Bend It Like Bullard by Jimmy Bullard

Author:Jimmy Bullard
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2014-05-22T00:00:00+00:00

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LOVE YOUR COUNTRY AND IT WILL LOVE YOU BACK

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‘At the centre of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want.’ Lao Tzu

I was walking down the corridor of The Grove, one of the nicest hotels I’ve ever been in, looking for my room. Across my arms I had some England training kit and sticking out of my hand was the key card to get into my room.

Looking back on it now, I was a bit like the Gavin & Stacey character Smithy played by James Corden in that Comic Relief sketch when he stumbles upon the England squad. Except the important difference was that I was actually in the England squad. The painter and decorator from Bexleyheath had hit the big time.

If I could only have found my sodding room, I’d have been in business.

I walked up and down the corridor, 292, 294 … Aha, got it!

Room 296. The temporary abode of England footballer Jimmy Bullard. It felt good saying it, never mind writing it.

I was still a bit overwhelmed by the whole experience, but I was trying to do my best impression of someone who wasn’t a bit overwhelmed by the whole experience.

I wiggled my key card into the door and turned the handle but nothing happened. No green light. No electronic whirring. Not a bloody thing.

So I did it again. And again. And again.

If I had to go back to reception carrying all this gear because I can’t get into my room, I might not even make it out on to the training pitch because they’d probably throw me out for being too blinking thick.

I gave it another go and, as I wiggled the card in the slot again, I heard someone coming down the corridor – hopefully a member of hotel staff who could get me into my room.

I looked down the corridor but couldn’t make out who it was from a distance, although it wasn’t anyone from the hotel as they were also carrying gear so it must be another player.

The figure finally emerged from the shadows of the hotel corridor and my heart skipped a beat when I realised it was David Beckham. Goldenballs! He was going to think I was a right spanner.

‘I’ve heard about you,’ said Becks as he got close enough for me to hear him. ‘I suppose that’s my room, is it?’

‘Naah, no, no …’ I replied, but before I could say anymore, Becks looked up at the door number and down to the envelope for his key card and said: ‘It is my room!’

I looked down at my envelope and saw that it said 269, not 296.

What a total donut. To make matters worse, I immediately felt guilty for no reason: ‘I know you think I was going to do something in there, but I wasn’t, honestly,’ I kind of pleaded.

Becks grinned at me and replied: ‘Go on, hop it you!’

I was so embarrassed, completely mortified.

As I

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