I felt sorry for Stuart because I liked him. I saw him on the day he left and it was clear he’d taken it badly. It had been his big chance and he didn’t feel he was given a fair crack of the whip. He was very emotional and close to breaking down. It was horrible to see because he had worked his way up through the coaching ranks from the club’s community officer to manager. Looking back, it was probably the right move because Strach was an inspired choice. He was certainly a character.
I had heard he enjoyed putting the media on the back foot and I’ll never forget his first press conference broadcast live on Sky and local radio. The local reporter was so desperate to ask the first question that he didn’t think it through. ‘So Gordon, do you think you are the right man for the job?’ ‘No, I’m rubbish. I think they should have got George Graham.’ Ouch. Talk about an instant put-down.
Gordon was also great value in post-match press conferences. If reporters asked a stupid question they’d get an even more stupid answer. It was TV gold.
I know there was one occasion when Terry Cooper recommended a full-back and Gordon went to watch him. Gordon said he didn’t fancy him but he quite liked the look of one of the strikers. He went back to watch the big lad up front and decided he wanted to take a chance on him. He brought the player over and left him with Rupert Lowe to sort out the contract. Agreement on salary couldn’t be reached. The player’s name? Emmanuel Adebayor.
There was certainly a big question mark over who brought in the other notable new face who arrived at the same time as Gordon. The club spent what remains its second highest transfer fee of £3.25m on an Ecuadorian striker by the name of Agustin Delgado. Rupert was so keen to extol his virtues that he showed a video of some of Delgado’s goals on the big screen before our home game against Ipswich. Good job he didn’t make a video of his goals for us when he left because it would have lasted two seconds.
The transfer happened at almost exactly the same time that Gordon arrived. Stuart Gray is adamant he didn’t sanction it and Gordon says the deal was set up before he arrived, and was too advanced to cancel. It’s a real conundrum. I know a lot of South American deals offered opportunities for some shady payments but I can’t imagine Rupert would have allowed anything untoward to go on. It just seemed a strange transfer at a strange time when we didn’t have a manager.
I’m still not quite sure why the club bought him, and why they paid so much for a player who arrived with a knee problem which never got any better all the time he was with us, except when he was on international duty when it mysteriously cleared up. We also bought a compatriot to keep him company, just as we’d bought Imants Bleidelis to help Marian Pahars settle. Kleber Chala was a nice enough bloke and did try but he wasn’t very good. There is no doubt he put a shift in but he just wasn’t up to it. Delgado did show ability on the rare occasions he was fit but that was about as often as a Francis Benali goal.
Between them, Delgado and Chala were probably the biggest waste of money in the club’s history—and there is quite a lot of competition for that trophy. Delgado’s nickname was the Tin Man, probably because he had no heart. He came up with a bizarre series of excuses as to why he couldn’t play. On one occasion it was toothache. Another time he went AWOL because the club forgot his birthday. I remember after that Gordon went round every table in the canteen wishing every player a happy birthday. Delgado would drive him to distraction and he got fed up being asked by the press whether the absent Ecuadorian was fit. At one point he came up with the memorable reply, ‘I have far more important things to worry about. I have a yoghurt on its sell-by date and that is far more important than Agustin Delgado.’
I can barely remember training with Delgado and, as I was injured so much of the time, you’d have thought that I’d get to know him in the treatment room. But he didn’t seem to be there either. God knows where he was. He did, however, pop up in the 2002 World Cup Finals where he played all three games for Ecuador and became the first Saints player ever to score in the World Cup.
Meanwhile my injuries were becoming more persistent and prolonged and, by February, I knew it was going to be my last season. I was just coming back from my fourth calf strain of the season; I played a Reserve game at St Mary’s and it went again. I went into the treatment room, sat on my own and cried. I decided there and then that was it. I gathered myself together and then Strach came in to see how I was. I just said, ‘It’s no good. I can’t do this any more. I’m hanging up my boots at the end of the season.’ He was really good about it. He said I was very fortunate that there were video recorders in my era and that I should be very proud of what I had done in my career. Then I cried again.
DELGADO’S
NICKNAME WAS
THE TIN MAN,
PROBABLY
BECAUSE HE HAD
NO HEART.
