When we eventually settled on the tour, we were messing about around the pool when a club official asked me to come out with him to look for some women. On the way, he said I was not going to play the next day so we went to a brothel for a few drinks and had a good laugh as we knocked back a few whiskies, the drink favoured by the official. We ended up taking the bait and went upstairs with a couple of birds and got into a room with two and began getting our money’s worth. He was on one bed while I was on other when, all of a sudden, his hooker started yelling, ‘No … no … too big!’ He jumped off the bed and shouted, ‘What kind of a fucking knocking shop is this?’
Before he pissed off he told me to come with him but we had paid up front so I told him I’d see him back at the hotel. Once I got back, he had a right strop on and was calling me all sorts. The following day, he had sorted it so I had to play as pay-back for me getting my money’s worth and him losing his.
A few of us quite often frequented a local brothel after training where we could buy some booze, talk to the birds, have a sauna and, if needs must, have a dabble with the girls. One of them came downstairs after being with one of the lads saying that she had never had such a treat in her life, although I believe she still charged my well-endowed team-mate full price!
We also used to visit a mixed sauna, but you had to wear swimming gear. One day, I got talking to a girl for about half-an-hour and I hinted I was off for a shower and she took the wink and followed me. We were soon bang at it but got a bit noisy and some of the older guests weren’t very happy about it. A few minutes later, we were politely asked to leave and told never to come back.
Back on the road, I was driving as usual without a licence having had a few drinks with my team-mate Les Philips. One night, we had a couple of birds in the back of the car and were going from pub to pub when we approached a huge roundabout in the centre of Birmingham. I asked the girl in the back for directions but she had no idea where we were going, so I got the hump and carried on going round and round this huge roundabout. Eventually, she yelled that if I did not stop she was going to jump out, so I carried on doing it. Then on the third or fourth lap the silly cow opened the door and dived out while we were still circling. I calmly carried on driving and slowed down to check if she was all right, saw that she was, so stopped and let her mate get out before we carried on to the next pub.
I was out with Mick Harford and our partners on another barmy night. We had been on our best behaviour, had enjoyed a nice meal and a couple of drinks and were travelling home when these four idiots decided to cut us up on the road. Mick had never had the mildest of tempers so the chase began! We were in pursuit of this car for at least ten minutes, tailing it all over Birmingham. Eventually, Mick cut them off and stopped in front of their car before calmly getting out, joined by myself. They seemed up for it so I asked Mick what he was going to do as, by now, although they had stayed in their car they were effing and blinding at us and generally taking the piss. Mick calmly opened his boot which, coincidently, contained his golf clubs, and selected the heaviest one out of his collection. He then walked up to the car and started smashing it up! First the windscreen, then the headlights and, as he went for the driver’s door, they got out of the car and ran down the road. Mick finished the car off and we got back in and drove off as if nothing had happened. There were repercussions as the club was notified, and Mick had to pay for the damages or face prosecution.
Similar to spending time with Mick, there was never a dull moment when out with Mark Dennis and his wife Jane. On one occasion, we went to a club in Solihull and had a good night but, as we were leaving, an argument began and it was Jane instead of Mark fighting as she ploughed into three girls. Jane could fight like a man and floored the biggest one when she kicked her in the groin. I heard the bone crack and the girl fell to the floor, so we left rather quickly.
On another occasion we were at Mark’s house for a party with a few players and he had an English bull terrier called Charlie. The music was playing yet we still heard a loud, screeching, high-pitched sound. Jane opened the back door to see what was going on only to find out that the noise was coming from next door’s cat that Charlie had just ripped to shreds. The next-door neighbour then naturally went mental, so we left the party just as Mark and Jane started fighting, which, like I said, was the same as two men going at it with each other.
Alan Curbishley was a quiet bloke but he had a brother-in-law who managed The Who. Curbs sorted us all out with tickets and, prior to the gig, we were taken backstage for drinks and to meet the band. The dressing room was full of the usual birds and drink but I noticed a table covered in funny-looking ‘Smarties’ which was an eye-opener for us all. Curbs’ brother-in-law asked whether I’d like to go out on stage for a look and it was amazing. In a football ground, even when it’s a full house, the fans are on four sides of you; here there were literally thousands of people just staring at you and it scared me shitless. I went back to the dressing room and they were dishing the pills out; I wasn’t surprised, for if they had asked me to go on and play the triangle for 30 seconds, I’d have had to take the fuckers as well.
Despite being regarded as a crazy and fearsome group of lads, we decided to give one potential trouble spot a wide berth while on a tour in Peru. We had been given a day off training and a group of us went for a walk to a very busy, open-air market. As we were nosing about looking at various stalls full of junk, I felt a sharp pain around my neck and shouted out to Keith Birchen who was nearby to help me. My solid gold chain with the letter ‘P’ hanging from it had gone and there was blood all over my hand where I had felt my neck.
