THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE is an extract from Only Here For A Visit by Alan Brazil.

Kelvin MacKenzie and the talkSPORT bean counters decided that we had to broadcast the show from London the day after the festival ended, which meant having to pack up the studio in Lord Vestey’s box as soon as we were done on the Thursday, leaving Cheltenham early, in order to get ahead of the traffic, and missing the Gold Cup.

As you can imagine, I thought this decision was madness, and told them so.

The Gold Cup is the festival’s main event, what the festival is all about, so there was no way I was missing it.

So after the show on Thursday I thanked Lord Vestey for his hospitality, put a few bets on and headed to the Guinness tent. When Porky, who now had his sensible head on, tried to persuade me to leave with him, I told him I wasn’t coming. And once Porky had gone, I easily slipped back into the groove.

Before I walked into that tent I was flagging. But now I was flying again. Former footballers and Sky pundits Chris Kamara and Alan McInally were in there, as well as Jim Lewis, the owner of Best Mate, who would win his third successive Gold Cup later that day. I was backing winners, including Best Mate, and loving every second. London could wait.

However, after the last race at 5.45, reality suddenly dawned on me. I had a car, but there was no way I was going to be able to drive home. So I was going to have to find somewhere to stay the night, find someone to take me there, get up at some ungodly hour and drive back to London.

Because all the hotels in Cheltenham were rammed, I had to stay in a lovely little Cotswolds village called Moreton-in-Marsh, about 25 miles away. I’d just bought a new phone which wasn’t working – the on-off button had jammed – which meant I didn’t have an alarm. So when I checked into this little hotel, I said to the wee Irish lad on reception, ‘I need you to wake me up at 3.30 a.m. If you wake me up then, I should be able to make it back to London in time for the show.’ This lad assured me that wouldn’t be a problem and I retired with a glass of red wine to this cosy little room with a big roaring fire.

But just as I was about to go to bed, this lad walked in and said, ‘I’m surprised you’re not down the road.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘A former Scottish footballer owns the pub. You probably know him.’

The guy in question was Jim Steele, who won the FA Cup with Southampton in 1976 and played with two of my good mates from the world of football and horses, former England striker and trainer Mick Channon and Alan Ball, who won the World Cup with England and was now a huge racing fan. How could I resist? What could possibly go wrong?

I said to the wee Irish lad, ‘Right, I’ll go and have a couple. But don’t forget the 3.30 alarm call.’

When I walked into the pub, Jim was standing behind the bar wearing a Rangers shirt. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I knew he was a Rangers fan, but this was the day after St Patrick’s Day and the place was full of Celtic fans, singing Irish songs.

Jim didn’t see me, so I sat at the end of the bar and joined in with the singing. But after a couple of pints, I shouted across the bar, ‘Oi, Bluenose! I need eight more pints of Guinness ovehere!’

I knew Jim could hear me and was doing his best to ignore me, but after some more provocation he snapped and roared, ‘Right, who’s the big mouth?’

Jim could always handle himself and was quite intimidating when he wanted to be. But when he saw me, he broke into a big smile and said, ‘Alan Brazil! I don’t believe it!’ We hugged across the bar, before a large glass of wine was thrust into my hand. There was more singing of Irish songs, more swapping of football stories and many more tales of bets won and lost.

Next thing I knew I was awake in my bed, staring at the ceiling. And I had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong. I turned on the bedside lamp, looked at my watch and couldn’t believe my eyes: it was 4.40, I was still in the Cotswolds, and the show was starting in London at six. I rolled off the bed, grabbed my bag, threw my clothes on and rushed down to reception, where the same wee Irish lad was sat behind the desk. There was a grandfather clock standing against the wall, so I pointed at it and screamed, ‘Look at the time! It’s 4.45! I told you to wake me at 3.30! I’m never going to make it to London for the start of the show!’

This lad kept trying to say something and I kept cutting him off, but just as I was walking out of the door, he shouted, ‘But you didn’t get home until 3.50!’

There was no time for an inquest. I apologised for having a go at him and flounced out of the hotel, only to find that my car was blocked in by a milk float and the milkman was refusing to move it. By the time we’d finished arguing, it was almost five. I couldn’t call the office because my mobile was knackered, but I still thought I might be able to make it, even though it would have been impossible in a Ferrari on deserted roads. I did think about calling the office from a payphone, but the number was stored in my mobile, which I couldn’t even switch on.

