by Simon Hughes
Despite problems on the terraces, Spackman became a part of an evolving Chelsea side that won promotion from the Second Division in 1984.
‘We had a strong team spirit and that was founded on the social scene. A lot of the boys lived in Camberley [Surrey], so we saw a lot of each other. After a match, we’d start in the Stamford Bridge Arms, just over the road from the ground, and mix with the supporters. Gradually, we’d work our way further into the West End. Colin Pates and John Bumstead were the ringleaders at Chelsea because they were the local boys and knew their way around London. If they said, everybody else followed. I wasn’t streetwise enough to guide people on a night out. I was still wearing Marks and Spencer’s underpants and listening to Bruce Springsteen albums or U2. I was more of a rocker than a romantic – like Pat [Nevin], who loved Frankie Goes to Hollywood.’
Chelsea played a role in Liverpool’s ’86 title story. After losing at Anfield to Everton in February, the Reds were eight points behind Howard Kendall’s side. Ahead of travelling to Stamford Bridge on the final day, Liverpool needed another three points to secure the championship, having won ten of the previous eleven games, inspired by the return to the pitch of player-manager Kenny Dalglish.
‘I knew Peter Reid quite well and he was speaking to me before the match. He was a boyhood Liverpudlian but obviously wanted Everton to win the title. He was saying, “Liverpool always struggle at your place – make sure you win this one.” But one moment of brilliance from Kenny changed everything. He was 36 or 37 at the time, but he was the difference on the day because Liverpool were nervous and it was a rocky pitch.’
The 1–0 victory clinched the title by two points from Everton. West Ham, who were also impressive that season, finished third, only four points behind. Spackman, a prominent influence in Chelsea’s midfield, helped the west Londoners to sixth place.
‘It was a good season for us, and we thought we could maybe push into the top four ahead of Man United because they were in turmoil, with Ron Atkinson on the verge of the sack [he was replaced by Alex Ferguson]. But my relationship with John Hollins [who’d replaced John Neal as manager] was deteriorating. He appointed a fella called Ernie Walley as coach, who tried to change too many things. In my opinion, Ernie was the wrong person for the job and wholesale changes weren’t the answer. I was one of the stronger, more vocal people in the dressing-room by then, so our personalities clashed. The manager left me out of the team, and the situation was difficult. Eventually, he brought Micky Hazard in from Spurs to replace me and although Micky did well, the team didn’t. So he had to put me back in and, as a partnership, Micky and I helped turn things around. The damage had been done, though, so there was no chance of me staying when Liverpool made an offer.’
He drove to Merseyside after Chelsea accepted a £400,000 bid lodged by Liverpool secretary Peter Robinson in February 1987.
‘Peter was the first person that welcomed me to Anfield,’ Spackman says. ‘He effectively ran the club and dealt with player contracts. He took a lot of the pressure off Kenny and allowed him to work independently with the players. They seemed to have similar ideas about football, so it was the perfect partnership. As a player-manager, you need somebody you can rely on and, in Peter, Kenny had that.’
John Smith was Liverpool’s chairman – someone who preferred to operate away from the limelight.
‘He lived around the corner from me and sometimes I’d see him in the pub. But he was very shy, would introduce himself, then leave me be. Every now and again, he would go in the changing-rooms before a match and wish the players well. Then he’d leave. He was a lovely fella and the kind of person you’d want at the top of a football club, hiding away from the glory. He did that because, fundamentally, he was a football supporter.’
In Spackman’s first season at Anfield, he played 14 times as the Reds finished second in the league to champions Everton.
‘It was hard to take. The season before, Liverpool won the double. But the year I joined, we won nothing and lost to Arsenal in the League Cup final. When Rushy had opened the scoring, everybody thought we were going to win, because when Rushy scored we usually did. I felt we’d done enough to win the game, but I guess it just wasn’t our season. I was very disappointed, but you could tell looking around the dressing-room that it was even harder to take for the established boys who’d been there and won things before.’
