by Paul Lake
This two-goal cushion not only boosted our confidence but allowed our game plan to take shape, and we started to put into practice Skip’s principles of responsibility, trust and support. We worked our arses off, doubling up and filling in, winning our second balls, our knock-downs and our tackles, and being alive and aware at set pieces. Earlier that week the gaffer had taken great pains to highlight the aerial threat of Pallister and Anderson and, as it happened, United’s two best chances in the first half had stemmed from soaring corners. Some stout defending – particularly from Gary Fleming, who had at least one goal-line clearance – kept us out of danger until half-time. Flem, a Northern Ireland right-back whom Mel had signed from Nottingham Forest was, for my money, our team’s unsung hero that day. His knack of reading situations, identifying danger and being in the right place at the right time contributed to a faultless display at the back.
The yawning gap left by Bryan Robson’s absence was ever more apparent as the first half went on. United’s midfield play became hurried and ragged and we began to dominate the zone that Robbo usually marshalled so assuredly. And with Steve Redmond and Brian Gayle commanding the centre of our defence, we were able to manage the menace of McClair and Hughes.
Suffering a particularly nightmarish game was Gary Pallister, whose hesitancy led to our third goal. Reddo brought the ball out of defence and clipped it into the path of Oldfield. After out-thinking and outpacing United’s number 6, Dave laid on the perfect cross for Ian Bishop, whose brave, diving header, left the hapless Leighton in no man’s land. This is incredible, I thought, as I rushed over to congratulate our goalscorer.
‘Now do you know how it feels, you f***in’ beauty?’ I yelled, before grabbing him by the waist and hoisting him up to face the rejoicing City fans. Little did I know that this euphoric image of Bish punching the air with his fist as I held him aloft would go on to achieve something of an iconic status in City’s history. The photograph of our goal celebration has featured in countless books and articles, and was once blown up to huge proportions to occupy one whole wall of Maine Road’s souvenir shop. Every picture tells a story, they say, and I think this one captured the joy and passion that Bish and I felt at that precise moment.
Goal number three marked a watershed for us. ‘It’s gonna be our day,’ became the dominant mindset and we actually started to relax and enjoy the game, knocking the ball around freely and second-guessing United’s every move. We felt pretty safe in the knowledge that we weren’t going to surrender a three-goal lead in such a crucial match – we’d learned our lesson against Bournemouth the previous season – but this still didn’t stop Skip and Dixie Deehan screeching, ‘F***in’ focus! Don’t switch off!’ from the dugout. There’s no pleasing some people.
‘Keep the same tempo,’ said a customarily chilled-out Mel Machin at half-time. ‘Be safe, be cautious, stay firm and solid and you’ll see the game through,’ he told us as we towelled ourselves down and geed ourselves up. Skip had the final word, though.
‘Keep the ball, and let them f****in’ chase shadows,’ he growled.
The United lads ran back out onto the pitch with added purpose, having probably been at the rough end of Ferguson’s legendary hairdryer. No doubt he’d convinced them that the game was still winnable and, sure enough, within five minutes of the restart they managed to pull a goal back. And what a phenomenal strike it was. Russell Beardsmore got the better of Hinchy, for once, and dispatched a great cross to the far post. It was latched onto by an airborne Mark Hughes who, with superb control and agility, unleashed a bicycle kick which rocketed past Paul Cooper.
Here was our big test. Now was the time to steel ourselves and keep our cool. As the strains of ‘c’mon you Reds’ floated across from the away end, I could sense some nervous tension in the City stands as a stream of United half-chances went begging. Luckily, our fans’ conviction was restored when we grabbed our fourth. With United’s back line once again in disarray, a crunching tackle involving Trevor Morley thrust the ball in my direction, hitting me in the stomach. The United players claimed handball and, as they stopped in their tracks, I was given the space to have a shot on goal. Leighton desperately half-blocked, landing the ball at my feet once again. I contemplated having a tight-angled shot, but hesitated when I saw Mike Duxbury moving in to thwart it at the near post, deciding instead to square the ball to David Oldfield. Dave, who was loitering with intent near the goalmouth, rolled it in and killed off the game for good. Goodnight Vienna. Or catch yer later, as we say in Manchester.
