Mr Unbelievable

Every great showman has to have a catchphrase. For some people it’s a gimmick to grab the excitement of their audience. I remember that Bruce Forsyth used to open The Generation Game with the words, ‘Nice to see you, to see you – nice!’; Dale Winton was forever saying ‘Bring on the wall!’ during Saturday night favourite Hole in the Wall (well, I loved it). Other TV entertainers have yelled something to raise a comic reaction. When Frank Spencer fell out of a window and clung on to the back of a double-decker bus (while attached to a pair of roller-skates, usually) the only words he could scream were ‘Ooh, Betty!’ It always got me giggling.

In truth, I’ve probably got more in common with Frank Spencer than Brucie. But instead of bus surfing or injuring myself in a calamitous fashion, every Saturday afternoon I watch footballers kicking lumps out of each other. Each goal, booking or Fergie tantrum is greeted by the word ‘Unbelievable!’, which is then boomed into the homes of millions of Soccer Saturday viewers. Often ‘Unbelievable!’ arrives attached to the name ‘Jeff!’ as I relay the action to the show’s anchorman and Smurf-in-chief, Jeff Stelling. It’s become a bit of a cult phenomenon. For some reason, a lot of people seem to like me shouting into their living-rooms at jetplane volumes.

When Soccer Saturday first started, I had no idea how much I said ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ on the telly. This sounds crazy, I know, because I must have used the adjective at least half a dozen times a weekend. I think I first got wind of my conversational tic (and it is an affliction, just ask Mrs Kammy) around six or seven years ago when the production team at Sky decided to run a Christmas special. This 30-minute programme showed all the gaffes and bloopers from the season. A lot of them were mine. Take a look online – it’s all on youtube.com if you don’t believe me. If you can’t be bothered, here are the highlights:

‘This is unbelievable, Jeff!’

‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’

‘Jeff, unbelievable!’

‘Jeff, you’re not going to believe this! Unbelievable!’

And so on. The day after the Christmas special, I covered a match between QPR and Manchester City at Loftus Road. Kevin Keegan, then the manager at City, came out of the tunnel as I was preparing to deliver a touchline report. Just as we were about to roll, he crept up behind me and shouted, ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at the top of his voice. At that moment, I knew exactly how Jeff felt whenever I yelled into his ear piece. I also knew my big gob had been running on overdrive. My stock description of a dramatic incident in football as soon as I was linked to the studio was shouting the words ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’, and everyone in the English game had known it. Everyone apart from me.

Kevin was laughing his head off. Apparently the whole City squad and coaching staff had seen the funnies that morning. ‘It’s all you ever say, Kammy,’ he said. ‘Let’s go down to Kammy at Loftus Road [the home of QPR, where we were]. Unbelievable, Jeff ! Unbelievable, Jeff! Unbelievable, Jeff…!’

I knew then that I had unintentionally created a monster. By all accounts, the boys in the studio had picked up on it months before, but the reason I wasn’t conscious of saying ‘Unbelievable Jeff !’ was that I wasn’t thinking about making a catchphrase for myself. I was just acting naturally. If I had deliberately tried to invent a saying, it wouldn’t have worked and I would have looked wooden and awkward on air.

When it comes to Soccer Saturday fans, we all attract different ‘types’. Jeff usually gets the grannies, mainly because of his work on Countdown, but also because he reminds them of a garden gnome and they want to pop him in their window boxes. Former Arsenal star and gambling disaster Paul ‘Merse’ Merson attracts Gunners fans and masochists looking for a no-hoper tip on the horses. I tend to get the lot – kids, OAPs, stattos and fanatics – because I do three shows on the telly, Soccer AM, Soccer Saturday and Goals on Sunday. There’s never a day when somebody doesn’t shout ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at me. This morning it was the delivery guy with my supermarket goods.

I think the first time I really noticed the attention was when I went to Japan with Jeff and Soccer Saturday producer Ian Condron for the 2002 World Cup. From the minute we stepped off the plane, football fans were shouting ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ at us from across the street. Tourists were coming up, asking for photos and autographs. It was so weird. I loved it, but I think Jeff was quite taken aback.

‘Bloody hell, Chris, it’s like Kammymania out here!’ he said. I think he ended up working the camera as a line of fans posed for a picture with me. I think it’s fair to say that these days it would be me holding the camera for him – his popularity is immense.

The attention there in Japan was a bit of a pain in the nicest possible way. We were blocking walkways as crowds gathered around us. Traffic came to a standstill. At one point we had to duck down a side street like the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night and run for our lives. Or was that the night we jumped out of the taxi without paying? I can’t remember, but it was upsetting at the time, because it was almost impossible to get a pint! The English fans were there in force, and so were the Irish. Between them, they had taken over pretty much every bar in the country. We were in double trouble. I signed so many autographs that writer’s cramp had set in by the end of the trip and none of us could get to the bar without being recognised.

It’s my own fault. I’ll chat to as many people as I can. I always remember a time when I was a kid and I approached Stuart Boam. He was the captain of Middlesbrough during the seventies and when I saw him in the street one day I asked for an autograph. Boam just brushed me aside. He might have been in a hurry, but it really stuck with me. Because of that, I always try to give attention to people if they want a photo or a signature. Besides, most people want to talk to you about their club, which is great because it sometimes gives me the inside track on what the fans think about various issues affecting them and I can use the info for Soccer Saturday or Goals on Sunday.

