What You See is What You Get

by Sugar, Alan

  Here’s the funny part of the story. It turned out that Mario was telling porkies. I knew there was something fishy going on when he suddenly came up with this story out at sea. I suspected that the owner did not own the artwork himself and that Mario was trying to nick it. I decided to blag him with a porky of my own. I phoned him a few days later, telling him that I’d made enquiries with the bank and they’d shown me the full inventory of what they’d financed, including the various artworks. I wanted to know why he was giving me this load of old bullshit. He came up with some waffle and then I knew for sure he was lying. I told him that I was due at the boat in a few days and warned him, ‘I will expect to see all the stuff still onboard – if it isn’t, then I won’t expect to see you onboard either.’

  The cheeky bastard said to me, ‘But, Mr Sugar, you just got a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from the bank – why are you worried?’

  I told him to mind his own bloody business and warned him that if any of the stuff was missing from the boat I would involve the police. Needless to say, I took the $150,000 reduction from the bank and by blagging Mario about checking the inventory with the bank, I didn’t need to buy any additional artwork!

  We planned our first trip on the boat for a couple of weeks later and the whole family came onboard (apart from Simon, who for some reason or other couldn’t make it). During that week on the boat, in consultation with Nick Edmiston, I decided I wanted to make some engineering changes to it, to make it a little more streamlined. It wasn’t a conventional ‘wedding cake’ type of yacht, but was based on a ‘trawler’ design, which I didn’t particularly like. We called in a German firm to look into some modifications – we wanted to extend the back of the boat by another ten feet and build a massive sundeck on top. Mario was poking his nose in while I was discussing the design alterations, telling me I couldn’t do this and I couldn’t do that, and that I was going to change the character of the boat – bloody cheek! I took no notice of him and the design we came up with was magnificent – it really transformed the boat into much more of a family-oriented vessel.

  This guy Mario really acted as if the boat belonged to him. He would always speak down his nose to me about what he wanted, how much money he needed to spend, what he must have, how much cash float was required. When we first fully explored the boat, we opened every cupboard and saw stores of luxury goods – soaps, shampoos, perfumes, towels, etc. Mario was getting the raving hump as we were finding this stuff because he was planning to nick it all. Having sussed him out as a bloody crook, there was no way I was going to leave him in charge of the finances, so I employed the services of an agent to manage the boat for me.

  We planned our last boating trip of the season for the whole month of August and invited some of our friends and family onboard. From Golfe-Juan we planned to sail to Sardinia, then to Capri and Ponza, then back up through Sardinia to Elba and on to San Remo, Monaco and St Tropez. When we turned up, Mario explained that he’d like his wife to join him in the captain’s cabin throughout the voyage. As far as I was concerned, there was no problem with this and, in any case, she would be acting as one of the stewardesses during the day. Then, as we set sail, a beautiful little blond boy came running down the walkway of the boat! Where the hell did he come from? It turned out he was Mario’s wife’s child from a previous marriage. Mario had forgotten to tell me we were going to have a baby onboard as well. While this was a rather large and luxurious boat, there was no way that a baby could be confined to barracks in a small room for a month.

  Ann and I were furious, but we were already at sea and there wasn’t much we could do about it. We did discuss with our friends and family whether we should go back to port and send Mario’s wife off the boat with the kid, but in the end we decided to leave it as it was. To be fair, the boy never got in our way; in fact, he was a gorgeous little child and we ended up playing with him a few times. When we pulled into port at the various destinations, his mother would take him off and play with him on the beach.

  But it showed that this geezer Mario was a right liberty-taker. When we got to Capri, I took him to one side and started to read him the riot act. I told him that any ideas he’d got from the past about this freewheeling party boat should be purged from his brain, because we were not like that. What’s more, splashing out money on ridiculous things, as the previous guy did, was not going to happen here, because basically the last owner had been spending the bank’s money, not his own. I made it clear that Mario was going to have to toe the line, otherwise I’d kick his arse off the boat there and then. I don’t think anyone had spoken to him that way before and from that moment till the end of the voyage, he certainly had the hump.

