There was a strong suggestion that Chris had tried to resign after an FA Cup defeat at Forest in March. Apparently one of his children told friends at school, and the next minute it’s in the local paper. The club denied it, though it seemed more a case of him being told ‘You got us into this mess, you get us out of it.’ And he did. We were safe well before the end of the campaign but the writing was on the wall after a shocking display in our penultimate match, away to already relegated Derby who had gone down with a then record low number of points. They were very flat after a shocking season but still thrashed us 6-2. Paul Williams, who later joined us as a commanding centre-back, played up front that day and got a hat trick. It came in the same week that Gerald Ratner famously described his products as ‘crap’ and I remember the Echo said, ‘If Saints could package and sell what they produced at Derby, they would make a fortune—at Ratners.’
They were right, we were shocking. We weren’t in the right frame of mind, our fans were in a party mood for the last away game of the season and it seemed to spread to the players. Some of the supporters had brought musical instruments, and some of the players went into the crowd during the warm-up and started joining in. It was just a bit of fun but it wasn’t right, and Chris Nicholl was rightly mad at us. I scored a penalty but I remember being very nervous because Peter Shilton was in goal. That brought my tally to 23 for the season, and since I’d missed a month being injured I was quite pleased.
We drew our final fixture 1-1 at home to Wimbledon with Jimmy Case scoring in what proved to be his last appearance for us—but it wasn’t enough to save Chris’s job, although we had no inkling what was about to happen. At that stage Saints had never sacked a manager—certainly not post-war when they enjoyed remarkable stability—although Rupert Lowe has more than made up for that with his turnover of managers* in recent years. Ted Bates had been in charge for 18 years before handing over to Lawrie McMenemy, who then had 12 years. That continuity provided the rock on which the club was built, and it should never have been destroyed.
Ted Bates was a phenomenon who joined the club as a striker from Norwich on his nineteenth birthday, and he stayed for 66 years as player, coach, manager, director and president. As manager, he guided the club from the third tier to the top flight for the first time in their history. He was a principled man, a sound judge of character and a real football man, steeped in the game. He stood for everything which made the club great, and it is so sad to see his legacy squandered by men who seemed to care more about the share price than the right way of doing things. He’d have had no time for the city boys whose approach undid all his good work and, incredibly, took the club right back to where he started. The third tier. So up until the moment when Chris was sacked, the club had had only three managers in 30 years. It was quite momentous when the axe fell. It was my first experience of losing a manager, though I soon got used to that.
I was in Guernsey and I remember reading about it on Teletext, which was how you heard about anything in those days. It came as a real shock and I have to say I was disappointed because I was just starting to get on with Chris. We had the makings of a decent side and played some good, attractive football under him. I’d scored 47 goals in two seasons, and felt I fitted in well with his style of playing. But he paid the price for us punching above our weight the previous season. In hindsight it was even more of a crazy decision to get rid of him because of what followed.
After much deliberation—and I find it hard to believe the board could take so long and still get it so badly wrong—Chris was replaced by a certain Ian Branfoot in 1991. I’d never really heard of him. I knew he’d had some success with Reading and that he’d been Reserve team coach at Southampton, but that was before my time. I also knew he had a reputation for the long-ball game which was a worry, but I was confident he would soon recognize my unique talents and adopt his style accordingly. As if.
I soon discovered that he had a set way of playing and nothing was going to change that. We had some of the brightest young players in the country with Rod Wallace, Alan Shearer, Tim Flowers, Neil Ruddock and myself. And we were held together by the experience and physical presence of Jimmy Case, who was still going strong. He was a key central cog in the team, winning the ball and getting us going. He was hugely popular with the players and the fans, so the first thing Ian Branfoot did was—get rid of him.