You might get one or two idiots who say, ‘You hate our club and never say anything nice about us.’ I only say what I see: if a club does well, I shout it from the rooftops; if it’s not so good, then I say so. Thankfully those people are in the minority, but they’re wrong. I don’t hate any team. I don’t support any particular one either, but they don’t seem to take any notice when I tell them that. Leeds fans think I should be more like Jeff when he talks about Hartlepool, because I used to support Leeds as a kid. My old school-mate Steve Gibson, the Middlesbrough chairman, used to think when I was talking about Boro on the TV I was more against them than for them! Yes, they are my home-town club and he is my big pal, but I’m really 100 per cent unbiased. Unlike Matt Le Tissier, who wears Southampton socks under his Soccer Saturday desk when he’s working.

When we returned from Japan, we were all aware of just how popular Soccer Saturday had become. It also dawned on me that my vocabulary was quite limited and I should have made more of my time at St Thomas’s School in Middlesbrough. Still, I decided to play up to the ‘Unbelievable, Jeff’ saying from then on, as did Jeff. On New Year’s Day during the 2003–04 season, I remember, I was commentating on the game between Manchester United and Wolves. Of course, I shouted ‘Unbelievable, Jeff!’ in my report. When the producers flipped back to the studio, Jeff looked into the camera, his face deadpan. ‘There you have it,’ he said. ‘Chris Kamara, the first unbelievable of 2004.’

Each year it has become customary to film a Soccer Saturday Christmas Special, which is always light-hearted and great fun to record. A few years ago, we had an athletics challenge in the style of Superstars. If you’re too young to remember the original, it was a programme made in the 1980s where sportsmen from various fields competed in a mini-Olympics competition. The events included running, swimming and cycling. I remember Kevin Keegan spectacularly left his bike during one heat and injured himself quite badly. Thank God he was wearing a helmet … or maybe he wasn’t – it could have been his hair. I think Bryan Robson had a bash too and came away unscathed: not bad for a bloke who could break his collarbone on A Question of Sport with ease.

Our competition was just as chaotic. When I jumped into the swimming pool, I was wearing children’s luminous plastic armbands and splashed around pretending to be struggling. A concerned Alan McInally immediately dived in to help me to the side of the pool. Much to the lads’ annoyance, when the race started for real I powered forward like Michael Phelps in top form, leaving Rodney Marsh, Charlie Nicholas, Jeff Stelling and Matt Le Tissier in my wake. McInally won the race, but I am sure he jumped the gun!

Much later, for the 2009 special, the programme was a cookery-themed competition called Making a Meal of it. We had pinched the format from Ready, Steady, Cook – the programme presented by Ainsley Harriot on the Beeb – and the producers threw Alan McInally, Matt Le Tissier, Phil Thompson and me into a fancy kitchen to see who could cook the best festive dish.

On the day we were working with superstar Italian cook Gino D’Acampo, who had recently finished first in I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here. Gino was on hand to taste the dishes as we cooked them. He had just spent two weeks eating rats, bugs and kangaroo’s testicles in the Australian jungle, but even he couldn’t stomach the delicacy I had to offer. Maybe my offering did taste worse than kangaroo’s knackers, but to be honest I have no idea and no intention of finding out by comparing them.

It didn’t help that we were nicknamed ‘The Chef-chenkos’ for the show. For those of you unfamiliar with cheap puns, the name came from Andriy Shevchenko, the former AC Milan and Chelsea striker, and it proved spot-on. When it came to our Italian cuisine, we were sharp, lethal and too hot to handle. Our English dishes were flat, cold and pretty wide of the mark.

I opted to make a turkey curry. I can tell you it’s a traditional dish, passed through several generations of Kammys… So – if you’re reading this, Delia Smith, I’m really, really sorry – come on, turkeys, let’s be having you.

Sounds great so far, right? Well, Gino reckoned it was the worst thing he had ever tasted. Our judges for the day, A-list restaurant owner Aldo Zilli and Jeff, awarded me only one point, which was amazing because Jeff will eat just about anything, especially if he’s had a glass of wine or three. The competition was eventually won by Alan McInally, who made a knockout fish supper with black pudding. He had really taken to the challenge, mainly because ‘The Big Man’ (as he’s nicknamed) had just scored himself a new girlfriend. He’d been seriously working on his culinary techniques as he wined and dined her. Judging by my work that day, the Kammy romancing skills clearly weren’t up to scratch because people thought I was taking the mickey.

To be fair, I first cooked the dish at home with Mrs Kammy, and it was lovely. I thought I was on to a winner, but when we got to the studio kitchen, we were told that we only had 20 minutes in the kitchen each. I was worried. The Kammy Curry took over an hour to make. The producers said it would be fine, and our sous-chefs would do the work for us in advance. I was messing around, thinking that I already had the finished product in the bag and I only had to add the final ingredients.

‘Sit back and relax, pal,’ I said to Gino as I tightened my apron strings. ‘You’re going to learn something here.’

I don’t think he could believe what he was hearing. He began shouting at me. ‘What sort of stock are you cooking with?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘What do you mean you don’t know what 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) (#ulink_e0c77fe0-ea5a-5307-ad4e-56d6143af1eb)

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.