Budgie - The Autobiography Part 5

The First Division was hard, and it was impossible for a team like Palace to be winning every week. Terry was still doing some brilliant work, but there was tension simmering at boardroom level and it was seeping into the team's performances. We finished the season 13th, which was a bit of a disappointment after hitting such dizzy heights in the early months. I was involved in another pay dispute at the start of the 1980/81 season, and morale at Palace plunged further when the club let Kenny Sansom go to a.r.s.enal, receiving Clive Allen and a rival keeper, Paul Barron, in exchange a terrible bit of business.

The man behind the unnecessary meddling was our chairman Raymond Bloye, a butcher from Croydon. The Palace fans still blame him for not realising what a good thing he had at that time and failing to invest in the club. Terry was looking for more money to allow the club to realise its true potential, and rumours and reports were flying about that he was starting to get disillusioned with the lack of encouragement he was getting at boardroom level. Everything was in place for Palace to be ma.s.sive big crowds, a team packed with brilliant young players who had won two FA Youth Cups a couple of years earlier but it all started to turn sour. The 1980/81 season started badly and we chalked up a run of seven successive losses.

One day I picked up the newspaper and Terry had gone he was going to take over from Tommy Docherty as the new manager of QPR in west London. You might have thought I would have seen it coming, but it was all very sudden. Sometimes that happens in football; one day a manager is there and then, without the slightest warning, you turn up at training the next day and he's gone. I was gutted to see him go.

Our coach Ernie Walley took charge of the team on a caretaker basis for a few games, and did reasonably well, but in truth he was never going to be high-profile enough to become Venables' permanent replacement. The man they eventually chose to fill Terry's shoes was a familiar face at Selhurst Park Malcolm Allison, who'd been manager of the club between 1973 and 1976 before Terry had started his four-year reign. 'Big Mal' was a good manager, but was a bit flash for me and wasn't as dedicated as Terry. I had my own ways, and I was used to being allowed to get on with them under Terry, but Malcolm was a little bit old-fashioned and he would start to question my methods a little bit and this made me feel a little bit insecure. I became unhappy with him because I was no longer getting my own way. I played on for a month or two, then one night I got a call from a middle-man asking me: 'Would you be interested in going to QPR with Terry Venables?' The thought of working with Terry again appealed to me, and I said I would love to.

A few days later at training, Malcolm Allison called me over and said Terry had asked to see me. QPR were in the Second Division, and their goalkeeper was Chris Woods, the England under-21 international, so I wondered why they would want me. But Terry was keen on bringing me to Loftus Road, having worked with me and trusted me at Palace. Chris went off to Norwich City and I was bought as a straight replacement. I took it as quite a compliment that Terry had bought me for a second time it showed that he valued me and had faith in me. Terry would later try to sign me when he was manager of Tottenham and I was at Southampton, but that was one deal that couldn't be finalised.

When I met Terry to thrash out the QPR deal, I quickly sorted out my salary, but I also asked for a signing-on fee, in cash, before I signed. Again, it was a case of me trying to make as much money as I could from my career not only for me, but for Janet and the family. Terry said he had to speak to the chairman, which would be no picnic because the owner of QPR at that time was Jim Gregory, who had a reputation for being a man you didn't mess with. He reminded me a bit of the character Bob Hoskins played in The Long Good Friday! Terry fixed up a meeting between the three of us to sort it out, so I headed to Loftus Road to see him in his office. Gregory wasn't a very tall man, but he had this big ma.s.sive swivel chair, which I think he used to make him appear physically bigger. He didn't waste any time getting down to business.

'There's your contract and there's your signing-on fee,' he said, as he laid a bag down in front of me. Inside, there were five bundles of cash. I said: 'Mr Gregory, no disrespect, but I had agreed on an amount with Terry.' 'Take it or leave it,' he said. 'Okay then, I'll leave it.'

So I got up and started to walk towards the door of his office, with my back to him, worried he was going to come flying after me and wondering already if I'd made a ma.s.sive mistake for the sake of a few readies. It was all about saving face, though. I couldn't turn round, I would have looked pathetic. As soon as I put my hand on the door handle, he said: 'John, come back.' He opened the drawer and chucked another bundle of cash on the table. He had been testing me, and although my heart was pounding it had been worth digging my heels in. I signed the contract there and then in his office, took my money and off I went with my nerves shot to pieces.

I had arrived halfway through the season and QPR were near the bottom of the Second Division. Terry had quickly worked his magic the moment he was in the door, winning his first three games and guiding QPR up to eighth by the end of the 1980/81 season nothing short of remarkable given the dire position they had been in before he was appointed. He already had guys like Glenn Roeder and Simon Stainrod in place, but soon he bought players of the calibre of Terry Fenwick and Gerry Francis and started to put a very useful side together.

But for some unknown reason that summer QPR decided to rip up their turf and put a plastic pitch down in its place. I couldn't understand it. They grabbed all the headlines for being innovative and at the cutting edge of technology, but it didn't make any sense to me. I was preparing for an exciting new season and hopefully a promotion push, and we were getting some really good players through the doors for the season ahead including John Gregory from Brighton, Clive Allen and Mike Flanagan from Palace.

Terry had proved he could build a good team and get them playing well so everything looked set up for us to have a brilliant season. But then they put down that synthetic surface becoming the first club in England to put down an artificial pitch. I wasn't keen on the idea, but I tried to keep an open mind. It wasn't long before my mind was made up 100 per cent though, because the first time I went out onto the pitch I found it was like concrete. I was thinking to myself: 'They've turned the pitch into an airport runway and they expect us to play on that?'