Liverpool needed some major signings. They had always reinforced while on top, but now they were behind to their city rivals the need for change on the playing staff was critical. In the summer of 1987, Dalglish signed John Barnes, Peter Beardsley and Ray Houghton. Shortly before, he’d also brought in John Aldridge – intended as a replacement for Ian Rush, who was moving to Juventus.
‘I know all of the senior players were concerned about the redevelopment of the side. There was a lot of pressure on Kenny to get it right in the transfer market. He definitely did. Each signing brought different qualities to the team. Barnesy had a bit more pace; Peter was very similar to Kenny in that he’d drop off from the main centre-forward; while Ray gave the midfield legs and intelligence. We were already very strong in midfield with Craig [Johnston], Steve McMahon, John Wark and Jan Mølby all competing for places. Then there was Ronnie [Whelan] and myself.’
With the loss of Rush, Liverpool had to alter their tactical approach on the pitch.
‘Ian’s departure was a huge blow. The team had to change, because Rushy was pace whereas Aldridge was better at holding the ball up. Peter Beardsley didn’t have much pace either. Maybe we became less direct and put more crosses in the box from wide areas. Everybody knew Aldo’s goalscoring pedigree. If you put it inside the box, he would score. Whereas Rushy ran onto balls a bit more, Aldo was a penalty-box man. With Barnsey on the wing, we knew that he’d get enough service.’
Spackman has his own explanation for why Rush struggled in Italy.
‘He was really unlucky. People forget that Michel Platini had just retired. Had he been playing, I’m sure Rushy would have scored more over there. It is true that he found the culture difficult to adjust to, but usually that doesn’t become an issue if you hit the ground running on the pitch. Had Rushy enjoyed the kind of service he’d had at Liverpool with a playmaker in behind him, I’m certain it would have turned out different for him.’
While Rush failed to find consistent goalscoring form in Serie A, Barnes and Beardsley made their debuts in a 2–1 opening-day victory over Arsenal at Highbury. Safety restrictions at Anfield meant the Reds had to play their first three league fixtures away from home. After Liverpool thrashed Coventry City 4–1 in the second game, John Sillett, who’d months before steered the Sky Blues to FA Cup final victory over Spurs, commented, ‘For me, that is the best football England has seen. It was lovely to watch – why don’t they go somewhere else and do it instead of here at Highfield Road?’
The victories kept coming, and Liverpool went 29 games unbeaten, with a reverse at Goodison Park in March their first loss of the season. By May, Liverpool had scored four or more goals in each of eleven league games, eighty-seven in total. Barnes registered 17 of them, while Aldridge was prolific with 29.
It wasn’t just the statistics that made 1987–88 arguably Liverpool’s greatest league campaign. It was a season of unrivalled excellence. The quadruple coup of Barnes, Beardsley, Aldridge and Houghton signified Liverpool’s most astute summer of transfer activity in the club’s history. They may have arrived for a combined fee of £4.3 million, but the football they helped provide made the sum seem irrelevant. The four gelled effortlessly with the core of the side – Hansen, Nicol, McMahon and Whelan – resulting in some of the most fluid football ever witnessed by Liverpool supporters. It was close to the total perfection of the Real Madrid side in the late ’50s or even at Barcelona under Pep Guardiola.
This Liverpool side was different to those before it. Shankly and Paisley’s teams and the success that followed were borne out of collectivisation rather than individuality.
Liverpool were efficient and ruthless. Yet they were not expressionists. Manchester United had those teams and players who were adored as darlings of the press, despite achieving comparatively little in terms of trophies.
There were times when Shankly and Paisley broke from the routine – the 1974 FA Cup final and a 7–0 dismantling of Spurs four years later – but throughout both of their reigns, the football was unfussy: no messing in defence, pass-and-move, defend from the front and generally keep it simple. The football was mechanical and unrelenting.
