Catching up with my old mucker John, he casually dropped a bombshell: apparently we feature in David Davies’ autobiographical romp FA Confidential: Sex, Drugs and Penalties. The Inside Story of English Football.
Henry Winter’s review in The Daily Telegraph retells Davies’ version – a late night knock at his Burnham Beeches hotel door during Euro ’96, Terry Venables whispering, “The police are downstairs,” and Davies legging it to reception convinced Gazza had gone feral again.
Winter quotes Davies recalling two officers – a male and a female – a flashing blue light, and a tale of a naked, bleached haired intruder.
Venables, Davies says, sat there smirking until the “identity parade” punchline dropped and the whole room dissolved into laughter. Davies’ verdict? “Bastards!”
Well… time to set the record straight.
During Euro ’96, John and I were stationed at what we affectionately called the People’s Republic of Burnham.
Burnham Beeches Hotel, temporary HQ of the England squad, was on our patch. As football obsessives, we spent half our shifts chin wagging with the Met lads safeguarding the team and built a cracking rapport.
After England’s glorious 2–0 dismantling of Scotland – Gazza’s flick and volley still echoing round Wembley – we were on nights and made a beeline for the hotel. Spirits were high. Terry Venables was in the bar. Mischief was in the air.
And Venables, still chuckling about the squad’s infamous Hong Kong escapade – the Dentist’s Chair debacle just three weeks earlier – was absolutely up for a wind up.
Venables knocked up Davies and ushered him into a formal meeting room. No script. No plan. Just pure, vintage, unsupervised 1990s chaos.
As Sergeant I opened proceedings with formal introductions and full parade ground gravitas: “We’re investigating a report of public indecency made earlier by retired Colonel Spindlewood, who resides adjacent to the hotel.” I chose that name as we had just resumed from a job where the house was called the same.
Let that hang. Let the dread settle. Davies’ face tightened.
I continued: “Colonel Spindlewood had been having a dinner party which was rudely interrupted by three naked men running across the lawn.”
I turned to John, who was staring at a completely blank notebook. “John, please outline the particulars.”
Without missing a beat: “At 21:22 hours, Colonel Spindlewood and his party were enjoying a convivial evening. The house adjoins the hotel and is within the security area. Therefore, the men had to have come from the hotel. All observers were alarmed and distressed by the intrusion and the indecency they witnessed.”
Immediately on the defensive, Davies interrupted: “The men could have been staff, not players.”
John continued: “The descriptions strongly suggest players. Please remember the Colonel is rather elderly and doesn’t follow the game. One offender is described as a very tall white male, dark hair in a ponytail, with a Yorkshire accent.”
Venables shoehorned himself into the conversation: “That’s David Seaman!” nodding sagaciously.
My partner wasn’t derailed: “The second was a black male with short dark hair and of muscular build. Finally, the ringleader was a white male, Geordie accent, white hair (Gazza had dyed it for the tournament) darker coloured pubic hair, who shouted to Mrs Spindlewood, ‘Get your gums…’” (pausing for comedic effect as he turned the pocket notebook page over) “‘…around my plums!’”
Venables cracked first – a loud snort of laughter. I pounced: “Mr Venables, this is a serious incident. Arrests are likely and an identity parade will be required.”
He straightened up. Davies wilted, head in hands, clearly trying to work out which players had just torpedoed the tournament.
With a sigh of resignation, I added: “We’re huge England fans but our hands are tied. The Colonel, a member of the Police Authority, phoned his friend the Chief Constable, the Chief phoned the ACC, the ACC tore the Superintendent a new one, the Superintendent bawled out the Chief Inspector and now we’re here. We have to act. We have no choice.”
I then took John’s notebook and delivered the coup de grâce: “The complainants have provided accurate descriptions, with Mrs Spindlewood providing a damning distinguishing feature of one of the perpetrators.”
Davies looked up, ghost white.
“What?”
I paused. Then: “The Yorkshireman had a huge cock!”
Venables collapsed. Davies exploded: “YOU BASTARDS!” And stormed out.
I suspect Davies was so rattled he genuinely thought I was a female officer – back then, with hair, I was a bit of a looker – and that we’d left the blue light on. Any copper knows that’s pure TV nonsense; leave it on too long and the battery dies quicker than Gazza’s sobriety in Hong Kong.
God, I miss those times. Football was fun. Policing was human. And occasionally, if you were lucky, you ended up immortalised in an FA director’s autobiography for winding up the boss during a home European Championship.
© Ian Kirke 2026
@ iankirke.bsky.social
Title photograph reproduced by kind permission of Ruairi Ellis