The rumour was that the board were also planning to put a roof over the pitch. Loftus Road was a beautiful stadium. It wasn't the biggest, but it was a nice compact ground. Jim Gregory was a businessman and had the idea of creating an arena that could host big concerts featuring all the big acts at that time Tina Turner, the Rolling Stones or big boxing bouts. Instead of the stadium being used just once a fortnight to host QPR games, they were talking about the ground being in continuous use, with amateur players renting it for five-a-sides. But they didn't get planning permission to go the whole hog.

There was a whole lot of talk about how good the artificial pitch was, but for me it just seemed like propaganda. All the big plans being spouted for Loftus Road were turning the club into a bit of a circus and for a while it felt like football was playing second fiddle. Jim Gregory may have been a brilliant businessman, and he had many grand plans, but I didn't like that side of it whatsoever. I just wanted to concentrate on the football club, get them into the First Division, and kick on from there.

I gave it a go on the artificial pitch for about six months, but it was h.e.l.lish. We'd be playing one week on the plastic pitch and then the next away from home on gra.s.s, and it was becoming difficult to adjust from one week to the next. It got to the stage where I used to hate playing at home. Football is meant to be played on gra.s.s. The plastic pitch of 1981 was light years away from the artificial surfaces we have today. Those types of pitches have now come on in leaps and bounds, and a lot of them now are almost as good as gra.s.s. But in 1981 it was an altogether different story a plastic pitch was just a thin carpet plonked down on concrete.

The ball used to bounce ridiculously high. When you dived on it your body used to ache. I would be scarred and gashed to pieces. I had carpet burns all over the place from the synthetic surface and it would take me days at a time to recover fully. It wasn't much fun for outfield players, but for goalkeepers it was brutal. Your elbows had to be padded, your thighs had to be padded; you ran out looking like Robocop because you had so much protective gear stuffed under your shirt and tracksuit bottoms. When you got knocked over, you came down hard. Because it was the 1980s, and there seemed to be a new invention every week, I think a lot of fans embraced it at first. But after they had watched a few matches and seen the ball bouncing all over the place, with the players running about in trainers and struggling to control the ball, they started to have some reservations. I think it was mainly brought in as a way of copying the Americans. But in the US Soccer League, they would be playing in enclosed arenas in the Florida heat. A wet and windy day in west London wasn't quite the same. It was so dangerous to play on, and I wasn't happy on it at all. A lot of the lads suffered in silence, but keeping my mouth shut was never my style and I started to voice my concerns to Terry. I told him that a pitch like that would take years of the life expectancy of a player, and especially a keeper. I reckoned if you played on that week-in week-out it would take five or six years off your career. You had players complaining of bad backs, bad knees and bad ankles because of the pounding their bodies took on it and I can't remember a single voice speaking up in support of it. It got to the stage where I'd had enough, and I told Terry I couldn't keep playing on it. I launched into a tirade against plastic pitches. Terry told me: 'Budgie, I hear what you are saying, but you can't go saying that in the papers.' But I had the bit between the teeth and I said: 'I can and I will.' And I did.

I started being heavily critical publically, airing my views in no uncertain terms to the press whenever the opportunity presented itself. I made the point that in every training session a keeper would be coming down a thousand times on it. My body was taking a battering, but the board were happy enough to keep the dreaded plastic because other teams hated it too and we rarely lost at home. After I'd had my say in the papers, I then asked to be put on the transfer list. It was tough in a football sense to walk away from a club managed by Terry Venables, but I knew I was fighting a losing battle. I could slate the surface as much as I liked to the press, it wasn't going to be enough to persuade the Queens Park Rangers board to change their minds and go back to a gra.s.s pitch. The directors saw me as a troublemaker and the atmosphere towards me was frosty. They thought that because they paid my wages I should shut up and get on with it. They clearly didn't know me very well.

I needed to get away from the artificial turf as quick as I possibly could, so I could enjoy my football again, and so to bring matters to a head I refused to play on it any more. My relationship with Terry suffered over that, because I had gone against his wishes and voiced my opinion to the press after he had advised me it wouldn't be a good idea. But for me I was only telling the truth and trying to stand up for the players. What I said was what every other player was thinking.

I eventually got my wish; I got a move away from QPR but on loan first of all, to Wolves. Ironically, in my absence, QPR would go all the way to the FA Cup final that year, meeting and beating my former club Crystal Palace on the way, with my replacement Peter Hucker doing a good job in goal.

CHAPTER 13.

IS IT A BUDGIE? IS IT A PLANE...?

'I told the manager I was going to play in a Superman costume.'

When I started making noises that I wanted out of QPR and away from their horrendous plastic pitch, it wasn't just Wolves who wanted to sign me. I had a couple of options. Gerry Francis had just left the club to go to Coventry City in the First Division, and he kept ringing me, telling me to come and join him. But the agreement to go on loan to Wolves was already in place, and it turned out to be a brilliant move for me.

I had a fantastic start at Molineux and we never lost a game during my first month there. I settled in really well and while I was keen to secure a permanent move away from QPR, Coventry were still sniffing about and waving the carrot of First Division football under my nose. I needed to get my future sorted fast, so I spoke to Jim Gregory and he agreed to sell me. He quickly agreed a deal with Wolves, who were willing to pay 225,000 for me 75,000 more than Coventry's highest offer. I was dithering about Wolves, waiting to see what sort of offer Coventry would come back with, but Gregory made my mind up for me. I wasn't going to be allowed to just slip away from Loftus Road without a parting shot from the chairman, who I had really rattled with my criticism of his artificial pitch.

