Pat Van Den Hauwe

by Pat Van Den Hauwe

  After the Cup win, instead of building on that success, the club’s fortunes went into freefall as Terry moved upstairs after a failed bid to buy the club. I know nothing about the politics that went on, but have been told that Terry failed in a £20m bid to take over Spurs with a bloke called Larry Gillick, having been outbid by Alan Sugar. For whatever reason, Terry was then was appointed Chief Executive by Sugar and Pete Shreeves was appointed as our new gaffer.

  Anyone in their right mind could see that the change was a backward step, and the players and the fans were rightly pissed off, but Sugar was in total control and, if we liked him or not, it made no difference – what Sugar wanted, Sugar got. In his own mind, he obviously thought he was bigger than the club and that is not healthy, as he managed to cause so much unrest there nobody benefited.

  On the training ground, Terry was a superb coach. There were very few in the world better than him; we hardly ever saw him as Doug and Clem would supervise the sessions, but Terry would walk over and watch us for 20 minutes then pull us together to point out a few minor things we were doing wrong – at set pieces, for example – and he would always be right. His attention to the finer details could not be bettered.

  Shreeves was a decent fella but no Terry Venables. His training was a bit happy-tappy and I never really enjoyed it and, obviously, his methods never worked as on the pitch things went from bad to worse and he was sacked after just one season.

  The campaign of decline began back at Wembley as we drew with Arsenal to get a six-month share of the Charity Shield. I was headline news in the papers after a couple of minor issues, one a good, old-fashioned, crunching tackle on Lee Dixon, who reacted like he’d been shot with a cannon ball, and the other a stray arm that I landed on David Rocastle. I suppose I could have had a yellow for both and had the embarrassment of being sent off at Wembley, but it was only a friendly and the referee, a Mr Terry Holbrook, showed common sense, something sadly lacking in today’s game, and gave me one yellow and a good bollocking.

  Dixon and Rocastle were different in their views of the incidents. Whereas the full-back had a pop and made a fuss, Rocky got on with it and later gave me a kick back, which earned him a yellow card, too. After the game, we shook hands and had a good laugh about it over a beer. David was a top bloke and excellent player, and I was very sad to hear that he had passed away aged only 33 just a couple of months after he announced that he was suffering from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, an aggressive form of cancer which attacks the immune system.

  Personally, the season was a nightmare for me as I picked up a knock in a shock 1–0 loss at Swansea early in the season and missed four games before I was back in the side which then went on a dreadful run. I eventually lost my place to Justin Edinburgh after a dicking at Leeds, but played a few games at right-back alongside him. Even at that stage of my Spurs career, I began to think that the writing was on the wall for me and, looking back, it probably was, as I never fully established myself in the side again.

  It was a season to forget, despite reaching the European Cup Winners’ Cup quarter-finals, where we were knocked out at Feyenoord in a game marred by crowd trouble. Gary Lineker scored 28 league goals in his final season for the club, but we suffered 20 defeats and finished 15th in the First Division, which was simply not good enough for Sugar and Shreeves was axed.

  I was not sorry to see him go; I had no grudge with him but wanted to be playing more football and he obviously fancied Edinburgh at left-back, so froze me out. With Shreeves gone, I thought I’d have a better chance of regaining my place. I was glad I never put good money on it!

  Most of the lads, myself included, were hoping for a bigname appointment or, better still, Terry giving up his executive role and getting back to what he did best, but we got neither as Doug Livermore and Ray Clemence were appointed as joint managers for the inaugural season of the newly formed Premier League.

  Once it was confirmed that Ray and Dougie were to take over first-team affairs, I decided from the off to get myself 100 per cent fit and give it my best shot at winning back a regular place in the side. What a waste of time that was! I trained harder than I had ever done and even agreed without a moan to play out of position on the left side of midfield to show the joint bosses that I was up for a challenge, but no matter how hard I tried or how well I played, I once again found myself being frozen out. If I’m honest, I was disappointed with Dougie and Clem as I had had no previous beef with them, but even when I politely asked them about my continual absence from the side, they would not give me any answers.

  I accepted that I was not their first-choice left-back, but stuck with the training and did not go knocking on doors asking for a move when maybe I should have. After a few games, Edinburgh was injured and I played six games and did reasonably well, but was dropped as soon as Justin regained fitness. I then filled in at right-back and again did no better or worse than anyone else, but then missed over 20 games apart from a couple of substitute appearances, including one at my beloved Goodison Park when Spurs beat Everton 2–1. It was a terrible game and I was a sad figure sitting on the bench. Goodison was dead. There were less than 20,000 in the ground and, although the fans once again gave me a great reception, I could not help but think that the glory days were gone and Everton were another club in decline. That saddened me more than my own plight at Spurs, as Everton were a superb club and to see them struggling in a ground less than half full was very sad.

  I can remember coming on as a sub to play alongside Ruddock and him shouting to the opposition forwards that they were fucked now as there was no way they would score past us two. I think he enjoyed playing alongside me, as we were similar types of players and similar characters off the pitch.