In 1987, Dalglish liberated the players. Barnes slotted in as a classic winger – running, dribbling, crossing; and in Beardsley and Aldridge the attacking portfolio was enhanced to compensate for the loss of Dalglish himself as well as Rush. Beardsley, despite his natural posture of a postman with a heavy sack on his shoulders, reliably managed to find pockets of space and exploit it, creating possibilities that were unselfish and devastating. Aldridge, meanwhile, was an artisan rather than an artist and squeezed the maximum out of relatively limited ability. He did, however, possess an intimate understanding of the penalty area and its complexities. He had scored goals in every team, and this trend continued in a Liverpool shirt. The fundamentals remained the same, but the additions of Barnes and Beardsley enabled ingenuity and spark. Liverpool broke from tradition. Barnes, particularly, was on a different level.
The antidote to all of the attacking creativity was Spackman. His role in the team was withdrawn and understated, although his contribution was quickly recognised by supporters, who made a song for him. Nigel Spackman became Liverpool’s Batman.
‘I first heard it at Dundee in a testimonial. I was buzzing. It was a proud moment because they’d made the effort to come up with something about me. I was walking off the pitch, laughing my head off because the whole of the stand were singing it … “DNaNaNaNaNaNaNa … Spackman!” We got back to the hotel, having a drink with some of the supporters, and they started singing it as well. Fucking brilliant.
‘I became a different player at Liverpool. At Chelsea, I was an attacking midfielder. At Liverpool, Kenny wanted me to hold and allow the other three midfielders to attack – not that he told me to do anything specific; he just knew that the midfield would evolve naturally so we’d understand our own responsibilities. The only thing he did instruct me to do was take the ball off the defenders, because he knew I was good with the ball at my back to goal. I suppose I allowed the more technical players to express themselves. Over the last decade, most people have labelled it the “Makélélé role”, but I was playing in that position 25 years ago. Liverpool tactically were well ahead of everybody else like that, but people didn’t realise it at the time. We played one–two-touch football, just like Barcelona do today and get all the credit for it. If any of us got into trouble, we’d give Barnesy the ball and he’d do something with it. He was our Messi.’
Spackman’s partner in the centre of midfield was Steve McMahon – a player whose tackles were so Machiavellian that often only the deceased knew he’d been done.
‘Macca was a bit of a hothead, and even teammates had to learn how to handle him. However, I think his bark was worse than his bite. I can remember times in games when Steve’s tried to do someone but ended up getting injured himself. In training especially, he was very competitive and he wouldn’t be scared to go in really hard. But he was a quality player and scored some sensational goals. I was just glad I was on his team. If you were on the other side, you knew that Steve was going to be aggressive and try to upset you. When he was pumped up, he was quite frightening.’
One league performance to this day shines out above any other from that season. Liverpool achieved footballing perfection against Brian Clough’s talented Nottingham Forest side – a 5–0 win that Spackman has vivid recollections of.
‘Prior to the game, Aldo was desperate to score because he was on for the Golden Boot. I roomed with Aldo, and he was Liverpool through and through. I always remember one pre-season after a really, really tough session, me and John went back to our room and I collapsed on the bed like the great big fat southerner I was. John was doing hundreds of sit-ups and press-ups, and I was telling him to relax but he wouldn’t. He’d always do extra work to keep on top of his game. That’s why he went all the way from non-league to Liverpool – because he wasn’t afraid of working.
‘In the first five minutes against Forest we were a bit sloppy, and Bruce made a good save from Nigel Clough. But after that we just annihilated them. It could have been more than five. It was the most enjoyable game I’ve ever played in. The passing and movement was at its very best, and everything everyone tried came off.’
At the final whistle, Sir Tom Finney, in attendance at Anfield, described the display by Liverpool as the best he’d ever witnessed. Within weeks, a VHS of the match was released by the BBC. Liverpool were well on the way to the championship.
‘We’d won the league by Christmas, and deep down all the players knew that,’ Spackman insists. ‘Barnesy particularly had raised the bar for everybody. The link-up between him and Stevie [Nicol] at left-back was unbelievable. We were organised, everybody knew their job within the team, but we were also told to go out and enjoy it. The team spirit was great at Liverpool. That’s the main reason why we won things. Even now if I haven’t seen one of the boys for five years, it’s the same. We carry on as if it was yesterday.’
The vibrant social aspect of the dressing-room was instilled from the very top of the club.