I was on the phone talking over my move with Terry, who was in his office at the ground, when Jim Gregory's voice burst onto the line. 'You f.u.c.king mongrel!' he snapped. 'You took that signing-on cash from me then you've got the nerve to complain about the pitch! If you don't go to Wolves like I tell you, I will make an example of you. I'll have you here for years playing for the reserves on the plastic every week!'

He slammed the phone down on me. I talked it over with Terry again. I was panicking; I was out my depth dealing with someone like Gregory. They made me suffer for two days before Terry got back to me and said he'd calmed Gregory down. 'But Budgie,' Terry added, 'I think you'd better go to Wolves like he says.'

So I signed for Wolves and although my salary came down a bit, I wasn't bothered because I was just there to play football, and to play it on gra.s.s like it should be played! I had to start looking for a house in Wolverhampton so Janet went house-hunting and found us a lovely Georgian mansion. I also found that, all of a sudden, I had a lot of free time on my hands. When I was in London it would take me ages just to drive to training in the traffic. In Wolverhampton, I could drive to the ground in five minutes. It took a bit of adjusting from the hustle-bustle and banter of London to the peace and quiet of my new home city. Wolverhampton isn't exactly a backwater, and its football team is one of the biggest clubs in the Midlands, but after London it was still very different.

The football was going very well and we had a fantastic team at Wolves in front of me in defence were Geoff Palmer, John Pender, Alan Dodd and John Humphrey. In midfield we had guys like Kenny Hibbitt, Peter Daniel and Micky Matthews, while my long-time pal from Villa Andy Gray, Wayne Clarke and Mel Eves were up front scoring goals for fun. Wolves had just come down from the First Division and I had been bought to help get them back up there. I already had something of a reputation for helping teams win promotion, so I fitted the bill.

For Wolves, it was seen rather naively as it turned out as the dawning of a new era, because not only had they been relegated the season before, but they had been in receivership and three minutes from going out of business before the Bhatti brothers stepped in to save them. Football fans need hope to keep them going and people were full of optimism that the nightmare was behind them and that it would be a turning point. It would have been tragic if a club like Wolves went to the wall, and fans still talk about how close it came to happening. It wasn't long before the doom and gloom that had carried over from relegation and the brush with extinction lifted, and we soon had a great atmosphere in the club, with big crowds coming to Molineux in the firm belief that we would quickly get back to the First Division. We were able to fuel their optimism as we made a solid start to the 1982/83 season.

The lads at Wolves loved my dressing room antics and, looking back, I did some of the craziest things of my life at that club. They had a big old-fashioned dressing room with a rail running round it about 6ft from ground level. Above the rail, there was a spaghetti-like cl.u.s.ter of wires leading up to the strip lights. We had no gym at the ground, which bugged me a bit because I was really into my weights at the time. I was forced to improvise to stay in shape, so I stuck an iron bar across the rail, over the angle at the corner, so I could do my chin-ups. I got into a routine where I would do my press-ups on the floor, then my chin-ups on the bar before I went to training. I was always working on my body to keep it strong. Even before games, I would jump up on that bar and do my chins to get warmed up for the match before we went out.

One week, we were playing Oldham, and as usual I jumped up onto my bar. But after me doing hundreds of chins day after day the bar had completely worn down the wire above it and all of a sudden a s.h.i.tload of volts came surging through it. I felt it zap through my body, electrifying me as I was swinging there, and I couldn't let go. I was hanging there like a crazed monkey, screaming at the top of my voice. All the lads were in fits of laughter, thinking I was having a funny turn, but the truth was I was actually frying before their eyes! I eventually managed to loosen my grip and slumped down to the ground, and when I looked at my hands they had turned blue. But there was no question of me missing the game, we didn't have anyone else, so I went out and played, probably still packed full of enough electricity to light up the city, and managed to keep a clean sheet in a 0-0 draw.

We were especially strong in defence, and looked promotion material from the word go. We were top of the league most of the season, but we had far too many draws, and my old team QPR knocked us off top spot. It would have been nice to have won the championship again, having already done it with Palace, but QPR helped by their plastic pitch home advantage were not for catching, and we had to settle for second spot.

We clinched promotion with two games to spare after a h.e.l.l of a game against Charlton, which finished 3-3 after us being 3-0 up at half-time. We could afford to go out and enjoy our last game of the season, a home encounter against Newcastle United. I had been voted the player of the year and was due to get my award before the game, so I thought I would collect it in style. On the way to Molineux, I stopped at a fancy dress shop and I hired a Superman outfit.

Before the game, I was mucking around in the dressing room with my Superman uniform prancing about in my blue tights and red pants. I decided to up the ante, and told the lads I was going to go out and do the warm-up with the costume on, so I out I went with the cape and mask, emerging from the tunnel with my fist out, Superman-style. It was a full house of 22,500 and the crowd were p.i.s.sing themselves laughing. We took a break from the warm-up to gather in the centre circle and I was presented with my player of the year award with my fancy dress suit on.

As I warmed up, all the Newcastle players were nudging each other and pointing at me. Chris Waddle and Kevin Keegan came down towards the Wolves end, laughing and calling me an idiot. Kevin shouted over: 'It looks great, Budgie shame you can't play in it!' That was all the encouragement I needed, and I shouted back: 'Just watch me. I bet you a hundred quid that I AM going to play in it!'