As David’s shot hit the back of the net, I wheeled round to the Platt Lane Stand with my arms outstretched. Not the wisest of moves when all’s said and done, because I suddenly found myself face-to-face with 3,000 seething United fans baying for my blood. I was just about to scurry back upfield when, to my amazement, among the crowd I spotted one of my old United-supporting classmates from school. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen this lad for years, yet here he was at Maine Road, ranting and raving and brandishing the middle finger. So what else could I do but flash him a grin, pump my fist and yell ‘get in there’? In response he gave me a mouthful of abuse and aimed a gobful of phlegm in my direction. Like I cared. His team were being outshone in a derby and, like many of his comrades, he didn’t appear to be coping terribly well.
My old school pal’s agony continued, because a few minutes later we banged in our fifth. Some clever interplay between Trev and Bish in the middle of the park culminated in the latter pinging a 40-yard ball that soared over the head of United’s Mike Duxbury. David White half-volleyed it with one of the best first-time crosses I’ve ever seen, planting the ball perfectly onto the head of Andy Hinchcliffe, who steamed in with an unstoppable header that nearly scorched a hole in the top left-hand corner. It was a brilliant goal. Jim Leighton, scooping yet another ball from the back of the net, looked crushed. Behind him, a mass exodus of United fans was taking place, chants of ‘Fergie Out!’ echoing around the away end as they vacated their seats and trudged towards the stadium exits. ‘Fergie In!’ countered the Blues as they partied in the aisles.
Now that we’d more or less won the game, it was all about staying professional and maintaining some decorum. As full-time edged ever closer, the temptation to start grinning like a Cheshire cat was almost unbearable. With ten minutes to go, however, any hint of a smile was wiped off my face when a bulldozing, spleen-venting tackle from Mike Phelan left me with a shinful of stud marks. Despite my protestations, there was no way I could stay on the field. As physio Roy Bailey slowly led me back towards the Main Stand I received a standing ovation. Already running onto the pitch as my replacement was Jason Beckford. It was a bittersweet moment for me. Whilst I was totally gutted to be limping off in such a momentous game, I was pleased as Punch for my big mate. I knew that notching up his first derby appearance would mean the world to Jase, and I was delighted that he was going to have the chance to savour that magnificent atmosphere.
‘Well done, Lakey,’ smiled Mel as I hobbled towards the tunnel. Skip leant back in the dugout, dragged on his cigarette, and gave me a knowing wink that said job well done. On the adjacent bench sat an ashen-faced Alex Ferguson, next to him an equally downcast Brian Kidd. Behind them, United’s Russell Beardsmore – himself a native Manc – looked on the verge of tears.
I was lying on the treatment table clutching an ice pack to my leg when the final whistle went, and the huge roar from the stadium almost levitated me to the ceiling. Before long my team-mates piled in, happy and glorious, and the dressing room erupted.
Once the celebrations had died down, I gave a champagne-fuelled interview to BBC Radio Manchester’s Ian Cheeseman.
‘So what was the secret of today’s victory, Paul?’ he asked.
‘I ate raw meat for breakfast,’ I said, baring my teeth. Ian has since told me it’s his top favourite response to one of his questions.
A week or so after the derby, while shopping in the city centre, I happened to spot my old sch
ool ‘friend’ (a.k.a. the Platt Lane spitter) browsing through a rail of clothes.
‘Lakey! All right, mate?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
‘I saw you at the derby.’
‘I know, pal. I saw you, too.’
‘I gobbed at you.’
‘Yeah, and you missed.’
‘You know what, mate, I feel really bad about that.’
‘It’s all forgotten about. Don’t worry.’
‘But I want to make it up to you.’
‘Honestly, it’s not a problem …’
‘I tell you what, Lakey, pick anything out of this shop – anything at all – and I’ll nick it for you.’
I made my excuses and left (as the papers say), chuckling to myself.