I think he saw him as a threat because Jim had been mentioned as Chris Nicholl’s possible replacement. But Jim wasn’t like that, he just wanted to enjoy his football. And he would have easily fitted in with Branfoot’s style because he was capable of pinging long passes and using plenty of midfield muscle. It was sad to see him go because he was such a huge part of the team. He went to Bournemouth and carried on playing for a few more years, so I know he could have done a job for us. Although he was getting on a bit, he was a very intelligent player who read the game so well that it easily compensated for his slight lack of pace. It was a petty thing to do and was counter-productive because it got the new manager off on the wrong foot with the fans, who had loved Jim.
I REMEMBER
READING ABOUT
IT ON TELETEXT,
WHICH WAS
HOW YOU
HEARD ABOUT
ANYTHING IN
THOSE DAYS.
Branfoot replaced Jim with Terry Hurlock who was an absolute diamond and just as hard. I had played against him when he was at Millwall and he frightened the life out of me. I was much happier having him on my side than against me. With his long hair and huge muscles, he cut an intimidating figure but he could play a bit too. He was Player of the Year at Glasgow Rangers and you don’t get that by being a mug. He was hard as nails on the pitch but a big softie off it, and would do anything to help you. Branfoot looked at our defensive record and saw how many we had conceded, even though we were scoring a lot. He decided the priority was to make us more solid, which was not good news for me. The manager wanted a rigid 4-4-2 system with me stuck out on the wing with balls being pumped into the channels and humped into the box, which was not my idea of good football. It was a big culture shock. The new manager—and I didn’t mind him as a bloke—wanted the rest of the team fighting to get hold of the scraps. Not exactly the Beautiful Game and barking mad given we had players who wanted to pass and play. Managers should employ tactics based on the kind of players they’ve got. But in his wisdom Ian Branfoot decided to alter the style before changing the players. And I was never going to be much use in that style. I didn’t even have a long throw.
I played 31 league games but only scored six goals. I didn’t have licence to roam, I didn’t like that style of play and I didn’t enjoy that season. There was an awful atmosphere off the field too because the fans didn’t like what they were watching and made their feelings known. The one redeeming feature of a miserable campaign was that it provided me with my only final with the club and my only goal at Wembley. Admittedly it was only the Zenith Data Systems Cup Final, but it was still a Wembley final. I scored in every round, from when we beat Bristol City and Plymouth in two early low-key rounds to my netting a hugely debatable penalty in the regional semi-final against West Ham.
I got a hat trick in the second leg of the area final at Chelsea, including a penalty. As I was about to take it, Dennis Wise stepped up and bet me £50 I’d miss it. That was a lot of cash back then and it was easy money, so of course I accepted and scored. Unfortunately they got a penalty of their own for a late consolation goal so I felt honour-bound to offer Dennis double or quits, and he scored. But we won 5-1 on aggregate and, suddenly, a competition which began as an inconvenience meant a Wembley final. Ian Branfoot had won the trophy with Reading when it was called the Simod Cup so he knew it was worth going for. Once we reached Wembley there was a real buzz about the city and we ended up taking 32,000 fans, all of whom booed Ian Branfoot. That must say something. It was the club’s first final of any sort for 16 years and still the manager was hated. We were warming up as the announce
r read out the team sheet. Every name was cheered, even the subs, until the end when the man with the mike said, ‘And the Southampton manager is Ian Branfoot’. The jeers were deafening. They even drowned out my own booing.
I was terrified I might not even play because the manager had dropped me for the two previous games, even though I had scored in a 1-0 win against Palace. He opted for the mighty Michael Gilkes ahead of me but, thankfully, he was cup-tied so I sneaked into the final. If I hadn’t played I think I’d have asked for a move.
We had a great night before the match. The gaffer took us all to see the West End show Buddy, which was one of the best things he did as a manager, which tells you a lot about his football decisions. It was a great night and brought all the lads together. At the kick-off I was put on the left wing, which was fine because it meant I didn’t have to face Stuart Pearce. Tim Flowers kept us in the match because we went 2-0 down when it could have been 7-0, but we got back into it with a goal, which was all the wrong way round as Neil Ruddock crossed for me to head home. Then I flighted a corner for Kevin Moore to nod in and it was 2-2. I was buzzing and well up for extra-time. I was young and still had some energy left, and the adrenaline rush of playing at Wembley was getting me through but we crashed 3-2.