When we got into the dressing room I told the manager, Graham Hawkins, that I was going to play in it and he got a bit upset about it. The linesman would always come in about 2.45 to check the studs. There was no sponsorship in those days, so I didn't have any logo I had to display and I wasn't breaking any rules. So I asked the linesman, and he said he had no objections as long as I didn't clash with the other team. So I took off the cape, kept the tights and the blue top and taped a number one onto my back. I put a pair of proper shorts on top of my blue tights and I ran out, half-Superman, half-Wolverhampton Wanderers goalie. After the game, a 2-2 draw, Keegan was true to his word and he gave me 100 for the bet and told me that was the best entertainment he had ever seen on a football pitch.

Another costume prank I played at Wolves was at the players' Christmas party. Before the night out, there was a lot of squabbling, with the dressing room split on what we should wear half of them wanted d.i.c.ky bows and dinner suits, while the rest of them wanted to go smart, but casual. The smart but casual camp won, so I turned up in a dinner suit cut in half and sewn onto a tramp's outfit!

The Wolves supporters had been brilliant and I almost had a tear in my eye as I applauded them at the end of what had been a great season. I got on really well with the local journalist Dave Harrison and his match report afterwards in the Wolverhampton Express and Star quoted me as saying: 'It was a very emotional moment for me. The fans have been a 13th man for us this season and I would have liked to have gone and shaken every one of them by the hand.'

That was true the Wolves fans were amazing. Their pa.s.sion stood them in good stead, because even though they'd just bounced back to the First Division there were some incredibly dark days ahead as the Bhatti brothers turned out to be Wolves in sheep's clothing.

We went away to Majorca for an end-of-season trip to celebrate our promotion. I was not a drinker but that didn't mean I couldn't still enjoy myself on these trips. The rest of the lads had worked their a.r.s.es off during the season and were ent.i.tled to get a few lagers down their necks and enjoy the sun, sea and sand, but I remained dedicated to my fitness regime and I think that drove a few of them barmy. They would be lying on the beach chilling out, and I'd be fidgeting about, trying to get one of them to come for a run with me or do some sit-ups. I had very high fitness levels, and it didn't matter where we were, I wanted to maintain them. I wasn't the type of footballer who decided to spend the summer drinking and relaxing then turn up for pre-season ready to sweat it all off. But we had great team spirit at Wolves and it was a brilliant trip. I may not have been joining in the big rounds of drinks but I could still have some fun, and I brought the house down when all the lads were standing at the bar in a club and I walked past them on my hands in just my underpants.

Because it had been such a fantastic season and because I had played so well myself, it was time to be 'John Burridge The Greedy' again when we came back for the new season in the First Division. I felt that Wolves were going to make an awful lot of money by going up to the top flight again, so I wanted a piece of the action.

I went to see Graham Hawkins and explained to him that I had taken a serious drop in wages to come to the club in the first place, which was okay for the Second Division, but not now we'd gone up. I told him that for First Division football I wanted First Division wages. But he said there was nothing he could do I had signed a contract and I would be expected to honour it.

The new season started, but because I hadn't been given what I wanted, I don't think my heart was really in it. My mind wasn't as focused as it should have been. Yes, I had a beautiful house and the kids were happy, but that made no difference to me, I wanted First Division wages and I became disillusioned. We were struggling in the league, too, and matters got worse in November 1983 when the club transferred my closest friend, Andy Gray, to Everton for a ridiculously cheap 250,000. Hawkins was struggling to get results and was trying anything to stop the rot, including dropping me for a while for Paul Bradshaw. I wasn't having that, and got the newspaper round to my house where I got my photo taken with all my player of the year trophies from the year before, to show who should be the Wolves No.1. I wasn't out of the team for long after that stunt. Graham Hawkins didn't last the season though they sacked him in April, with Wolves bottom of the league and heading back to the Second Division and called for 'The Doc', Tommy Docherty.

The salary dispute was still bugging me and after my second year at Wolves I told them I didn't want to play for them anymore. I had come to the end of my contract and it was time to move on. I had been fantastic in my first full season at Wolves, but if I'm being honest, I was no better than mediocre in my second season.

When we started pre-season training I went in to see Tommy to thrash out my future. Tommy acknowledged that I'd been good for the club and asked me to write down how much I wanted on a bit of paper. The next day I scribbled a figure down on a bit of paper, stuck it in an envelope and left it on his desk. When he saw me later that day, Tommy said: 'f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l, who do you think you are Gordon Banks?' It wasn't really Tommy's call on the wages though the owners of Wolves were more intent on making cutbacks than forking money out to keep me happy.

When the season started they brought a young kid through the ranks a guy I have always thought the world of Tim Flowers. I had taken him under my wing and worked with him since he was 16. He used to travel from Coventry every day and I would give him lifts to and from reserve games, let him have a quick nap at our house before he played, give him some egg and toast and a cup of tea, and then go down to the ground to watch him play. When I told Tommy I wasn't going to play for the wages I was on, he was sympathetic enough. He agreed I deserved to get what I wanted, but his hands were tied, so they started young Timmy in my place, which wasn't right because he was only 17 years old.