‘It was accepted by everybody that Kenny was the gaffer who played occasionally. He’d been so instrumental in helping secure the double the season before I arrived that people expected him to play. But you could tell he had confidence in his squad. The biggest thing about Liverpool was being able to cut it at training. Kenny still could.
‘He was also very shrewd in dealing with team-building exercises. He’d come to social events like any player but wouldn’t stay the whole night. Sometimes he’d have a Cinzano and lemonade then get off. “Enjoy yourself to the hilt, but don’t let it affect the training or the matches,” was his maxim.’
By the mid to late ’80s, the Liverpool players were spending a lot of time socialising on Wirral.
‘A lot of us lived over the water. Usually, we’d go wherever John Wark sent us. It was three o’clock closing, so Warky would arrange pool competitions where there would be some prize money at stake. Any social event, there would always be a competition with pride and money at stake – it was designed to make you want to win. There was always a champion.’
Bruce Grobbelaar enjoyed the drinking games.
‘Bruce would insist on putting a depth charger in every drink, a mixer. Stevie, Bruce, myself and Craig Johnston would drink in the local pub where I lived in Parkgate [a prosperous part of Wirral]. Walshy would be in there as well. John Barnes and David Burrows lived in Neston. We’d be on the first round – I’d be on lager or bitter or sometimes a mild – then Bruce would come over with a tray of shorts: brandy, sherry or often in his case a Sambuca, because he was mad. Bruce was also a fan of the “yard of ale challenge”. That was a regular on a Sunday if we had the day off. We’d do it for charity and bet each other who could drink the most. But like I said, none of that affected us professionally. If somebody was doing it too much, you’d see it in training, and if you weren’t playing well in training, you wouldn’t get selected on a Saturday.’
The most regular game was Fizz Buzz.
‘When you’ve had a few to drink, you’ve got to be really sharp with this one. The leader of the game chose multiples of twos and fives, the cycle would go around the group. If you said buzz in the wrong place, there was a forfeit, usually involving the downing of some kind of shit mix. Some of the boys weren’t as sharp as others.’
After playing Fizz Buzz, Mike Hooper, the back-up goalkeeper, was nearly barred from a plane journey.
‘We played Chelsea last game of the season and drew 3–3 before going to Israel for a friendly match. So
we started playing the game in the players’ lounge afterwards. Then it continued in the hotel when we were meant to be sleeping, and then in the airport bar. We had to carry Mike onto the plane. When we got to Tel Aviv, we got straight back on it again. [Liverpool, unsurprisingly, lost the friendly 3–0.] It was funny on Mike because he was usually so serious. He was a passionate ornithologist and used to disappear to Devon for his bird-watching holidays.’
Steve Nicol was another ‘brilliant lad’.
‘Whenever we travelled to away games, he’d strip off on the bus and sit there eating crisps and fizzy drinks in his boxer shorts. He didn’t like the sensation of a tracksuit on his body.
‘Me and Bruce were watching an England–Scotland game in the pub one day and Steve was playing. He’d told us to wait there for him for a few hours and he’d meet up with us for a pint. The game was at Wembley or Hampden Park, but he had a good driver. He turned up at the pub with his full Scotland tracksuit on and we offered him our commiserations because the Jocks had lost. Steve loved nothing better than a game of pool, a lager top and a packet of crisps. When I left him later, he was on his sixth or seventh packet and sixth or seventh pint. The next day, I went back to the pub and it turned out that the taxi had refused to take him home at the end of the night because he’d drunk too much. Apparently, Steve started playing people at pool in exchange for a pint and a packet of crisps. In return, he gave them a part of his tracksuit. At first it was just his trackie top, but by the end of the night he was left with just his money in one hand and his keys in another. The doorman knew Steve and he knew all the punters, so he offered to pay the taxi driver personally, saying that if he didn’t take Steve home, he’d never get any trade off the pub again. By the time the taxi had arrived at Steve’s house, two mile down the road, with the fare already paid by the doorman, Steve insisted on paying him again. It turned out that Steve had slumped out of the car after offering the driver 20p. “Get y’zellf sumit nice.” That’s Steve – a typical Scot.’