  At the end of the summer, Mario and the crew delivered the boat to Hamburg, where it was taken out of the water and the work started. I’d agreed a $2m contract for the alterations. Mario was then summarily fired and the ship’s agent employed a new English captain, whose first duty would be to oversee the work being carried out, which would take at least six months at the shipyard. The new captain also had a wife, who would work onboard as one of the stewards.

  The following March, the boat was ready. I hired a plane and flew to Hamburg with Ann to relaunch the boat at the yard. I’d also recruited a second mate whom I’d come across on a previous boat we’d chartered – a young American lad by the name of Greg, who was very good. I instructed the captain that on his way back to the South of France, he should take the boat into London and park it by Tower Bridge. We left it there for about a week and invited some guests aboard to see the newly named Louisianna – named after my daughter and my wife.

  *

  It was on the boat the following summer that I embarked on the task of beating up Kelly at the FA. The boat had a satellite phone connection and fax machine, so it became a floating office. Alan Watts and I drafted up the letters to Kelly, threatening that Spurs were going to take him and the FA to court. In each letter, I gave him a deadline to reply by, implying that if I didn’t hear from him by this deadline, legal action would be taken without further notice.

  He was rattled. He’d realised by now I wasn’t one of those typical wimpish football club chairmen who sit around allowing the fans, the manager and everybody else to walk all over them. Day in, day out, for the next five days, I wrote him letters, each one concluding with the same deadline message. It was all a complete and utter bluff. If Kelly had had half a brain and consulted with some external lawyers – or had thrown down the gauntlet and challenged me to go ahead and take him to court – he would have known (as I did, based on Alan Watts’ advice) that there was nothing much we could do, and I’d have to back down.

  It seemed the letters had worn Kelly down a bit and he was softening, so Alan suggested we offer Kelly a fast-track solution to this issue: instead of going to court, we’d be willing to attend an arbitration hearing which was binding to both parties. Kelly took the bait hook, line and sinker. We had pulled off an amazing coup – we’d got the FA back to the table. At an arbitration hearing, I could have another crack at appealing against the six points, the £1.5m fine and the FA Cup ban.

  Apart from the shenanigans with Kelly and the FA, that year’s boat trip was particularly eventful, as we were also trying to purchase more players. I agreed to help Ossie overcome the disadvantage of the six-point deficit by allocating up to £9m for new players to strengthen the team. The 1994 World Cup had just finished and during Romania’s victory over Argentina, Ossie had noticed two Romanian players: Ilie Dumitrescu, an attacking midfielder, and the defender Gheorghe Popescu. Ossie was interested in buying them and told me he’d mentioned it to the agent Dennis Roach.

  Dennis Roach purported to be one of the best football agents in England, but from what I’d heard on the grapevine, if you shook his hand, you definitely had to count your fingers afterwards. His company, PRO International, was allegedly run out of a shed at the end of his garden at his house in Bournemouth. It used to make me laugh when I phoned him and a
woman would answer the phone, ‘PRO International, how can I help you?’ You’d have thought you’d just phoned some high-rise office in the City.

  Roach called me to say he was very well connected with Steaua Bucharest, the club Dumitrescu played for, and would easily be able to pull off a deal for me. This was the first time I’d got involved in any player transfers. Previously, Venables and his cronies had dealt with everything and we went through the first season under Ossie without much transfer stuff going on. So I took Roach’s claims at face value, that he actually did have some connection with the Romanian club. He was calling me all the time over the course of the next few days, telling me he was getting close to striking a deal for Dumitrescu.

  His first lecture to me was, ‘These foreign clubs, they like to deal in dollars, Alan. Do you know what dollars are? American dollars? Now, most club chairmen only know about pounds sterling, but these foreign clubs like to talk dollars . . .’

  ‘Dennis, who do you think you are talking to here? I’m not one of these farmer chairmen out in the sticks somewhere. I’m an international businessman, so I think I know what dollars are. I have no problem paying in dollars, sterling or any other currency.’