Wolves under the Bhatti brothers were in freefall. They had put a club legend, Derek Dougan, in charge as chief executive, but that didn't mask their shortcomings. They took all the a.s.sets out of the club. There were big demonstrations at the way things were going. The fans were upset at Andy being sold, that I wouldn't play and that Wayne Clarke was going to be sold. It was clear that there was no investment; they were just stripping the club bare. Wolverhampton's ground was in the town centre, and the word on the street was that they wanted to sell the stadium and make a killing. It became pretty obvious why I couldn't get a pay rise, and I thought I was better off out of it. They were only too happy to sell me money for me in their coffers and another senior player off the wage bill. When I wasn't playing, and they were struggling down the bottom of the league I felt sorry for them. But I had to stand my ground. I had nothing against the team though and I really loved the fans. I would pay my way into the game and go and watch it with the crowd. But attendances had dropped. It was sad, because Wolverhampton Wanderers tumbled from the First Division to the Fourth Division in successive years. It's great to see them doing well now, back in the Premier League where they belong, and with a lovely stadium, because they are a fantastic club. Jack Hayward turned them round in the 1990s and made them the proud club they are today, but the previous owners very nearly put them out of business.

CHAPTER 14.

FOXY c.o.xY.

'Arthur c.o.x was in the central reservation, hopping mad and with a teapot in his hand, about to launch it at my car.'

For the first few weeks of the 1984/85 season I became more used to watching games than playing, but then I finally got a chance to escape from my financial stalemate at Wolves. Tommy Docherty was good friends with Arthur c.o.x at Derby County, and I got a call from Tommy saying Arthur was interested in taking me there on a loan deal. I agreed and thought it would be a good move to make, just to get playing again and put myself in the shop window.

Derby County were another club that had been in serious financial trouble, and they had been relegated to the Third Division in what was their centenary year. But Robert Maxwell had invested in them, and his son Ian was put in charge as chairman. I went over to see Arthur and he gave me the warmest of welcomes. He was an old-fashioned football man, and I loved his dedication. He showed me round the training ground the Ram Arena which was probably the best training ground I ever played on. Arthur was very clear in his vision for the club and was confident Derby County were going places. He explained to me that I was being brought in to help them with their promotion push. We started off the season very well. Derby still had some big players like Kenny Burns and John Robertson veterans of Nottingham Forest's championship and European Cup-winning team and Arthur had brought in a lot of new faces he was going to mould into an exciting side. I played six games for them, most of which we won, but while I was there I got a call from Ian Porterfield, the manager of Sheffield United. I was about to have my head turned.

Sheffield United were potentially a ma.s.sive club, and were going well under Ian in the Second Division, and the idea of moving to a big city club really appealed to me. So, after I had played the last game of my loan deal for Derby County against Hull City, I went in to see Arthur. He had been over the moon with how I'd done and I was the blue-eyed boy because we'd kept winning during my spell on loan. He recognised that I was controlling the defence and liked my input. But when I went in to see him and told him: 'Arthur, Sheffield United want to see me on Monday,' he replied 'Don't be silly son, you're signing for us.'

It was a Sat.u.r.day night when I spoke to Arthur, and I told him that I had arranged to meet Porterfield and the Sheffield United chairman Reg Brealey, who was pumping a lot of money into the club, in Nottingham on the Monday at two o'clock. 'No, you can't,' Arthur told me, as if that was the end of the matter.

We agreed to disagree, but Arthur rang me at home on the Sunday and said: 'Son, you're not going to Nottingham tomorrow, are you? I'll see you at training, eh?' I said: 'Boss, I won't be at training tomorrow. I'm going to Nottingham to speak to Sheffield United.' He knew I had to pa.s.s Derby to get to Nottingham from Wolverhampton, so he said 'Okay, but pop in on the way to have a cup of tea with me.'

He phoned me again at home at 9am on the Monday to check I was coming, so I promised him I would be there, but again I told him I was still going to meet Porterfield and Brealey. Arthur c.o.x was plain football crazy. When he wanted a player, he wanted him bad. He was so dedicated. He will die on a football field, and will be quite happy to go that way he's just like me that respect.

When I got to the Ram Arena, Arthur was waiting for me and he beckoned me into his office. But as soon as we were inside, he walked back over to the door, took a big bunch of keys out of his pocket and locked the b.l.o.o.d.y door. He said: 'You're not getting out of here, you b.u.g.g.e.r, until you have signed for Derby County.' I started laughing, thinking it was a joke. 'But I've got to see Sheffield at two o'clock,' I protested. 'You're not going, son. I'm signing you.' He started to give me the hard sell. 'You like me, son, don't you?' Yes. 'You like this football club?' Yes. 'You like the supporters?' Yes.

We kept talking for about an hour and he was throwing everything at me, urging me to sign. I was trying to reason with him, saying I'd think about it, but I still wanted to meet Sheffield United and hear what they had to say. But there was no getting through to Arthur he was miles away, his eyes looked like they were on fire, he was so intense about it.

He started to make me an offer he thought I couldn't possibly refuse. He wrote a figure down on a bit of paper, offering great wages, an unbelievable package 2,000 a week and a signing-on fee. It was a h.e.l.l of a salary, I admitted. But I was getting twitchy and looking at the clock, which was creeping towards one o'clock. The players were already at the Ram Arena for training, and as they went past the window they were all giving me a wave.

In desperation, I tried to reason with him, saying that I would meet Sheffield United and then get back to him. But he wasn't listening. 'I know what you want, son, you want a car don't you?' he said. 'You can have mine!'

For a second I was tempted to take his car. He had a beautiful new Ford Granada, and told me: 'Take my car son, take it now. I can get another one from Mr Maxwell.' He phoned him while I was there sitting in the office, and told me Maxwell would give me whatever I was looking for. It was now after 1pm, and I had less than an hour to get out of there and see Ian Porterfield. Arthur hadn't taken his eyes off me, but thinking he was winning me round he dropped his guard and eventually asked 'Would you like a cup of tea and a sandwich, son?'