The first thing I did when I got back to London that evening was head to the shop that sold me this dodgy phone, threw it across the counter and blamed the poor bloke for getting me the sack. That was my mindset at the time, blaming everyone but myself for the predicament I’d landed myself in. With the new mobile they gave me I phoned my daughter to tell her what had gone on and the first thing she said was, ‘Dad, Mum is going to kill you. You’re in a lot of trouble.’

It was my wife’s birthday, so I was obviously in the doghouse and felt bad about ruining her day. But I very rarely get down for long, so I replied, ‘Don’t worry about that. Get the skis out – we’re going to Meribel.’

I ended the call, headed to my favourite wine bar on Ludgate Hill and ordered champagne. A day later, I was on the slopes of Meribel, loving life again.

But a few days after that I switched on my mobile for the first time since leaving England and saw that I had about a hundred missed calls from Porky. And seconds later, he called again. Porky and I had been through so much together over the previous few years, but now he didn’t sound too friendly. To be fair, I wasn’t too friendly either, because I was still in blame mode. I was calling him a snake and telling him that none of it would have happened if he hadn’t deserted me (which was bollocks, of course).

Then he suddenly said, ‘Al, I’m afraid we’ve got to sack you. I’m cancelling your contract.’

There was no point arguing about it. As talkSPORT’s programme director, Porky was officially my boss. And he was acting under orders from MacKenzie, so I wasn’t going to change his mind. So I simply replied, ‘Well, there’s not a lot I can do about that, except to say that it was great working with you.’

Initially, I was shell-shocked. I’d had one of the best jobs in broadcasting, a job I absolutely loved, and now I was unemployed – and on a very expensive skiing trip.

My wife was extremely worried, but I didn’t dwell on it for long. I’d had a few big setbacks in my life, not least when my football career was cut short by injury when I was only 27. So I did what I often do in a crisis: popped a bottle of champagne and told myself that something would come up.

When I returned home from Meribel there was a brown envelope waiting for me on the doorstep. It was the official notice of my sacking. I understood why Kelvin had to send a letter, but this letter was just nasty and completely uncalled for. He even called me ‘a disgrace to my family’.

I should point out that Kelvin was a brilliant journalist and very generous. If we were bringing in big listening figures, he’d give us all a big bonus. And he once phoned me on New Year’s Eve to thank me for saving his radio station. But he had a reputation as a hard-nosed operator who didn’t mess about. Porky, who worked under Kelvin at the Sun and absolutely revered him, used to get bollocked by Kelvin all the time. Sometimes that
was horrible to watch, sometimes it was hilarious. But what made me lose some respect for Kelvin was the fact that he never had the bottle to say difficult things to my face, probably because he knew I’d tell him to piss off.

Instead, he’d always send a letter, or use Porky instead. Having retreated to my home in Suffolk, offers started to come in. There were a few calls from newspapers and betting websites, which were starting to get big.

Radio 5 Live also made contact and we spoke a bit about doing a show for them. But one day I was sitting in a hotel called Milsoms when my phone rang. When I flipped the phone open, Porky’s name was on the screen. I didn’t want to speak to him. Not that I blamed Porky for what had happened, I just wasn’t really interested in discussing it. But after a few rings, I answered.

After a bit of awkward small talk, Porky said, ‘Listen, it’s bad. We’re getting thousands of emails. People are genuinely upset that we sacked you. We need you to come back.’

I’d been replaced on the breakfast show by a guy called Paul Breen-Turner, a regular talkSPORT contributor who was based in Spain. Paul was a pal of mine whose Spanish studio we’d broadcast from and with whom I’d shared plenty of beers. He was also a good broadcaster, but obviously wasn’t catching the public’s imagination. I have to admit I was astonished by the reaction to my sacking, but wasn’t sure whether Kelvin would have me back. Porky, however, was certain he could persuade him to change his mind.

A couple of days later I met up with Porky and agreed to return in principle, after which there were lots of phone calls and meetings with various talkSPORT big-wigs. Meanwhile, whenever I went out people were asking me when I was going back, to which I’d usually reply, ‘We’ll have to see.’ Then, about ten days after returning from Meribel, Kelvin gave me my job back. As part of his compromise deal I’d get fined £5,000 for failing to complete a programme. That sounded fair to me.

At the time of writing I’ve outlasted Kelvin by 15 years. In 2005, a little over a year after he sacked me, Kelvin’s Wireless Group was bought out by Northern Irish media company UTV and he left the building. Funny how things work out.

Only Here For A Visit by Alan Brazil is published by Bantam Press. More info here.