My first reaction was that some fucker had cut me, so we all went back to the hotel where I looked in the mirror to find I had three deep cuts around my neck. I got the club physio to clean it up and it was not as bad as it had looked. It was a very shady place with no end of dark passageways and, by now, it was pitch dark, so despite being somewhat crazy, we decided we were not crazy enough to go looking for the thief who had yanked my chain. Literally!
4
OUT OF THE BLUE … AND OVER THE MOON
So Birmingham were back in the Second Division but our season had got off to a flyer as we won five on the trot before losing at home to Pompey in a feisty mid-week encounter. We always had a day off after a game so, on the Thursday, we assembled in training and were gathered in the usual circle chatting and flicking the ball about waiting for the gaffer to show and begin the inquest into our recent defeat. After about half-an-hour, we were getting restless; the boss was never usually late but, eventually, Ron turned up and told us all to listen carefully as he had just come from a meeting with the club chairman and unfortunately two players had to leave the club immediately.
We all looked at each other in shock. There had been a clear-out pre-season and we all thought that was the end of it as some of the snippets that had appeared in the press about the reputation some of us had in and around town were directed at a couple of the lads shipped out in the summer. Although we had dropped a division, it did not have the same impact as it does today. The wages players were on in the 1980s weren’t massive and were manageable even when most clubs suffered relegation.
There was no major TV money keeping clubs afloat; ITV or BBC showed the odd game and probably paid a couple of grand for the privilege. Home gates maybe dropped by a couple of thousand, but sponsorship deals with some local brewery or car dealer were not dependant on top-flight football, so if players were getting transferred without asking for a move there was usually an internal issue behind it.
We stood in the circle and most of us had our heads bowed. I don’t think any of us were unhappy at the club; of course, we wanted to be playing in Division One, as it was then, but we had got off to a great start and were favourites in many quarters to go straight back up.
Ron got straight to the point and blamed the fact that he had to sell players on the dire financial situation the club was in. To this day, I have no i
dea if he was telling the truth or covering up the fact that the men in suits were unhappy with our so-called ‘behaviour’ in town.
He looked at Kevin Dillon and said, ‘Watford have come in for you and we have accepted their offer of £250,000 – get your stuff, you’re out of here!’ It was ruthless and Kev just turned and walked back to the changing rooms in total shock. Saunders then looked directly at me and I thought, ‘Oh fuck!’
I loved it at Birmingham; I was playing every week, had settled into a nice house and, although the Magnificent Seven were down to the last couple, I saw that as a chance to put down some roots with my fiancée Susan. Something else I wondered was: who the fuck wants to sign me? It seemed that whoever they were, refusing to join them was not an option. I just took a deep breath and preyed that whoever had put an offer in for me were not in a lower league than Birmingham, or even a poxy club that I knew I would not want to join.
Saunders just pointed at me and said, ‘You … we have accepted an offer of £90,000 … from Everton Football Club …’
He probably said a bit more along the lines of ‘we are sorry to lose you …’ etc., but I never heard a word of it. My head was buzzing – Everton Football Club, the FA Cup Winners, playing in Europe, a massive club who were in with a chance of winning the Championship. I was off to the dressing room to pack my stuff before Saunders called me back and told me I was to go straight home as Howard Kendall was going to phone me within the hour.
I had watched Everton win the FA Cup on TV just a few months earlier when they beat Watford 2–0. I believed that was a final we could have been in but for John Barnes and Nigel Callahan tearing us apart in the quarter-final. Both those wingers had been marked out of the game by the two Everton full-backs at Wembley so I began to wonder what the fuck they wanted me for.
I rushed home and told Susan the good news. I’m not sure she saw it that way, as she had not long joined me in the Midlands having recently moved up from London where she had lived all her life. Now she would have to pack her bags and move again to Merseyside and, although it may seem selfish, I never discussed it with her. I basically told her we were going. Had she said she didn’t want to, I’m afraid it would have been goodbye, as this was a chance of a lifetime and there was no way on earth I was passing on it.
The phone call came and I was told to get a train to Lime Street Station where I would be met by a club official and driven to meet the manager. I was expecting to be driven to Goodison or the training ground, Bellfield, but was taken to a restaurant in Formby to be greeted by a buoyant Howard Kendall. We had a superb afternoon and enjoyed an excellent meal and a glass of wine before he told me that I was going to be taken to a hotel and undertake a medical the following day before being introduced to the press and my new team-mates.
I was on cloud nine and I quite simply could not believe this was happening to me. When Ron Saunders had pointed at me just a few hours earlier, I was thinking that by now I would be somewhere like Notts County or Luton haggling over wages but, instead, I was in the company of a fantastic, up-and-coming, young manager poised to join one of the country’s biggest clubs.
Once we finished the meal, Mr Kendall briefly discussed terms with me and told me that the following day, when I passed the medical, I would be offered a three-year deal. The money on offer was good, probably double what I was on at Birmingham, and I was also offered £25,000 to sign. There were bonuses for winning games and for finishing at various places in the league – it was a fantastic deal.