We should have got there again in the FA Cup in 1992 because so many things seemed to point to it being our year. The first omen came when we played Manchester United in the fourth round. We drew 0-0 at The Dell and everyone assumed we’d lose the replay. But we played really well at Old Trafford and raced into a 2-0 lead with Stuart Gray scoring his one and only goal for the club. They got it back to 2-1 but we were still deservedly leading in injury-time when a freak rebound gifted them an easy equalizer. You’d have expected us to fold in extra-time—I certainly did. But we were let off the hook by possibly the only decision to ever go in our favour at Old Trafford as Bryan Robson’s effort clearly crossed the line before Tim Flowers clawed it back. The ref couldn’t be sure and we got away with it. So to penalties. It was the first ever FA Cup penalty shoot-out involving two top-flight teams.
IT WAS THE ONLY
PENALTY SHOOT-OUT
I WAS
INVOLVED IN
THROUGHOUT
MY WHOLE
CAREER AND I
DIDN’T GET TO
TAKE ONE.
Ian Branfoot asked me to go first to get us off to a good start, but I said I wanted to go last because I wanted to take the winning spot-kick, such was my confidence, so it probably served me right that I never got to take one. It was the only penalty shoot-out I was involved in throughout my whole career and I didn’t get to take one shot. Micky Adams, Alan Shearer, Barry Horne and Neil Ruddock all struck fantastic penalties while Neil Webb missed for them. A lot of their senior players were conspicuous by their absence. Bryan Robson, Paul Ince and Mark Hughes didn’t step up to the mark so it was left to a young Ryan Giggs. Obviously I wanted us to win but part of me hoped he would score so I could be the hero. But Tim Flowers made a brilliant save—and an even better celebration. Our fans were at the far end of the stadium so Tim ran the length of the field like a madman. I have never seen him run so far or fast. Mind, he couldn’t have been going that quickly because Glenn Cockerill ran alongside him carrying a cup of tea and never spilled a drop. It was a wonderful celebration while I sat in the centre circle thinking, ‘That was my moment.’ But it was great for Tim because his first game for the club had been at Old Trafford when he let in five. I was rooming with him this time so I know he was bricking it the night before the replay.
In the fifth round we’d played Bolton away and we went 2-0 up at Burnden Park before being pegged back to 2-2. We struggled in the replay and were still 2-1 down in the fourth minute of injury-time when Barry Horne got possession just inside their half. So what did he do? He took a couple of strides and smashed it in from 40 yards. The ball flew in and all the fans who had left early came streaming back for extra-time to see us win 3-2 with another goal from Barry. That’s when I felt it was our year. We’d won on penalties at Old Trafford and got out of jail in injury-time against Bolton. We now had a quarter-final at home to Norwich and our name was on the cup.
It was a crap game, a real flat, low-key, terrible 0-0. There was hardly a chance in the whole match but we fancied ourselves in the replay, especially when the semi-final draw gave us a tie against Sunderland who were then in the second tier. We were never going to have a better chance of reaching the FA Cup Final. We went 1-0 up at Carrow Road when Neil Ruddock headed in my corner, and we were comfortably in control until I lost my head and was goaded into retaliating against Robert Fleck and was stupidly sent off. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. They equalized but we hung on for extra-time when Barry Horne was sent off for a foul. He was my room-mate so I reckon he came out in sympathy for me. We both sat in the dressing room feeling very sorry for ourselves as the lads battled towards penalties. They were just one minute away when Chris Sutton grabbed the winner. We were so deflated after that and I was furious with myself for being suckered into retaliating. That was the closest I ever got to the FA Cup Final. I had played in the semi-final of the League Cup in 1987 but only came off the bench when we were 3-0 down.
