During the initial three-month trial separation, I met a tennis coach called Vince Ranson at the local David Lloyd Centre and went to Brown’s nightclub with him. I knew the owner, a nice bloke called Jake, who took us upstairs to the VIP area. It was wall to wall with real celebrities and Chris Quentin was nowhere to be seen! I was introduced to an odd-looking gentleman who said he was ‘Right Said Fred’ and who bought us drinks; George Michael was in there and we had a fantastic evening. I had to get off when Jake’s bird came on to me, which was a risky situation, so we made our excuses and left.
We ended up at another club where I was introduced to a lady whose opening line was, ‘I have been told all about you and have been warned to stay well clear!’ As it happened, she didn’t heed the advice she’d been given and we ended up back at her place, although we never got up to much. I woke up in the morning to find she had gone to work and left the door keys with a note asking me to lock the door on the way out and post the keys through the letter box. I never knew her name or saw her again, but was told some years later that she was a well-known actress.
I ended up back at my mother’s one morning after being on the piss all night with Ranson and the snake phoned Mandy from the flat and told her that I was fine and on the sauce all the time. We fell out over that and it soon surfaced that he was dropping me in it as he was trying to get into Mandy’s knickers. I hope he had more joy than I did!
The trial separation ended in divorce and the papers and magazines had a field day as, no doubt, Patsy was on the blower the moment I had set foot outside the front door selling them yet another exclusive. One magazine at the time published the following article:
In 1993, Hello! magazine trumpeted what sounded like the perfect union when ‘the world’s most romantic man’ married ‘one of the world’s most beautiful women’. Over a spread of 17 pages, the nuptials of Pat ‘Psycho’ Van Den Hauwe, dressed like Spandau Ballet’s sax player, and Mandy Smith, the former 13-year-old girlfriend and ex-wife of Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman, were covered in sumptuous detail. The former Everton full-back was portrayed in unrecognisably glowing terms and though ten years earlier he had been one of the hardest members of Birmingham City’s notorious band of brawlers alongside Mick Harford, Mark Dennis and Martin Kuhl, here he was described as ‘one of the world’s top footballers’ and ‘a striker for Tottenham’. As all but Hello!’s regular readers pointed out, the only things he regularly struck were opponents’ legs.
But that apart, the magazine accurately captured the first example of a footballer’s romantic bond with someone famous for being famous. A year later, Van Den Hauwe was toiling for Millwall while his bride picked up a coveted Rear of the Year award and another at-home piece in Hello!
Despite often denying their marriage was in trouble, they divorced a year later. At the outset, one partner praised the other for bringing sanity into their life; by the end, one was remarking how the other had brought madness to theirs.
I could not have put it better myself!
I was wide open to criticism and, although I expected it from Patsy, I was disappointed when Nicola began to have a pop in the press. In one such article, she was quoted as saying, ‘I wasn’t sad at the break-up. I’d rather Mandy got well than be with someone with his own problems.’ My only problems were caused by living in The House of Dolls with those three nut-jobs!
Nicola’s profile included: ‘Claim to fame – sister to Mandy and ex-girlfriend of Teddy Sheringham’. That summed her up in one sentence. She went on to say how fantastic her mother was towards Mandy and was quoted as saying, ‘Mum tried to slow things down between Bill and Mandy. He was wonderful to Mum, and she didn’t see the danger signals. She was so ill that she did not know if she would live, and she saw Bill as someone who would look after her daughter.’
Now I admit 100 per cent to not being the best parent in the world, but come on! A 40-year-old bloke, worth millions, is looking after a 13-year-old girl, and you don’t see danger signals for fuck’s sake! Had he not been a famous rock star, but a bus driver or a bin man, would she have seen them then? Probably.