I said I'd love one, so off he went to the door, unlocked it and shouted up the corridor to the tea lady. But we'd been in there for so long, she'd knocked off for the day and was nowhere to be seen so Arthur had to desert his sentry post and go off to get the tea himself, taking care to lock the door behind him.

He hadn't covered all the bases though. While he was away busy making us a cuppa, I wriggled out of his office window, ran across the car park and jumped in my car. As I pulled off, I saw his door fly open and Arthur came running towards the motor with a teapot in his hand. When you came out of the Ram Arena there was a one-way system, so you had to turn left, go along the dual carriageway then turn round and come back again. But as I drove back, there was Arthur standing in the central reservation with the teapot still in his hand. He could see I wasn't for stopping and I had to swerve to avoid knocking him down. When I looked in my mirror I could see him hopping mad, and then he let fly with the teapot, hurling it towards my car. He was raging.

When I got to the hotel in Nottingham, it had gone two. Another 20 minutes pa.s.sed and there was still no sign of Ian Porterfield or anyone from Sheffield United. I was thinking to myself 'b.l.o.o.d.y typical' after what I'd gone through to get there, but then I heard a call: 'Mr Burridge to reception please.' I thought it must be Sheffield United saying they were going to be late, but it was Arthur begging me not to sign for them. I couldn't get into another conversation with him, but I was saved from more earache when Ian and Reg arrived.

I liked what Ian had to say, so we shook on it and agreed that I would go to Bramall Lane the next day to complete all the formalities for a permanent move away from Wolves.

When I got back to Wolverhampton, Janet told me Arthur had been ringing the house all day, pestering her to make sure I rang him the moment I got in. Much as I admired Derby and believed in Arthur, Sheffield United were a much bigger club with a greater history, and my mind was made up. Out of courtesy, I phoned Arthur back and he answered before it had even rung once. He was ranting on again telling me Porterfield was doolally, that their stadium was rubbish, that kind of thing. He was doing everything he could to put down Sheffield United and make out that Derby County were the best thing since sliced bread. Eventually, he cut to the chase and said: 'So, are you signing for us then Budgie?' When I told him: 'Sorry Arthur, I've agreed to sign for Sheffield United,' there was a moment's silence, then the phone went dead. He'd hung up on me.

I had to go to Derby to fetch some of my stuff, and because they had a game on the Tuesday I thought I'd go along and watch. I spoke to John Robertson, and he arranged to leave a ticket for me. When I got into the Baseball Ground I walked down the steps to the front and shouted over to Robbo to thank him for the ticket, but just at that moment Arthur walked out from the tunnel and spotted me. It was half an hour before kick-off and there were about 10,000 people inside, but that didn't stop him walking round the track and letting rip. 'There he is, the traitor!' He'd gone crackers. He turned to the crowd and shouted: 'What do you think of the traitor? One minute he's doing somersaults for you, the next he's sticking two fingers up at you! Stewards, get him out of here!' So two stewards came along and took me out of the ground.

As it turned out, that season Sheffield United didn't win promotion. With the benefit of hindsight, I had made a bad decision. Instead of signing me, Derby County got a lad from Leicester City called Mark Wallington, who did very well. Arthur c.o.x's team went from strength to strength and there was a lot of ill feeling between Derby County and me. Robert Maxwell went out and spent fortunes on good players and they gained promotion after promotion. It was a terrible decision to turn someone like Arthur c.o.x down, who was football crazy. Not going to Derby with Arthur was probably one of the biggest mistakes I made in football because the man was an absolute winner.

About two months later, Derby were playing Doncaster Rovers away. It wasn't far away from my new home in Sheffield, so I thought I would pop down to see the game. Derby won quite easily and I thought Arthur would be quite happy. I was standing in the tunnel when the Derby lads came out and I cheerily said: 'h.e.l.lo Arthur.' But instead of saying h.e.l.lo back, he just growled at me: 'Don't you come near me. You're cancer, I might catch it.' He then backed himself slowly along the wall, as if I was contagious. I could see in his eyes that at that moment, he actually hated me. I had crossed him, and he wasn't going to forgive me. Terry Venables was technically the best coach I ever worked for, but Arthur c.o.x and Kevin Keegan were by far the most enthusiastic I used to call him Mr Football, and coming from me, that's some t.i.tle!

Janet and I sold our house in Wolverhampton and moved across to Sheffield, where we moved into an even bigger property. Sheffield's famous for its steel, and the house had belonged to a tyc.o.o.n who had made his fortune selling knives and forks to just about every house, hotel and restaurant in England. He had been a multi-millionaire, but had gone bankrupt and we got a tip-off from one of the Sheffield United directors that his house was being auctioned off. You had to make your offers in a sealed envelope and the next day we found out we had won we got it for 115,000. It was an absolute mansion with big gates and it came with a snooker room, a swimming pool, a tennis court and nine bedrooms. It was like a dream come true it was the best house I owned in my career. It was an old house and just for good measure it was meant to have a ghost. You could apparently hear noises coming from where the servants' quarters used to be. The story went that one of the servants had been thrown down the stairs by the owner a hundred years ago, and although I never heard anything myself, Janet swears she did, and sometimes heard noises coming from the stairs. All the players would come over and bring their families round on a Sunday for a bit of swimming and snooker. My house became the Sheffield United social club.