*
The aftermath of the 5–1 saw things panning out very differently for the respective managers. With legions of disgruntled Reds calling for the head of Alex Ferguson, many football pundits were predicting a humiliating exit for the United boss. He dug his heels in, though and, with the aid of a supportive chairman and some of his trademark Glaswegian grit, he successfully managed to weather the storm.
Some say the 1989 derby drubbing – ‘the most embarrassing defeat of my career’, admitted Ferguson – was the catalyst that shocked the Reds’ boss into making wholesale changes at Old Trafford. In due course he turned things around and, as we all know, gradually amassed a side of world-beaters and masterminded an amazing haul of trophies. A few years later, I happened to be drinking in a bar when a United fan swaggered over. He wanted to thank me for having a hand in the 5–1, purely because it ‘helped us on our way to glory.’ The pleasure was all mine, pal, all mine.
In contrast, Mel Machin’s fortunes took a nosedive. Securing our promotion to the First Division and engineering our best derby result for years ended up counting for nothing when, on 26 November, Peter Swales gave him the Cuban-heeled boot. Two league wins in two months had cast us adrift at the foot of the table, and the gaffer was, as they say in football, ‘relieved of his managerial duties’. His departure was hastened by a variety of reasons, but the quality of his coaching wasn’t one of them. You couldn’t really fault Mel’s technical knowledge and expertise, especially when it was attack-minded, and his methods were actually seen as quite innovative at the time.
One tactic Mel had always advocated, odd as it sounds, was to give certain on-field moves their own pet names. It followed a similar tack to those cryptic phrases that rugby players shout before line-outs. So ‘Jack’, for example, indicated a step-over, ‘Sid’ meant that you were planning a flick and ‘Fred’ signified a back-heel. We had to learn all these code words off by heart, Mel being of the opinion that they would outwit our opponents and improve our communication. Sometimes it helped; mostly, it hindered.
‘What the f*** was that, Lakey?’
‘It was a Jack, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t care if it was Tom, Dick or f***in’ Harry, it was supposed to be to a blue shirt, you tit.’
Yet, for all his tactical abilities, it was Mel’s lack of off-field interaction that became his Achilles heel. Some players – myself included – perceived the gaffer as naturally shy and introverted, and didn’t let it bother us. Others, however, thought him intentionally cold and aloof and couldn’t take to his reserved managerial style.
Whichever side of the fence you occupied, it was clear that Mel had real difficulty in expressing himself and connecting with us. Banter and small-talk simply weren’t his style (he left that to Dixie and Frizz) and he would seldom join in any post-match drinks or coach-trip card games. It was this detachment that bred mistrust and resentment among some players, and meant that our boss never truly commanded the dressing room during his two-year spell.
‘He had no repartee,’ said a befuddled Peter Swales after the sacking, clearly meaning to say ‘rapport’.
Mel seemed to find it especially hard to deal with the 30-something, been-there-done-it brigade. Wily old pros such as Neil McNab and John Gidman would regularly disrupt training sessions (‘I’m not having this “Jack, Sid and Fred” crap …’) and never really bought into his brand of strike-orientated fantasy football which, while exciting to watch, would often leave us exposed defensively. As a consequence, it wasn’t unusual to see senior players barging into the manager’s office on a Monday morning armed with a long list of grievances.
I was saddened, but not surprised, to see Mel’s reign come to an end. It had reached the point where he’d become a bit out of his depth, I feel, and he probably didn’t possess the gravitas to be a first team manager in a top-flight setting. Yet, although things didn’t ultimately work out for him at Maine Road, it’s only fair that his contribution to Manchester City is rightfully acknowledged. Mel Machin may not rank as one of the most flamboyant managers in City’s history, but without him I might never have experienced the joys of the Huddersfield win, the Bradford promotion, or the United tonking.
And for that, Gaffer, I thank you.
In December 1989, word had it that one of my former City heroes was being lined up to fill Mel Machin’s shoes. Joe Royle, at that time successfully managing Oldham Athletic, was top of City’s hit list, Peter Swales having made some very public overtures to try to lure him to Maine Road.
Not for the first time, though, our chairman ended up with egg on his face. Following a concerted ‘Don’t Go’ campaign by the Latics’ fans, Big Joe surprised everyone by deciding to stay put at Boundary Park. An embarrassed Swales had to change tack quickly, and within days had persuaded Howard Kendall to take on the job.