As a boy, reaching the FA Cup Final was the ultimate, the Big One. It has probably lost a bit of its glamour but to my generation Cup Final day was the biggest day of the year. That probably had a lot to do with the fact it was the only match which was televised live. The build-up would start mid-morning and I would flick between the two channels watching the interviews, the songs, the fans, the Cup Final Question of Sport or It’s a Knock-out, the players leaving the hotel and the bus ride to Wembley. I would have given anything to be part of it and I had thrown it all away in one idiotic moment of madness.
In the league it was completely different. We were slipping fast and in danger of being caught in the relegation battle. We lost at Forest in mid-March and were in deep trouble, and Ian Branfoot summoned us to the club on the Sunday morning for a serious pep talk. Terry Hurlock had been out the night before and turned up still drunk. Branfoot gave a stern team talk about the consequences of relegation, what it meant to the city and the fans and stressed the importance of everyone digging in and battling. His final rallying cry was that we all had to give 110 per cent effort. Everyone was silent then Terry stood up and said, ‘In all fairness gaffer, I think you’ll effing get it.’ Then he walked out to carry on drinking, leaving one stunned manager and a group of players trying not to laugh. But the message must have sunk in because we strung together six successive wins, a club record in the top flight.
* No one really knows how many managers Lowe has sacked to date. He maintainsit is one. Technically Graeme Souness resigned, Dave Jones was put on gardening leave, Glenn Hoddle left for his ‘spiritual home’ at Spurs, Stuart Gray was sacked, Gordon Strachan left, Paul Sturrock went by mutual consent, Steve Wigley left by mutual consent, Harry Redknapp returned to Portsmouth, Nigel Pearson’s contract was not renewed and Jan Poortvliet resigned.
10
HOW TO GET A MANAGER SACKED
OPPOSITION FANS:
‘BIG NOSE, HE’S GOT AN EFFING BIG NOSE.’
SAINTS FANS:
‘GOOD GOALS, HE SCORES SOME EFFING GOOD GOALS.’
Before the start of the 1992-93 season, the club sold Alan Shearer for a then British record fee of £3m, though with cunning to defy even Baldrick they forgot to insert a sell-on clause. We all knew Alan had the drive and the ambition to play at the top level and none of us ever felt he would stay at Southampton for too long, though we hoped we’d get another season from him. He was obviously destined to play for Newcastle at some point but they weren’t in great shape at the time.
Blackburn had just been handed a wad of cash by Jack Walker and they needed a high-profile signing to confirm their status in the transfer market, just like Manchester City did when they signed Robinho and then tried to get Kaka. Saints couldn’t refuse a British record fee f
or a player who had cost them nothing, but they did the deal with almost indecent haste. As I said, they let Blackburn dictate the terms and we took David Speedie instead of Mike Newell. It seemed as though Speedie didn’t want to be here, and he was under pressure from the moment Branfoot foolishly predicted that he and Kerry Dixon would outscore Alan Shearer.
IT WAS THE ONLY
TIME IN MY
SENIOR CAREER
THAT I EVER
MISSED A
PENALTY.
He also bought Perry Groves who didn’t have the best of times here. But, for all his faults, Branfoot did make one fantastic signing that summer bringing in Ken Monkou for £750,000 from Chelsea. He was a powerful, commanding centre-back who was a real presence both on the pitch and in the dressing room. He was a big threat at set-pieces and a cool head in defence—just what we needed. He was also lucky to be alive. He had been selected for the Dutch Surinam squad just before he joined Chelsea but pulled out because he felt he should join his new club on tour. The plane with the Surinam squad crashed, killing all on board.
Despite his formidable presence in the side, it was another miserable campaign. The loss of Shearer left us well short of firepower and we ended up humping the ball forward to no one in particular. Games were no fun to play in and no fun to watch. The fans grew ever more restless and their dislike intensified to ridiculous levels. One fanzine even had a picture of Branfoot on the front cover under the headline ‘Hope you die soon.’ That was bang out of order. Another group of fans threatened to kidnap Ian Branfoot and take him to the zoo for the day on the basis that he was treating the fans like kids. So they’d they would do the same to him. At least that had its funny side and lead to the players singing ‘Branny’s taking us to the zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow.’
Taking le Tiss Page 8