I had some good times at Sheffield United, and I used to drive my room-mate on away trips Mel Eves mad with my eccentric ways. He'd come up to the room on the Friday night before the game, just wanting to watch a bit of telly, and I'd be there waiting for him in my green goalkeeper's jersey, lying on my bed wanting him to throw rolled-up socks or fruit at me, using the headboard as a makeshift goal. He was just wanting to get his head down for the night and get some sleep, but I'd be screaming at him: 'Test me, Evesey!' I'd be leaping around the bed, tipping socks over the headboard, and telling him: 'Peter Shilton stopped me getting 100 caps for England!'

Evesy stayed in the same street as me in Sheffield Riverdale Road so I'd be driving him mad most afternoons because he was just a phone call away. When I got back from training I'd be bored and restless, so I'd call him up and drag him out to the gym I used. It was full of h.e.l.ls Angels and serious bodybuilders, but they were good guys and just as dedicated as me to their fitness. I think Mel thought I was leading him to a mugging, but he got into the spirit of it!

We had a good bunch of lads at Sheffield United and the banter was good. I used to get slaughtered for the 'lucky shirt' that I wore. We weren't the type of club to wear tracksuits to away games, so we always travelled in club blazer, flannels, shirt and tie. I had a white shirt that I swear brought me luck, and I would insist on wearing it. But it was ancient and had a dirty big hole ripped right down the side, so all that was really left was the collar and the front part like a bib! One day it was so hot on the bus, I took my jacket off and there was absolute uproar. The lads were falling about, so I started parading around and doing a few poses for them and playing to the crowd. Still kept wearing the shirt long after that though!

Another trip that raised a few laughs was when we were coming back from a challenge game in Holland. As we were walking through the airport, I noticed a couple of empty seats behind a check-in desk and jumped into one. There was a bunch of holidaymakers shuffling along behind us, so when they approached I shouted in my best official-sounding voice: 'Pa.s.sPORTS please!' They fell for it hook, line and sinker they formed a queue and started handing their pa.s.sports over to me to be checked. I was just smiling away, making polite small talk and waving them on, until I noticed one of the Sheffield United directors had joined the back of the queue. I got myself out of there p.r.o.nto.

Throughout my time at Sheffield United I was playing well enough, and was an ever-present for the 1985/86 season, but as a team we weren't firing on all cylinders. I wasn't having the impact on the team I had done at Crystal Palace and QPR, and although we briefly got into the promotion spots in the first part of the season, we couldn't push on and finished seventh. It cost Ian Porterfield his job and after he was sacked they brought in another Scot, Billy McEwan.

I was still enjoying the football, training and the city of Sheffield, but I felt uneasy when I saw what was happening at Derby the games they were winning and the players they were buying with Maxwell's millions. I could feel it gnawing away at my stomach that I'd made a mistake.

Derby were alongside us in the Second Division for 1986/87, having eased up from the Third under Arthur, and much to his satisfaction they beat us home and away on their way to winning the championship, while we limped in to a distant ninth. We had a real problem scoring goals that year. Keith Edwards had scored more than 20 the season before, but he'd been sold to Leeds and the void wasn't filled. We just never quite had the players we needed to win promotion. I tried my best for them and actually kept quite a few clean sheets, but collectively it didn't happen.

When I came to the end of my contract, for once I wasn't in a position to ask for any more money, because we hadn't gone up we'd failed and I'd failed, which was sad because it was the type of club with the sort of fans that deserved to be in the top league. They wanted rid of me because my wages were too high, and my old centre-half Chris Nicholl had taken over at Southampton, and when he got in touch with me it looked like Budgie was about to fly south.

CHAPTER 15.

DELL BOY.

'Alan Shearer would have chased paper on a windy day, he was so keen.'

After Sheffield United, I had a straight choice between moving to the south coast of England or the north-east of Scotland because Ian Porterfield who had taken me to Bramall Lane in the first place was now in charge of Aberdeen. They had won the European Cup-Winners' Cup only four years earlier and were still a ma.s.sive club after Sir Alex Ferguson's work at Pittodrie, so it was a tempting proposition to give Scotland a try. The south coast option was Southampton, and I took it, although looking at my decision from a purely financial rather than a footballing perspective, it was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. The North Sea oil industry was enjoying a ma.s.sive upturn and was about to send house prices in Aberdeen into orbit. When the deal had been on the table I could have had a castle with its own grounds and fishing rights for 200,000, and within a couple of years it was worth nearer five million. In those days, footballers who used their heads and wanted to make a good living from the game would move where the house prices were about to go up. I would have got rich quick, but I just didn't see it coming, and instead we downsized from the mansion we'd had in Sheffield and headed to Southampton.

Financially, it was a stupid mistake to go there, but the football was a big plus. I had gone from the Second Division to the First Division and it was a good opportunity for me. Chris Nicholl, my old centre-half at Aston Villa, was the manager at The Dell and he helped me get settled quickly. I had a lot to live up to though. This was one of the biggest challenges I had to face in football, because the man I was replacing was a certain Peter Shilton, who had left to join Derby County for 1 million another big signing made with Maxwell's seemingly never-ending supply of money. Shilts had the reputation of being the best keeper in the world at that time and I arrived on the doorstep with the task of trying to a.s.sume his mantle. I knew it was a h.e.l.l of a feat to take over from Peter Shilton, but Chris was a good motivator, and he took me aside and told me: 'If anyone can do it, it's you. I know your capabilities.'