  Once again, Edinburgh picked up a knock so I made my comeback at Bramall Lane and we got hammered 6–0 by Sheffield United, and it must have been my entire fault as I was back out of the side for the following game. I played in the last four games of the season, including another 6–1 lashing at Anfield, but did a lot better when we beat Arsenal on the last game of the season to give us a top-ten finish and the title of top dogs in North London, albeit in the league only, as the Gunners went on to win the Cup a week later, so I doubt they were too concerned with that reverse.

  Arsenal got to the Final having beaten us in the semi-final at Wembley a few weeks earlier. I had played in the game a week prior to the big Cup-tie – a 3–1 win against Manchester City – and was devastated not to keep my place for the Wembley showdown. I lost my rag and asked Clem straight out whether he and Doug had a problem with me. All I got back was bullshit about keeping my chin up and training hard. It was bollocks – I had done that all season and it was simply that somebody had marked my card. Clemence and Livermore were weak in my eyes; if they did have a problem with me, why not just come clean? If they didn’t think I was good enough, then sell me. All they did was give me excuse after excuse as to why I was not in the team, and that had a significantly adverse affect on my career and life in general as, once again, I hit the booze and started to fuck my life up again.

  I thought my time at Spurs was up but, out of the blue, Terry and the lads were sacked and the chairman appointed none other than Ozzie Ardiles as manager. I was gutted to see Terry leave his beloved Spurs due to internal feuds and a clash of personalities with Sugar, but did not think that the appointment of Ardiles would mean I would soon be joining him out of the door.

  Ardiles was a strange choice as manager, as he had no top-flight pedigree, having previously managed Swindon, Newcastle and West Bromwich Albion, all in the lower leagues and all without winning anything other than the odd play-off final. It had been over ten years since I had last met him and I never gave it a second thought when we were summoned one by one to Ozzie’s office for a private face-to-face meeting with the new gaffer.

  I walked in, shook his hand and sat down, and immediately noticed that the chair he was in was too big for him. He looked like a little kid sitting behind the desk and, a
s I began to introduce myself, he said, ‘I know who you are … you kicked me once at Birmingham and insulted me and my country!’ I was gobsmacked, and then he showed me this small scar on his leg and carried on saying I could have ended his career. I sensed it was payback time and got the impression he was hell-bent on ending mine as he said he had made his mind up that Justin Edinburgh was going to be his number-one left-back. He went on to say that if I was to stay at the club, I would have to prove myself to him in training that I was good enough to feature in his squad.

  I asked him bluntly whether it was a personal thing, and he just kept repeating that I needed to prove myself to him. Prove what, for fuck’s sake? Was he saying that everything I had achieved in my career meant nothing, because I had done him when I was a raw teenager at Birmingham? The bloke was an out-and-out bastard; I would have had far more respect for him had he said ‘I don’t like you’ and that I should look elsewhere, but he never had the balls to say that.

  As soon as training began, I realised the extent of the situation I was in. We were split into two groups – first team and reserves – and told by the coaches what the sessions involved. Andy Gray and myself were then told to do our own thing, so we would just run round the pitch for an hour and piss off home. We just turned up every day and did nothing. After a few weeks, I confronted Ardiles in his office and asked him straight if there was any chance of me playing for him or should I move on. He told me that my chances of making the reserves, let alone the first team, were slim and that he would listen to offers for me. I thought, that’s OK, and left.

  The following day I was told that Norwich had enquired about my availability but were informed I was not available, so I went and knocked on Ardiles’ door again and asked him why I wasn’t available for a transfer when a day earlier he had told me I was? Basically, he said that I could not join another Premiership club.

  By now, I was beginning to lose my rag, so made the point of going to see him every day to enquire if anyone had made an offer for me. Ozzie was soon sick of the sight of me, at the same time each day – Knock, knock … ‘Hello, any news?’ … ‘No, sorry, go and run around the park with Andy Gray!’

  He soon got sick of me knocking on his door, so he foolishly told his assistant that if I went to his office again, they should say he was out. I knew he was lying, so I booted his door open, I almost took it off its hinges and he shit himself! I was totally gone and told him to stop treating me like a child and warned him to get me a move or he was going through the window. One wrong word from him and I’d have given him a proper hiding there and then.

  Mick McCarthy phoned me the next day and said that they had enquired about my availability, and Ardiles had simply told him to get in touch as he wanted nothing to do with me, hence giving me the green light to speak to Millwall. That day, I walked out on Spurs a happy man. I was sad to leave the club and the supporters, but just thrilled that I never had to set eyes on that horrible little man Ardiles ever again.

  There were a few issues to sort out when Ozzie did his best to fuck the move up but I eventually signed at Millwall on the day my old team-mates went up to Anfield and came back with a massive three points after winning 2–1. For a few days, I wondered if I had left too quickly and was Ardiles the man to bring the good times back to Spurs? My fears were ungrounded, as it turned out – he did nothing to improve the team or the club in general. While I am not a person to wish ill to others, I was truly delighted that Ardiles lost his job the following season as I had no respect whatsoever for the man, and feel no differently about him today.