Nicola harped on about her mother’s illness and depression, but does not say she was too depressed or ‘ill’ to sleep with Wyman’s son Stephen, who was about half her age. Work this one out – had they all got married, Bill’s son would also have been his own father’s step-dad! That’s how bizarre the situation was, and it was me who was burdened with trying to sort Mandy’s life out when it all went tits up. Is it any wonder I had my own problems, as Nicola put it?
Before we divorced, I had a call from Mandy asking me to meet her in the park near her house. I thought there was something seriously wrong, so I shot over to find that she just fancied a bit of rough up against a tree. It was the same story again a few weeks later when she asked me to get in her car. Twice in a few weeks after being starved for three years, that’s how mad the situation was.
Our divorce was amicable; she asked for nothing as, by then, she knew I had nothing, as I was skint apart from my pension money, which she knew I could not touch.
A recent article in the Telegraph magazine entitled ‘Famous for Being Famous’, made me chuckle as it summed up the madness surrounding Mandy perfectly, stating: ‘After splitting up from Wyman, Mandy became the occasional singer, occasional TV presenter, occasional model and full-time celebrity. In 1993, she married footballer Pat Van Den Hauwe, best known for hitting the bar, usually in the early hours of the morning.’ The article finished with this classic line: ‘Mandy has turned to God, the ultimate father figure. “He’s important to me. I don’t think he gets enough recognition for what he does. Look at all the lovely animals you can have.”’
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mandy Smith, Mrs Van Den Hauwe Number Two, God’s number-one fan. Very beautiful, but not the brightest young thing among his many creations.
Joking aside, I look back at that period of my life in horror. OK, I had a few laughs and lived the high life but wish, hand on heart, that I had not been in the wine bar on that fateful day when Amanda Louise Smith walked in. Between her and her control-freak mother, I almost ended up as crazy as they were.
15
FINAL WHISTLE AT THE DEN
Due to Ardiles playing silly games, my move to Millwall very nearly did not come off, but eventually the deal was rushed through and I was registered with minutes to spare. Had that deal not made the deadline, I would have walked from Millwall to Spurs and given Ozzie a good hiding. Although Millwall were not a top-flight outfit, I just wanted to play football and get away from a person who had apparently harboured a grudge for years, a man who was hell-bent on making me pay for one bad tackle and a silly comment made years earlier.
Ardiles did everything he could to cock the move up. Originally, he told me I could go on a free but, as I drove to meet Millwall officials on the Wednesday, I got a call saying that there was a mix-up and that Spurs wanted £100,000 for me and the deal was off. The following day, as I was about to return to Spurs, I was told to go back to Millwall as Ardiles had said I could now go for nothing as originally agreed. I got to the final stages of the move and was then told that Spurs wanted me to pay them £10,000 they claimed I owed them, with interest, or the deal was once again off. They were that petty they even demanded the money that day, sent via a taxi driver, before they would sign my release papers. I had no option but to pay it and coughed up the ten grand just to get away from the place.
As desperate as I was to play football, the money I was offered at Millwall was really poor and I think they were on to the fact that Ardiles would not let me join another Premiership club. That did not mean I was going to go anywhere for the kind of crap deal that was put before me and soon they realised that I was no mug and upped things a bit. They were still miles away from what I believed I should have been offered, but said that they could afford no more but would throw a motor into the equation. I told them I had a fucking car and wanted more dough. I was represented by
Eric Hall, the ‘monster, monster’ agent who was very well in at Spurs until he fell out with some top clients and ended up out of the game. Eventually, I ended up agreeing to take a huge drop in salary, was offered a £20,000 car I didn’t need and signed a three-year deal just fifteen minutes before the transfer window closed.
The following day, I drove to the training ground and a lot of the youngsters there could not believe that Millwall had managed to sign me; a few months later, they probably wished they hadn’t. Mick McCarthy was very nice guy but I soon realised he was a tough bloke to play for. I sat there thinking I’d have a day of rest being shown around the facilities, when he just looked at me and told me to get changed and get training. He was right as I needed to get fit and, as soon as I got changed, was introduced to the lads who at once made me feel very welcome, which was nice after my year of hell at Spurs.