Most of us were really excited at the prospect of being managed by the revered former Everton, Blackburn and Atletico Bilbao coach. Others, like Ian Bishop, seemed more apprehensive, though, concerned that their style of play wouldn’t fit in with Kendall’s tactics and would render them surplus to requirements.
‘Well, that’s me off, then,’ confided Bish as the news filtered through.
‘What makes you so sure, mate?’
‘Howard didn’t rate me when I was at Everton, Lakey, and I just don’t think I’m his kind of player. Sooner or later I’ll be offski, just you wait and see …’
After wading through the encampment of reporters, photographers and camera crews on the Maine Road forecourt, Howard reported for duty on Friday 8 December. We played Southampton at the Dell the following day, with Tony Book assuming pitch-side duties while our new boss watched, hawk-eyed, from the stands. The lads and I knew that we were on trial, and the pressure to make an impact and get noticed was intense. We were playing for our City careers as well as for the three points.
As it turned out we got beaten 2–1, but it wasn’t a bad performance by any means, and we were unfortunate not to come away with a draw. I was lucky enough to put in a decent showing, gradually settling into the game and almost forgetting the close scrutiny that I was under. The Manchester Evening News gave me the thumbs-up as well, rating me eight out of ten and voting me their Man of the Match. I never took much notice of newspaper player ratings – some were so off-beam you wondered whether the reporters had actually been to the game – but I was more than happy to see this one in black and white.
It wasn’t until Monday’s training session that we met Howard formally for the first time. As he stood before us in his crisp new City shell-suit, I was at once struck by his cool and calm demeanour.
‘I’m not worried, lads,’ he said. ‘Just a few little tweaks here and there and we’ll get it right, I promise you.’
With the gaffer’s arrival came much upheaval, though, and over the next few weeks we witnessed an unprecedented evacuation of playing staff. Before the year was out, a ruthless Howard had offloaded Brian Gayle, Gary Fleming, David Oldfield, Neil McNab, Andy Hinchcliffe, Trevor Morley and Ian Bishop. Bish’s premonition had been correct, and I was really sad to see him and the other boys leave Maine Road.
Surviving the cull was a select band of young squad members, like myself, Whi
tey and Bob, plus a couple of older hands in the guise of Colin Hendry and Gary Megson. Needing to steady his ship with some age and experience, Howard immediately swooped for the signature of QPR’s Peter Reid, the hardy midfielder and his former Everton henchman. It was an excellent signing. Reidy may have been approaching the twilight of his career, but his unrivalled experience and influence would help to halt our run of bad form.
Howard made another intuitive signing a few weeks later, scooping up Irish international Niall Quinn from Arsenal and rescuing him from reserve team football. Quinny – who immediately endeared himself by arriving at Maine Road in a battered old Jag that he’d won in a bet – was a fabulous acquisition, his skill and stature bringing an added dimension to the side. Both Quinny and Reidy, with their engaging personalities and muck-in attitude, would become as popular off the pitch as they were on it. They were, and remain, two of the nicest guys in football.
Controversially, Howard also decided to plunder his old Everton squad, luring Adrian Heath, Wayne Clarke, Mark Ward and Alan Harper over to Maine Road. This brazen smash ’n’ grab caused much consternation on both sides of the Mersey. The sudden departure of fans’ favourites like Bishop and Morley enraged many City supporters, who saw the Scouse influx as an old pals’ act gone too far. The Everton fans were equally aggrieved, cursing their former manager as half their team upped sticks and did a runner down the East Lancs Road.
The logic of all this soon became evident, however, because only one of the gaffer’s first eight league games ended in defeat. By instilling confidence to a young side depleted of self-belief, by injecting experience into a team with spirit but without much know-how, and by sorting out a ramshackle rearguard that had been haemorrhaging goals, Howard had got us back on an even keel. We’d go on to lose only three more games before the end of the season, and would finish the campaign comfortably safe from the drop zone, level on the same points as Manchester United (our 14th spot was our highest league position for eight seasons, in fact).