  ‘Oh, right, okay, Alan. I just wanted to let you know, because not a lot of people in football understand dollars.’

  ‘Okay, well, get on with it.’

  ‘I think I can do a deal for you at four million dollars. It’s been very, very hard, but if you agree to pay at that kind of level, then I can sort this matter out. In fact, I’m in Bucharest right now and I have to tell you, while you’re sitting out there in the sun on your boat, I’m banged up in some horrible hotel and the food is lousy. Anyway, can you call me back?’ He gave me a telephone number and the international prefix was for Monaco! Roach must have been used to dealing with complete and utter brain-deads.

  ‘Dennis,’ I said, when I’d got him back on the phone, ‘the dialling code 377 is Monaco, not bloody Romania, so what’s this bullshit about you being in Romania, in a horrible hotel with terrible food?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, sorry, I meant yesterday I was in the horrible hotel with the terrible food.’

  ‘Dennis, you told me not more than five minutes ago that you’re in Bucharest right now. You said you’d just met the guy who’s in charge of the club and you’re banged up in this crap hotel overnight, waiting to do a deal tomorrow. Now make your bloody mind up, where are you – Monaco or Bucharest?’

  ‘No, I’m in Monaco, Alan. Yeah, you’re right, I am in Monaco. I was in Bucharest yesterday.’

  ‘Okay, fine. So how are you going to get to Bucharest tomorrow?’

  ‘Er, I’ll catch the first flight out of Monaco.’

  ‘Dennis, there’s no airport in Monaco. There’s an airport at Nice.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Nice, I meant Nice.’

  ‘Now, Dennis, there are no direct flights from Nice to Bucharest – you’ll have to fly somewhere else.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know, I know.’

  ‘Dennis, you’re absolutely full of shit aren’t you?’

  ‘Now, now, Mr Chairman, that is not a nice way to speak to me. I’ll have you know I am the chairman of the Football Agents’ Association – I am a very well-respected dealer. Many of your contemporaries in the Premier League will tell you what an honest trader I am.’

  ‘Shut up, Dennis, will you? Let’s just see if we can do this deal or not. Because let me tell you something, sunshine, what I’ve forgotten about bullshit, you haven’t even learned yet. So just bear in mind you’re not talking to some idiot now, okay? I’ve got your card marked – you’re a bit of a ducker and diver. Now stop talking to me like I’m a bloody fool and just get on with it.’

  ‘Fair enough, fair enough. I’ll move on.’

  A couple of days later, Roach called me back. ‘Right, I’ve got the deal all lined up. There’s only one problem – the club is run by the military and the colonel who’s in charge . . .’

  ‘Dennis, are you bullshitting again?’

  ‘No, I swear to God, the club’s run by the military. The colonel, who’s the equivalent of the chairman, insists that he wants an additional donation to the local authority gymnasium.’

  ‘What is this load of bollocks, Dennis? What are you going on about?’

  ‘He wants another two hundred thousand.’

  ‘Well, Dennis, tell him to forget it. In fact, do you know what? I’d like to forget this whole deal because it’s starting to sound a bit fishy to me.’

  ‘No, no, no, everything’s all done, it’s all straight. Let me get back to you.’

  He phoned ten minutes later. The $200,000 was clearly a try-on. Then he started to explain the rather complex way he wanted us to pay. He said the $4m should be sent to a Swiss bank account, after which it would be split up, with a certain amount going to the club, another sum going to the community and a whole load of flannel like that.

  ‘Dennis, pin your ears back and listen to this,’ I said. ‘I am buying this football player from the football club – that’s the only organisation I am paying any money to. If you can’t arrange that then the deal is off. I’m not sending any money to anyone other than Steaua Bucharest. So, Dennis, what you need to do is send me a document on Steaua letter heading showing me the contracted sale price of the player, as well as transfer details for any bank they want me to pay the money to.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to be complicated, Alan. To be honest, it ain’t gonna happen and Ossie is gonna be very, very upset that he ain’t gonna get his player.’