Compared to some other clubs, Southampton were quite small. The fans were pa.s.sionate enough, but in a coastal city like Southampton, football doesn't really take first priority. The number one interests down there were yachting and sailing, closely followed by horseriding and the country life. It was all a bit alien to a lad who had been brought up in a coal-mining village. The outlook among the fans in Southampton seemed to be that as long as the team stayed in the First Division everyone was happy. Around the same time I was arriving they brought in another young goalkeeper the lad I had taken under my wing at Wolverhampton, Tim Flowers. They essentially bought him as one for the future, and to replace me in time. But although I was the top dog on paper, and Tim had been signed as a future prospect, I felt that my first-team place was never too secure because Tim had really matured at Wolves and was an excellent up-and-coming goalkeeper, more than ready to step in to the first team at any time. They may have made me No.1, but the arrival of Tim was enough to put pressure on me and keep me on my toes, which it did.

I played well enough in my first season there. The priority may have been simply to stay in the division, but I felt the team that we had was capable of winning that league because in my first year we had some top cla.s.s players. We had guys of the calibre of Gerry Forrest, Russell Osman, Neil 'Razor' Ruddock, Derek Statham, Jimmy Case and Glenn c.o.c.kerill, then up front we had Matthew Le Tissier, Colin Clarke and Danny Wallace, so I reckoned we were capable of winning that league by a long stretch if we could show the right level of self-belief. But some people didn't have that mindset. We'd lose at home to someone like Oxford United one week and then win away at Manchester United the next that was the kind of team we were, but we could beat anyone on our day.

Jimmy Case in midfield was our captain and he had a notorious name at the time for being a bit of a drinker and a hardman. I used to call him 'The Quiet a.s.sa.s.sin'. He was deaf and a bit blind too. He was a big, big name in football after all he'd done with Liverpool, winning European Cups and t.i.tles, and was recognised as the master of the long pa.s.s. He could put a 35-yard pa.s.s on a sixpence. But he also had a ruthless streak, which he disguised cleverly. If ever you needed someone to sort a problem or a troublesome player in a match then Jimmy Case was your man. He could steam in and leave someone writhing on the ground in agony, and be 10 yards away from the incident in the blink of an eye. He would kick somebody and get out of there p.r.o.nto, instead of standing there arguing about it and turning it into a drama. When I went to Southampton I wrongly had him marked as someone with a foul temper and a bit of a bad reputation for kicking people, but to my surprise I found him a complete gentleman. Jimmy rarely said a word and I never saw him drunk. I remember seeing his caring side on the bus coming back from Old Trafford after beating Manchester United 2-0. We all piled on to the coach in high spirits, and Jimmy took the time to go round his team-mates thanking each and every one of them for their efforts. We were on the motorway and Jimmy came up and said: 'Great game, John.' Before I knew it, he had put pasta in the microwave for me, served it to up to me on a tray, got me a knife and fork and put a can of beer in my hand. This was the captain, and after all he'd done in the game, he could be forgiven for having an ego, but he was always the gentleman off the park, although not on the pitch when some loudmouth was asking for it.

Every away trip was a long trip for Southampton, and the bus would get in a real mess after those lengthy journeys on the motorway. There would be beer cans, packs of crisps and Mars bar wrappers all over the place, but not when Jim was on board he had a touch of OCD I think, and was always making sure everything was neat and tidy. I'm a bit like that myself. Everything had to be immaculate around him and he couldn't stand seeing an empty beer can out of place. He was the best captain I ever had. On the field he used to kick people that needed kicking, fire in great shots and split defences with his pa.s.ses and incredible vision. Off the field he was a cla.s.s act too, always looking out for his team-mates. His eyesight was a bit iffy, but he would kick b.a.l.l.s over the full-back for Le Tissier and Wallace to run on to with pinpoint accuracy. I asked him what his secret was, how he could hit b.a.l.l.s inch-perfect from distance, and he would just shrug and say: 'There should be somebody there.' I said: 'What, you play by instinct?' And he replied: 'Exactly, John' (he wouldn't call me 'Budgie') with a glint in his eye. He just instinctively knew where players would be on the pitch around him. It was a special gift that very few players have.

The first year at The Dell went well nothing spectacular, but everyone was happy enough. In my second year, being a dedicated professional I used to stay back after training most days for 30-45 minutes and take the kids for a bit of shooting practice and some crossing. I would always pick a centre-forward so he could challenge me and I could work on my cross-b.a.l.l.s under pressure. I used to say to whoever I had picked: 'For goodness sake, give it to me, because I'm going to give it to you, so don't hold back.'

As I was put through my paces coming out for crosses there was one young lad I used to knee in the kidneys, in the ribs, in the lungs, and I could hear him gasping for breath. I did it to help toughen him up and to work on my own protection methods. I expected him to cry 'enough', but he kept coming back for more. I had played with Andy Gray the master of getting his elbows up and giving goalkeepers as good as he got so this kid used to always come and ask me questions about how Andy Gray used to jump, how he would beat goalkeepers and central defenders to the ball in the air. Andy was obviously a big hero and inspiration to him, and I was still in constant touch with my old Villa and Wolves team-mate, so he didn't hesitate to tap in to my first-hand knowledge. This kid had great big thighs, but no real upper body muscle, so some afternoons when I was in the gym at The Dell I would give him tips to help make him tougher and bigger. He needed toughening up, no doubt about it, but he was eager to learn. There was an incident in training during the five-a-side drills we used to have. There was a through ball, 50-50 with me and the kid, and as I dived to get the ball he pulled out of the challenge and jumped over the top of me. I got to my feet and threw the ball at him smack-bang on the back of the head.