  14

  FATAL ATTRACTION

  Ileft Everton for a number of reasons, one of which was to save my marriage, as the life I was leading in Liverpool was driving a huge wedge between Susan and myself. We bought a big house in Chislehurst, Kent, that cost me £175,000. It is now valued at over £1 million. Once fully furnished, it was a superb place to live but, soon after moving in, I started going out with a bloke called Harold. He was an uncle to Paul Walsh who, in turn, was married to Mandy Smith’s cousin. Harold was a man about town and he introduced me to some nice bars and pubs and, one day, we were having a drink in his favourite wine bar when Paul Walsh said they had arranged a surprise for me.

  I was never one for surprises, so was a bit nervy when, half-an-hour later, a young lady named Amanda Louise Smith, the daughter of local snooker hall manager Robert John Smith, walked into the bar and into my life, with her mother Patsy. Knowing what I know now, I would have jumped out of the window before we even said hello. I never had a clue who she was, but could not help notice she was a stunning-looking girl.

  We hit it off at once and she asked me to dance. As much as I wanted to, I just couldn’t throw myself on to an empty dance floor and have a jig with her as I would have looked a proper mug. I thought it was a set-up by the lads and politely declined, which saw them say their goodbyes and leave. I don’t think she liked the fact that I wouldn’t dance with her, even though deep down I wanted to. That should have made me realise she was someone who wanted her own way, or would become quite moody if she didn’t get what she wanted, and I regret not sussing that out on that fateful first meeting.

  I thought that was the end of it, but Walshy told me in training that Mandy fancied me and was really disappointed that I would not dance with her. He set it up for me and Harold to call in on them at home one night, which we did. It became a regular pastime as we would just pop in and have a chat and a drink with them all; it was nothing serious, we were just enjoying each other’s company.

  By now Walshy had told me about Mandy’s failed relationship with Bill Wyman and it was a horror story. It has been well documented in no end of tabloids and glossy magazines that Wyman started dating Mandy when she was just 13, and how she blamed him for her poor state of mind. My take on it is simple and to the point – if a normal man on the street would have become involved with a 13-yearold girl when he was about 40, he would not be adored by the British public.

  I got close to Mandy, we talked for hours and I really felt sorry for her. She had an eating disorder and was forever being sick; it was truly sad. At this time, her mother was superb with me; she blamed everything on Wyman, yet where had she been when he was apparently sleeping with her? Under the same roof but, no doubt, turning a blind eye to the situation. They say love is blind; no doubt wanting fame and fortune at any cost is also blind.

  One night I was asked by her mother – who, by now, I had realised, controlled everything Mandy did – whether I’d like to stop over as Mandy felt so low. I agreed and slept on the floor next to Mandy’s bed and held her hand all night; it was extremely sad knowing that she needed that kind of affection just to get her through the night. Susan at this stage had no idea what I was up to, even though I had, in theory, done nothing wrong. I had not even kissed Mandy, so was only guilty of holding her hand. Mrs Van Den Hauwe knew I had committed acts far worse than that since we had been together.

  Things soon progressed and, before long, I was driving to the Smith household in Muswell Hill most days after training. They lived in a nice, four-bedroomed property which was nicknamed ‘The House of Dolls’, an apt name as Mandy, her mother and sister Nicola were all extremely attractive ladies. It was a house that Mandy had more than likely paid for as, despite what people think, she was quite well off in her own right due to the money she earned from modelling. She never discussed financial matters with me and I have no idea if she received a hefty settlement from Wyman. It was no concern of mine, as the less we discussed him, the better, was the way I saw it.

  As time went on, I was spending more and more time with Mandy and eventually I fell for her. It was getting to the stage when Mandy was phoning me and asking me to leave home, to pack my bags and move in with her. It was crazy, as we had still, by this time, not even got close … if you understand where I am coming from.

  I decided one night that it was time to go home and tell Susan everything and that was one of the t
oughest things I have ever had to do in my life. My daughter Gemma was only two or three; I had actually taken her to meet Mandy and they got on brilliantly, which pleased me, even though it probably complicated matters and forced my hand slightly. Had Mandy not accepted that I had a child whom I adored, maybe I would have called time on the whole crazy relationship. As it was, she was superb with my little girl and that made me grow even closer to her.

  So one fateful night, I went home, put my cards on the table and I don’t believe I have ever been in a tougher situation. I simply sat Susan down and told her I had met someone else and was leaving her. It was the worst moment of my life as I walked out of the door and left Susan crying in the chair, cuddling my little girl. The image I have in my mind of that night still upsets me today.

  I soon became a resident of the Smith house, which was a dream that soon turned into a nightmare. Within a few weeks, the press were on to us and the day it leaked was a dreadful one for me. From that day, it was over a year before my parents spoke to me and I got pure grief from everyone imaginable, apart from a few close friends who had known about the situation from day one.

  I was not as close to the Spurs lads as I was with my old pals at Everton, so I felt lonely unless I was in Mandy’s company. Had the likes of Sharpy or Howard been about, they would have taken me to one side and tried to talk some sense into me. As it was, everyone I was close to – the likes of Harold, Walshy and Teddy Sheringham – were involved with the Smiths as well. In a nutshell, I was knackered.