealth editor Jim Pollard 'one of the best books about men's health that I have ever read'.

In an exclusive extract for malehealth, we find Gazza in summer 2003 contemplating his life and drawing up a chart called the Road To Recovery. The chapter forms the prologue to the book.

If that whets your appetite, there's also a chance at the foot of this page to order your copy of Gazza at a special discount price.

Read Jim Pollard's review of Gazza here. (You'll need popups enabled.)

Summer 2003

I've just made a chart of my life. It's six feet long and three feet wide. That's the chart, not me. I've never been three feet wide. Not yet. It's on brown paper, written in white chalk, plus coloured crayons for the major problems I've faced, such as beer, wine, vodka, cocaine, morphine, paranoid, anxiety.

Across the chart I've recorded all the key events, from the beginning, being born, right up to today, thirty-six years later, and I hope I've got most of the dates right. Always Fighting at School, Professional at Newcastle, Steven Dying, World Cup, Nine Twitches, Meet Sheryl, Broke Arm, Spurs, Broken Kneecap, Lazio, Rangers, IRA Threat, Fight with Sheryl, China ... oh, loads of stuff, all the things that have happened to me, all the awful, shitty horrible things. It's called path to recovery.

I started working on it in China, making lists of all the memories that came into my head; memories I didn't really want to come into my head, but they're there and won't go away.

Then, in Arizona, at the clinic, I wrote it out neatly on the brown paper. It was part of the therapy, but I'd started to do it anyway, for my own sake, to confront the terrible things I've done, to stand back and look at myself, to tell the absolute truth and not avoid anything.

Gazza's Path to Recovery Chart (click here to download):

It wasn't a picnic, being in the clinic. It's miles from anywhere, out in the desert, and they take everything away from you. You don't have any money, any mobile phone. They don't allow you aftershave or even mouthwash. Alcoholics, when they're desperate, will drink any old shit. I'm now admitting I'm an alcoholic. I'm proud to admit it, to say I'm an alcoholic. That's what you have to do. I'm going to AA meetings. Three a week, if I can make it. And I have a counsellor I'm going to keep on seeing.

I've got an illness, I realise that now. It's not alcoholism, not really — that's more a result than a cause. What I've been suffering from all my life is a disease in my head. I'm still scared of dying, that's part of it. If I have a sore eye, I'm convinced I'm going blind. If I've got a twitch, I panic about it, and it gets worse. I get obsessed about the simplest, silliest things, just like many children do, wanting things in exact rows, right numbers, proper places. Most people grow out of it and forget it ever bothered them. If, of course, they ever grow up.

At this very moment I can feel a new twitch. God knows where it's come from. I can't stop myself pulling the flesh on my stomach every five minutes, over and over, for no reason. It's as if I fear my stomach will disappear if I don't check it's there. I tell myself it's to make sure I'm not getting fat, but obviously that's not something I need to check every five minutes. Even I don't get fat that quickly. Besides, at present I've hardly got any stomach — I'm the thinnest I've been for years. But there's no logic to these sorts of anxieties.

We were four to a room in Arizona. People came and went. All sorts of people. A few were sportsmen. One guy was a brilliant frisbee player. He was amazing. You are involved in sessions all day. I was up at 5.30 every morning and on the go till 10 at night.

I was in for thirty-three days. I'd been there before, a couple of years earlier, and I was so busy helping others that I didn't concentrate on myself enough. Now I've got all the books and I've got all the tools. I know the questions to ask myself. Was life good beforehand? No, it wasn't. Getting depressed is no fun, not with all the panic attacks. Getting drunk all the time, to escape feeling depressed, now that I did like, no question. That was good. It was a buzz. What I didn't like was afterwards. I didn't like waking up in the morning, not remembering what had happened, feeling ashamed and filthy and guilty, feeling crap. So overall, was life good? No, it fucking wasn't.

I was living a plonky life, being a plonky person, being Gazza instead of being Paul Gascoigne. I got so upset by all the Gazza stuff in the press. People say don't read the papers, but you can't help it. Then I tell myself it doesn't matter what they say, what lies they write, what lies other people give them. But they have the upper hand. They always win. They might pay you a lot of money, and I've had loads from them, but it works against you because if you sign up with one paper the others will turn you over, dig up all the dirt. Then the one that paid you turns against you as well, or runs negative stuff at the same time as the piece they've paid you for. So what do you do? It's a waste of energy worrying what they say, either way. I know that now. All I really have to worry about is waking up each day sober and staying clean.

But that produces another fear. If I stay sober, will I turn into a boring person? I was always fun when I was drinking. That's what I always thought at the time, anyway. It was all a good laugh — the only bad bit was afterwards. Now it feels really good to wake up every morning with a clear head and remember where I've been. But what if the penalty, the by-product, is to become a sensible, dreary, boring twat? We'll see.

I'm supposed to drink only one cup of coffee a day, decaffeinated, and not have any sweets. I have a handful of Jelly Babies in my pocket, just for emergencies, such as now, sitting here in Sheryl's garden, my ex-wife's, thinking back over my life. And no smoking. I was on thirty a day, now I'm down to about twenty. I'll just have one now, to settle me. When I'm sitting comfortably, then I'll begin.