  ‘I don’t care if Ossie’s going to be upset. I can assure you we have enough aggravation at the moment with the FA – there is no way I am getting involved in any dodgy deals. Do you hear me loud and clear? Now, wherever you are, Monaco, Bucharest or Timbuktu, I suggest you get your arse back on a plane and go home, because this deal is not going to happen.’ I slammed the phone down on him.

  Half an hour later, he called me again. All right, Alan, all right, it’s all sorted, it’s all sorted. You’ll be getting a fax soon – on Steaua Bucharest letter heading – with their bank details. If you sign that and send it back, then we have a deal.’

  ‘Okay, that sounds fine to me. Just a couple of other things, Dennis. The deal has got to be subject to us agreeing terms with the player and also subject to the player passing a medical test.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, no problem, he’s fit as a fiddle. The player’s as fit as a fiddle. And as for terms, I’ve already told the player he’s getting eight grand a week and that’s it – no more. Four hundred grand a year, which is what you indicated to me.’

  Are you sure, Dennis? Are you sure the player has understood that’s all we’re paying?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Dennis, I’m telling you again, don’t schlap this bloke over to England with his agent unless you’re telling the truth. We don’t want to find out when he arrives that he’s never heard about these terms. Because I promise you, Dennis, if they disagree with this they can get back on a plane and go home. So, Dennis, don’t piss about – you’d better be honest with them.’

  Alan, I swear to you on my grandmother’s life . . .’

  ‘Dennis, please leave your grandmother out of it – from what I’ve heard, she’s died twelve times already. Forget your grandmother and just tell me whether the player has agreed to eight grand a week, because that’s the maximum we’re paying.’

  ‘It’s all agreed, Alan.’

  ‘Good. Well then, when you fax me this Steaua Bucharest thing, you might as well also send me some signed piece of paper from the player, showing he has agreed a four-year contract at eight grand a week.’

  An hour or so later, documents started coming through on the boat’s fax machine. There was a letter from Steaua Bucharest outlining the sale of Ilie Dumitrescu for a fee of $4m, signed by a Colonel Something-or-other, with a space on the document inviting me to sign in agreement. An addendum to this was a letter from the player
himself, stating he agreed to sign a contract for four years at the rate of £8,000 a week.

  I told Colin Sandy at the club to send the money once Dumitrescu had safely arrived, passed a fitness test and signed his contract with Tottenham. We also had to obtain a work permit for him because he wasn’t from the European Community. This was a mere formality – he was a World Cup international.

  Ossie called and thanked me for landing this player and asked how I was doing with regard to Popescu, who was playing for PSV Eindhoven in Holland. Interestingly, this club was heavily financed by the giant electrical company Philips, whose headquarters were in Eindhoven. I’d met Philips’ chief executive Jan Timmer quite few times and we’d often exchanged war stories about the ownership of football clubs. Jan had explained that PSV Eindhoven was a kind of commitment Philips had made on behalf of the town. They’d poured loads of money into the club, but it was a terrible investment and certainly not a good business to be in.

  Now I asked Jan to put me in touch with the right person at PSV, which turned out to be Frank Arnesen, the director of football. When I spoke to Frank, he immediately rejected any suggestion that Popescu leave the club. I reported this to Ossie and felt the matter was dead. However, within a couple of days, Dennis Roach was back on the phone, telling me that he was an expert on PSV Eindhoven and knew Frank Arnesen very well. He said I should leave matters with him and he’d sort out a deal.

  ‘Dennis,’ I said impatiently, ‘am I not getting through to you? I do not believe a bleedin’ word that comes out of your mouth. You’re no bloody expert on PSV Eindhoven. You’re about as expert on PSV as I am at opera singing. You’re just poking your nose in again, trying to stimulate a deal. I’ve already spoken to Frank Arnesen and Jan Timmer, the CEO of Philips, effectively the owner of the club, and they’ve told me they’re not going to sell him.’

  ‘Well, Alan, if that’s the case then you’ve got nothing to lose if I pop over there and see if I can sort a deal out.’