Had Howard informed me that there was no signing-on fee and I was going to be on the same money as I was getting at St Andrew’s, I’d have still asked him for the pen and signed there and then. I felt at home in his company, he had won my trust and total respect over one meal, and he has that to this day.
When he left I got talking to the bar manager, ordered a few drinks and got on the phone to tell everyone my good news. My mother and father were really pleased for me although Susan was still in a state of shock with the speed of the move. I sat back, ordered a bottle of champagne and a few large brandies, then finished the night off with huge, big fat cigar, thinking, ‘Fuck me, I have won the jackpot!’ I ended up, not for the last time on Merseyside, having a few too many drinks and the restaurant manager eventually got me into a taxi and sent me off to the hotel.
The following day I had the medical and passed with ease, met a few local press reporters and was shown around the training facilities and introduced to Howard’s staff who were preparing for a game against Southampton.
I was then introduced to my new team-mates and every one of them seemed quite happy with my arrival – apart from a certain John Bailey, who had obviously noticed that I played in the same position as him. I went to shake his hand and he blanked me and later that night in the hotel I read in the local paper that when they had asked Bailey whether he thought that Pat Van Den Hauwe had been brought in to replace him, he said, ‘Pat who?’
After the blank at Bellfield and then a dig in the press, I thought, ‘Fuck you,’ and began to think I would have an enemy at the club. I could not have been any further off the mark as, within a few days, Bails had come round and right until his last day at the club he remained one of my closest friends at Everton.
Although Bails already had the hump with me, it had not actually been mentioned where Mr Kendall had intended playing me. I was just happy to sign the form and not cock anything up, so once that was all sorted and the formalities were over, I asked him bluntly where he saw me fitting into his side. I thought it could be as a central defender but he shook his head and said, ‘You’re my new left-back, although it may be a while before you’re my first-choice left-back!’ In one sentence, in seconds, he had taken me to the top of the mountain and rolled me back down to the bottom of it. He was a genius at that … the king of the one-liner!
That day I watched from the stands as my new team struggled to overcome a decent Southampton side and the game ended two each. I went to the players’ lounge and Mr Kendall asked me what I fancied to drink. I was obviously on my best behaviour so politely asked for an orange juice. He grinned and said, ‘An orange juice, Pat? Sure you don’t want some champagne … a brandy … or maybe a large Cuban cigar?’
If I could have dug a hole in the carpet of the players’ lounge and buried myself I’d have done it there and then. The bar manager had told my new boss every single drink I had ordered and even thrown in the cigar for good measure. Howard knew I was embarrassed but said no more, passed me my orange juice and told me not to be late for training on the Monday. What a man-manager he was! He could have bollocked me for getting pissed the night I met him as it was my medical the following day. He could have made a show of me in front of my new team-mates to teach me a lesson, but no, he quietly let me know that wherever I ventured in this huge city, he would no doubt hear about it, hence I learnt that I could not take the piss as I had done in Birmingham.
In training on the Monday, Mr Kendall went on to tell me that Terry Darracott, his chief scout, had watched me about ten times and had noticed I was naturally a right-footed player and had said to Howard that that could be a problem. Howard told me that he’d replied, ‘We’re having him … we can work on his left foot … I like him!’
By Christ, did they work on it! Every day after training, Terry, a tough, hard Scouser, took me out on the pitch and it was left foot this, left foot that and, within a few weeks, I began to find it so much more comfortable not only controlling the ball but crossing and passing with it as well.
Terry himself had been a left-back at Everton and was a bit of a cult hero, although he admitted to me his left foot was worse than mine and that he used to whack it over with the outside of his right at every opportunity. Terry and Howard had noted it as a weakness that we were to improve on and it was simple things like that – working on an obvious weakness – that showed I had moved to a bigger and better club. At Birmingham, nobody had ever said to me that my left foot was a weakness; it
was as if it wasn’t the best but was good enough for Birmingham. Good enough for them, but nowhere near good enough for Everton. Maybe that attitude was the reason Birmingham were up and down like a whore’s knickers every season.
After realising that I had been signed by Mr Kendall to impress on the football pitch and not in the bar, I set about training hard to try and get into the first team, a task that was not going to be easy as Everton, after a shaky start, had strung a couple of wins together and were playing reasonably well.
Despite being fit and raring to go, I was sat in the stands for a few games next to Darracott, who just kept telling me, ‘Don’t watch the game – stay focussed on how our back four play!’ It was hard; if Everton were on the attack, I’d obviously follow the play but would get a dig from Terry and the same instructions: ‘Watch the fucking back four!’ It did my nut in but, after a couple of games, I began to notice how they went about their business and especially the way the full-backs were always just ahead of the two centre-backs. Things began to click in my head and, in training, it seemed easy to slot in thanks to Terry’s expert advice, even though it was blunt and to the point!
Pat Van Den Hauwe Page 4