I made my Millwall début away to Charlton and what an eventful début it was. After just 14 seconds, I caused uproar when I elbowed a bloke called Shaun Newton and all hell broke loose. The Millwall fans went crazy. I had won them over in less than a minute! Luckily, the referee missed it but the game boiled over as tempers flared and eventually he sent off my new team-mate Alex Rae and a Charlton player for fighting, before booking me when I clattered their lad up front, Garry Nelson.
The game finished goalless and, at the end, a fight broke out in the director’s box when the home chairman Robert Alwen was assaulted by a Lions fan. Welcome to Millwall!
I knew the chairman’s name as he sadly tried to take me to court for the elbow on Newton and reported me to the PFA and Football League, saying my challenge was ‘totally unacceptable’ and the sort of thing ‘football can do without’. Nothing more came of the incident and I was disappointed that some bloke in a suit watching from the director’s box tried to nail me for a challenge via the courts, when everyone else had forgotten about it within five minutes of the game finishing. After just one game, Mick stood up for me, which was typical of him, as he was a very loyal man to his players.
I needed a couple of games to get match fit, was soon in the swing of things and found it easier to play after dropping down a league. I was an ex-Premiership player, had played international football and, for years, had been playing with some top-class players so had learnt a lot. I found it very much easier to read the game at that level, even though it was a bit frantic and the tackles a bit tastier, something I was more than capable of coming to terms with.
I was doing well for Mick when I got injured during a game at Bristol City. I went in for a tackle with City’s Brian Tinnion and at once knew my knee had gone. I was carried off and I was told I would be out for weeks with knee ligament damage. I was depressed and hit the booze and soon fell out of favour at the Smith household and eventually left Mandy and moved back in with my parents on the Ferrier Estate.
Although my marriage was not perfect at Spurs, I was happy enough, but when I dropped a level I was out of the spotlight. Perhaps that wasn’t to Mandy’s or her mother’s taste? Had Mandy ever loved Pat Van Den Hauwe, or had she just fallen in love with the idea of a footballer playing for a top club?
My split from Mandy was the beginning of the end for me, as I hit the booze and started hanging about with a gang of lads nicknamed ‘The Five Ball’ – myself, Keith Stevens (who was nicknamed Rhino), Alex Rae, Gav McGuire and Andy Roberts were the original members, and our catchphrase was ‘Fancy a quick half-hour?’ After training, that was our code word that meant we were going for a proper session. Most of the time, I would be with them ’til late afternoon having a few beers and relaxing, then I’d go back home to The Watt Tyler to finish the day off.
One night, the lads phoned me from a boozer near Millwall telling me that Gav was blitzed and they could not shift him. So I drove over, picked him up and took him home, which was a big mistake. He lived in Bray in Windsor, a beautiful place full of beautiful women and nice bars. Gav was single like myself, and we had a field day there. He was banned from driving, so I used to spend a few days with him and he was an absolute diamond of a fella, 100 per cent nuts. He had a serious knee injury and was out for months but after we had been for treatment and a bit of physio, we used to go for a few beers every day, without fail.
One night in Bray, I met a bloke in a bar and he introduced me to Charlie – as in cocaine. It was the first time I had ever taken it and almost the last. The following day, we all arrived at training and a bloke from the FA came in and Mick McCarthy introduced him as a random drug tester from the Football Association. He informed everyone that the testers could come to any ground at any time and test any of us. I nearly shit myself and thought I was going to be banned after my first ever line, but the bloke just said his piece and went away without testing anybody.
At the turn of the year, Millwall were in second place and in with a great chance of making it to the Premiership but, although our home form was excellent and we only lost one game at The New Den all season prior to the play-offs, we were poor on our travels. We finished third, nine points behind second-placed Forest and a massive sixteen points behind champions Crystal Palace, despite having beaten both of them.
