Barton’s a midfielder, so your dig is innacurate. But no, my Gran would be higher on the teamsheet than Cygan.
IT WAS a typically humid evening in Bangkok as the Manchester City players and management staff headed out for a team meal at Baan Kanittha, a plush Thai restaurant. Danny Mills and Stephen Jordan were in particularly high spirits after spending the day on the island of Phuket coaching more than 300 young children who had been so horribly affected by the tsunami that wreaked death and destruction across South-East Asia on December 26 last year.
It had been a moving experience for all involved, not least for Mills and Jordan, who had been bowled over by the courage and resilience of the children, many of whom had lost their parents in a disaster that claimed more than 200,000 lives. As they sat down to eat, they felt proud. Proud that they had touched so many children’s lives. Proud of the remarkable healing power of football. It had been a day that they would never forget.
Little did they and the rest of the people at that table know that the next few hours would also be unforgettable, but for the wrong reasons. A day that had shown football in all its glory would end with one player dragging the sport back into the gutter.
Richard Dunne and Joey Barton had chatted away over the course of the dinner, as good friends do. They were happy to be in Thailand and were looking forward to the start of the new Barclays Premiership season.
After dinner had finished, Stuart Pearce, the City manager, had given Barton and Dunne permission to enjoy some free time because neither was scheduled to play today against Everton in the FA Premier League Asia Trophy, a quadrangular tournament also featuring Bolton Wanderers and the Thailand Under-23 team.
How Pearce, a bright, witty, engaging man and a promising young manager, must be regretting that decision.
While some players headed off and did their own thing, Barton and Dunne decided to return to the Radisson Hotel, where they and the rest of the squad were staying, for a few drinks. The Blackie Sports Pub is on the lower lobby floor of the hotel, an unspectacular but friendly drinking hole.
Barton and Dunne had been there for a few hours by the time I arrived, at about 1.30am local time yesterday. I had been busy filing that day’s stories to the sports desk in London in the hours before and decided to have a nightcap before I went to bed.
Both players appeared to be merry and quietly enjoying themselves with a few members of City’s backroom staff and a group of Everton fans who had travelled independently to watch their team compete in the Asia Trophy. It was a reassuring, harmonious scene — supporters warmly engaging with players from an opposing club. That would all change in a few ugly, violent minutes.
Barton had been amicably chatting to a young Everton fan, but soon it became apparent that the 15-year-old, cheeky as so many teenagers are, had apparently overstepped the mark and was goading the player. Rather than walking away, as he should have done, Barton became embroiled in a slanging match, at which point the teenager appeared to kick out, catching the player on a shin.
Incensed, Barton seemed to lose control, slapping the boy hard across the face in a reprehensible moment of madness. No one could believe what they had seen, but Barton was not finished. With the boy screaming obscenities at him, the player, his face contorted with rage, raced over and began squaring up to the youngster. “I’m going to f*** you up,” Barton barked incessantly at the boy, who by now cut a terrified figure.
Enter Dunne. Appalled by his team-mate’s actions, the Ireland defender walked up and attempted to calm Barton and take him to his room. Dunne, once the bad boy of the City team, has been a reformed character recently and was desperate to defuse the situation.
But Barton was having none of it. As Dunne went to grab him and march him back to his room, Barton lunged at his team-mate and sent both of them crashing to the marble-tiled floor. The bang made me wince.
Barton then appeared to sink his teeth into one of Dunne’s fingers. The defender emerged from the mêlée clutching his hand, blood dripping everywhere. Dunne was shouting “he’s f******* bitten me, he’s f******* bitten me. I can’t believe it.” By now, others were wading in to try to break up a brawl that would not have looked out of place in a bar in the old Wild West.
Barton was dragged across another side of the room, at which point an older, plump, grey-haired Everton supporter put the player in a headlock and began hitting him on the head as glasses and beer bottles were sent flying over the blood-soaked floor.
Breaking free, Barton tried to launch himself at Dunne. He was held back by a Premier League press officer, who had just arrived on the scene after an evening out.
To make matters worse, Dunne kicked a wall in anger and is suspected to have broken a bone in a foot. He had gone out for a quiet drink but ended up being embarrassed in the most unimaginable way by his team-mate.
“Why is this happening? Joey, Joey,” he kept shouting. With the help of a couple of others, I held Dunne back, my T-shirt getting splattered with his blood as we urgently handed him tissues. This tug-of-war carried on for about ten minutes before Barton was hauled into a lift and taken straight to his room. Others at the scene pleaded with shocked hotel staff not to call the police.
Dunne returned to a friend’s room a little later, tears in his eyes, an emotional wreck. It was a truly sad sight.