I have the chart spread out in front of me, with all the main incidents, all the horrible, serious ones. I'll also try to recall as many of the fun bits as I can. There were so many hilarious times — at least, I thought they were hilarious. And my mate Jimmy thought so. But the main point, for me, is to get to grips with what started it all, how I got to be like I am; to record everything, however bad, as truthfully as possible. I hope that putting it all down on paper will distance me from these events, and allow me to move on to wherever it is I'm going. Then, with God's help, I'll get some real smiles back. Yes, I believe in God. What else is there?

I'd like to be a child again. I want to be seven, when I had a genuine smile on my face all the time, when I was always happy. Since then my smiles have too often been false, there to try to please other people.

I ended up at the clinic in Arizona because of what happened in China. I'll tell yous about China later, but on the whole, I liked it out there, playing football and doing a bit of coaching. I coached the kids on the field, but off the field I was more like an agent to them, helping them with contracts and deals and advising them on what to do.

I haven't had a drink now for, let's see, three months. Yes, I've been on the wagon before. For even longer periods. But I knew then it wouldn't last. I hope it will this time. Sheryl says I can stay here with her, if I stay sober and sensible. But I don't think I'll get another chance if I fuck this one up.

I've had no panic attacks recently, so that's good. Jimmy hasn't been to see me, and I haven't been up to the north-east. Shel isn't keen on all that. She says it's where my problems always begin.

So I'm just taking things easy. Playing with the kids, going to the garden centre, having a quiet meal out. When we have friends or Shel's relations over for a barbecue, they are all very good. They don't drink while they're here.

I'm on various tablets, to keep me calm or cheer me up, stop me getting depressed. I did take more than I should the other day — four instead of one — wanting a quick buzz, to feel better immediately, which, of course, was stupid. And I got in a bit of a state last night watching TV. There was a programme showing some lads getting drunk round a bar, falling about, as I used to do, and I couldn't face it. It really upset me. So I went out into the garden. I told my doctor all this, and he says it's a good sign. I wasn't envying them, or wanting to be like them, so it wasn't that I was being tempted back into my old ways. I suppose I was horrified by the sight of other people behaving as I used to behave.

I honestly don't know whether I'll keep this up. I haven't done in the past, so everyone thinks it won't last this time. Shel and I still have arguments over silly things, who said what, who didn't say what. But I'd never hit her again. I've hit nobody since that episode and I won't ever do it again.

She has got a bit tougher with me. All her friends were surprised when they found out I had hit her. They always thought she was a strong person. She thought that herself.

She now realises, she says, that she did fit into the classic pattern of women in this situation — keeping it secret, feeling guilty and ashamed, as if it was her fault, and of course telling herself it was a one-off. She did everything she could to please me. She says.

Now she's got the whip hand. She's mentally tougher than she was; she stands her own ground more. She's pushing me, in a way, just to test me, to see if I'll fail again. I think the children are testing me as well. They are sure it won't last, that I'll get into a rage and be off, as has happened before. I'm not as aggressive and full of anger as I used to be, so that's good. But Shel says if it doesn't work this time, that's it. No way will she put up with any more of what I put her through in the past. I'll be out on my ear.

She wrote all that down, just to remind herself of what things were like. Every time, over the years, I've rung up and pleaded with her to let me come back or help me. She's often read her notes to keep things fresh in her mind. She's not read them lately, which is something. It shows she thinks we might have a chance. I know she loves me. I think. I hope.

Life was easier for her when I wasn't around, but she was lonely and she did miss me. She gets upset when people or newspapers say she's only after me for my money. She does love me — except when I'm being horrible. She has put up with so much from me over all these years that she doesn't want to miss out on the benefits now that I am sober and living sensibly. She has invested a lot, endured a lot, and she doesn't want someone else to enjoy the good Gazza when she's had to suffer the bad Gazza.

It's a lovely day in early summer and the kids are playing in the swimming pool. There's also a tennis court, sauna, lots of stuff. We're going to have a barbecue this evening, when Sheryl's dad comes round.

The garden's looking lovely, Shel is being nice to me, I'm being nice to her — everything is going great. Doing my chart has cleared my head a bit, brought the main events and dramas of my life into focus. So it's the perfect time now to tell you all about my brilliant career. And it has been. No question. Despite everything.

Road to Recovery

You can download Gazza's path to recovery chart as a PDF here. If you've been wrestling with some demons yourself - and let's face it, who hasn't? - why not do one of your own. It might help you as it helped Gazza.

Special offer

The publishers have also kindly agreed to a promotional offer for malehealth readers.

To order your copy of Gazza at the special price of £5.75 including p&p (RRP £6.99), please call 0870 755 2122 and quote offer code BSH221, or send a cheque made payable to Bookshop Partnership Ltd to: Gazza, Offer BSH221, PO Box 104, Ludlow, SY8 1YB. Please allow 28 days for delivery.