During the season, I had lost my discipline and was not training properly. I could not be arsed going through the motions as I was not a first-team regular and was pissed off training with the reserves. We had a huge Cup tie coming up against Arsenal, but the problem I had was that Mick wanted me to fill in at left-back as his first choice was out injured. I had been playing well at centre-half so asked McCarthy why I had to be the one to be moved about to accommodate players. I was not a kid who was happy to play anywhere just to be in the starting line-up as I had done at Birmingham and wanted some stability.
A week before our biggest game of the season we were doing defence against attack set pieces and I was fucking about when Mick stopped the session and said, ‘Are you gonna fucking train properly or not?’ I told him I could not be bothered and told him to stick his reserve team up his arse in front of everyone and we had a few words before he said, ‘Right, let’s get this sorted … me and you behind the shed.’ I realised I had been out of order and told him pack it in for fuck’s sake, and we left it at that. McCarthy was a tough fella and did not give a fuck for anyone who crossed him. The incident was leaked to the local press and I will give Mick credit as he was quoted as saying, ‘It was no big deal, I’m certain it’s not the first time Pat has been sworn at and I’m sure it won’t be the last time I’m sworn at either!’
Some years later, a bust-up Mick had with Roy Keane at Ireland’s World Cup base received far more publicity than our set-to at Millwall, and resulted in Keane being sent home. People who don’t know much about Mick would probably have put money on Roy if that row would have gone behind the shed; my take is they would have been betting on the wrong man.
After our disagreement, McCarthy went on to say that he understood my position and that I was in contention for a starting place against Arsenal. A few days before the game, we went out to Portugal to prepare for the Cup tie and I was involved in everything he organised. Mick was true to his word as I played in the game that we deserved at least to draw, but which Arsenal shaded 1–0. Despite being on the losing side, I played well enough to be awarded the man-of-the-match award.
Having buried the hatchet with the manager, I got back into the training and kept my place in the side for a few weeks. The team strung a few wins together and were pushing for an automatic promotion place when we met Leicester at The New Den, a side who also had a chance of going up. After half-an-hour we were down to nine men as first Terry Hurlock and then myself were sent off, both with straight red cards.
Although McCarthy defended us after the game and blamed our reputations rather than our actions for the dismissals, I think deep down he was pissed off with us as we were both seasoned professionals and had been a bit stupid with our actions.
So I was out of the side again and hit the booze and one day was with Gavin
in the treatment room pissing about – nothing serious, a bit of swearing and basically acting like kids. Mick walked in and just sent us home, saying he did not want to see us behaving so unprofessionally at the ground in front of the younger players. Mick was losing patience and he knew I had given up the fight. He never went mad but the way he handled the situation let me know he was bitterly disappointed with how I was behaving.
Even though I knew I was doing myself no favours, I carried on going out on the piss with ‘The Five Ball’. The truth of the matter was, I had got to the stage of my career where I knew I was on a downhill slope. I had joined Millwall thinking I would be a regular, having dropped a division. I felt that I would be able to compete with ease at that level, even if I didn’t train as hard as I was supposed to. That was not the case as the league was very competitive and, although I had the experience to handle the best of the opposition players, my fitness was a problem. I could do 90 minutes, no problem, but it began to take longer to recover after games and knocks that would clear up after a few days seemed to keep me out for a couple of games.
When I was not playing or training, I hit the booze and spent more time in the pubs and bars than I did at the training ground, and some of the things we got up to were crazy. We used to play a game that involved standing next to a dart board with one hand on it while the lads threw darts at you. The idea was to get the darts between your fingers but we were so pissed we’d throw them like spears! You could not move your hand out of way as you would lose too much face. Sometimes all three darts would be embedded in your hand and we were forever going into training with them bandaged up. It was a stupid, idiotic game but we loved it. The locals in the pub looked at us like we were demented … and they were probably right.
Pat Van Den Hauwe Page 16