INTERVIEW

No laughing matter for Wise the joker
By Clare Balding
9 Dec 1998

I rang the doorbell at about five-to-nine. On any Sunday morning that is plenty early enough, but when you've spent Saturday afternoon playing your first game back after a four-match suspension and not even made it to half-time before being sent-off again, five-to-nine in the evening would have seemed early.

The minute ticked by, I began to panic that he wasn't there and then a voice came over the intercom. Dennis Wise sounded distinctly groggy, like someone had just kicked him out of bec - which of course they had. 'Ello? Yeah, OK, I'll just be a minute.'

The minute, I suspect was spent dressing before he appeared, dishevelled and half-asleep but smiling and saying, 'Scuse the mess,' as he showed me upstairs.

Wise lives in one of those Mews you see in films: small, quiet little streets with perfectly converted houses that cost a fortune. Graeme Le Saux is three doors down. I have always wondered where on earth they park their cars and what happens if one of them has a really noisy party - do you have to invite everyone else?

Dennis was hung over and in shock that he had agreed to give an interview to Radio 5 Live the morning after a match. Particularly the morning after that match.

'Now you're not going to talk about me bein' sent off are you?'

I laughed, thinking he was joking.

'No, you're not.' he said, rather too defiantly for my liking. Well what the hell was I going to talk about then? He showed me into the sitting/dining room with an open plan kitchen to the side. I should know better than to be surprised, but I was. It was . . . well, so tasteful.

It looked just like those perfect rooms you see in magazine photos. No shag pile carpet, no pictures of Dennis with Franco, Dennis with Luca, or Dennis with Miss UK. No medals or trophies or videos of Cup successes in the corner. Wooden floor with two rugs, one blue, one half-green, half-blue. I thought I'd seen them somewhere before and then remembered: in Jamie Redknapp's flat in Liverpool. His partner appeared in her dressing gown as he made us both a cup of tea. Nice rugs, I said, hoping that he didn't mis-hear me.

I looked around the room: three big cream sofas (impractical for anyone worried about cleaning bills) with brightly coloured, undented cushions. A low, wooden coffee table and three big house plants which in their prime must have looked great. Unfortunately, most of the leaves were lying scattered around the pot.

And in the corner, even more to my surprise, a neat pile of Christmas presents, already wrapped. Mind you, he has had plenty of time to shop, what with all those suspensions . . . shh, not allowed to say the word. The only giveaway that this was a footballer's house was the wide-screen TV.

It's hard to believe that Wise will be 32 next week. He's been Chelsea captain for four years, playing alongside some of the best in the world and yet still looks surprised by it all. An electric piano is in the corner with some Beatles music. He plays a bit, he says. Songs for everyone to sing along to, perhaps.

Wise loves being part of the family at Chelsea, loves being surrounded by his friends, loves football. Can't see himself going to any other club, feels at home with the people he knows, whatever language they may speak. He doesn't want to be a manager, he just wants to play.

Simple pleasures for an essentially simple man, which is why knowing he will be suspended again must kill him. He once wrote that injuries were the most frustrating thing to happen to a player, but he may have changed his mind by now. At least when you're injured you can't feel guilty about not playing. Being suspended you feel like you've let them down. You still have to do all the training but you don't get the fun at the end of the week.

Wise has enough money to go anywhere, do anything but, like many footballers, just wants to live a hassle-free life, go down the pub, have a few jars, watch TV and sleep. He would be great company on an evening out, the joker of the party. He is though, strangely out of touch with the world. Even the football world. He did not know, for example, that Brian Kidd had taken the Blackburn job.

'When did that happen?' he asked when I mentioned it. 'Thursday,' I said, wondering how on earth he could have missed it. 'Oh, I haven't read a paper all week.' Or listened to the radio, watched the television or looked at Ceefax. It occurred to me that I ought to fill him in on who is Prime Minister but he might be happier not knowing.

With his little diamond earring and his cheeky smile he could get away with murder but one wonders how long that will last. He adores his manager, would walk through fire for him but seemingly cannot stay on the pitch for him.

His girlfriend thinks he's being victimised. Wise is hesitant to agree but thinks that he was hard done by at Goodison.

I can see him now at the back of the class in school, doing daft things like flicking rubbers at the kids in the front or putting drawing pins on the seats and getting ink all over himself. He looks a little perplexed by it all. Can't really understand what he's doing wrong or how to put it right when he steps out tonight against Aston Villa. The trouble is, rather like a batsman who keeps being given out leg before when he's convinced it was going down leg side, or a tennis player who keeps having balls called out when they're on the line, there is absolutely nothing Wise can do about it.

If he starts to play it safe, he will not be half the player he is, but if he keeps playing the way he does, he will be on the pitch only half the time. The one thing he mustn't do is get paranoid. And preferably, don't get any more red Christmas cards from referees.