Strach was brilliant. He was really respectful of the senior players and he was great to me. Although I spent most of the season injured, he always asked how I was and tried to gee me up by telling me I would get a chance as soon as I was fit. It’s a real shame I didn’t get to play more under him because he was a top manager. I liked him as a player and as a character, and I was touched that he tried to do the right thing by me—even if it didn’t quite work out. He put me on the bench for the final league game of the 2001-02 season at home to Newcastle. I wasn’t fit enough to start and, being honest, probably wasn’t fit enough to be a sub, but we were safe from the threat of relegation. The intention was to give me the last 15 minutes, just so I could say a proper goodbye and maybe—just maybe—sign off with one last goal. But events made it impossi-ble for him to do that.
First of all Marian Pahars got injured—there’s a shock. Jo Tessem came on, so that was one sub down. Then Tahar El Khalej got himself sent off. It was one of the clearest red cards you could ever wish to see as he took a long run-up and launched himself into a flying tackle to bring down Kieron Dyer who looked likely to miss the World Cup Finals as a result. It was a horrendous tackle and I knew it was going to be very difficult for Gordon to put me on with the team down to 10 men. I was always the one taken off when we were a man short—and that was when I was fully fit. We were leading 2-1 at the time and then Anders Svensson picked up a knock with 25 minutes to go. There was no way I could have lasted 25 minutes. My calf had only just recovered and, although it might have held up, the manager couldn’t take that chance. With £500,000 a place in prize money, Gordon couldn’t take any risks—and I don’t blame him. We ended up winning 3-1 which lifted us from fifteenth to eleventh and made the club a lot of money. I certainly don’t hold it against him for not putting me on. It could have cost us the match, or my calf could have gone and I’d have missed my own testimonial a few days later.
By a quirk of fate, Paul Telfer got the sort of goal which had been my trademark. I’ve no idea where it came from because he wasn’t noted for his goalscoring, but he hit a superb 35-yard dipping volley in the last minute. If I’d been on the field it might well have fallen to me, but it is no good thinking about what might have been. At least I’d got that last goal at The Dell. And now I had a chance to say a proper goodbye at my testimonial a couple of days later.
It was a superb and very emotional evening for me with a great turn out by all the lads. It was Saints v England and I played one half for each. I wanted the crowd to be entertained so I asked former teammates like Alan Shearer, Tim Flowers and Neil Ruddock as well as some of those I had played alongside for England including Paul Gascoigne, Chris Waddle and Peter Beardsley. And there were England legends Stuart Pearce and Kevin Keegan. It would have been very easy for them to have said no or to have made an excuse, but they all made a fantastic effort to come. All my former managers wrote tributes in my match brochure—with the notable exception of Glenn Hoddle. And Ronnie Ekelund flew in all the way from California because I wanted to play alongside him for one last time. That made the night even more special. And, as the finishing touch, my brothers got themselves fit. Kevin and Ca
rl both played while Mark refereed. And then, totally unplanned, my son Mitchell decided he wanted to play. He was only 10 but when he saw the game wasn’t that serious he asked if he could come on as a sub. A lot of youngsters would have been scared, especially in that company and in front of a capacity crowd of 32,000, but he was fearless and showed a lot of confidence, even a touch of arrogance. I wonder where he gets that from?
One of the funniest moments came when a penalty was awarded and Ian Wright tried to help Mitchell by putting the ball on the six-yard line. Mitchell was having none of it. He put the ball on the proper spot and stepped up cool as you like to fire it right into the corner of the net. I couldn’t have been more proud. I’m not sure Neil Moss would have saved it even if he had dived the right way. The crowd loved it and chanted, ‘Sign him up!’
It finished 9-9, Carl scored a couple, Kevin got one and one of the ball boys scored after being sent on by Kevin Keegan.
At the final whistle they set up a video montage of some of my best goals set to Frank Sinatra singing ‘My Way’. I told the fans, ‘I always did things My Way—but I like to think I also did them Your Way.’ It was off the cuff but I was quite proud of those words which struck a real chord with the supporters.
I didn’t know that montage was going to be shown and I stood in the centre circle welling up with Mitchell by my side and Keeleigh in my arms. It was a really emotional moment not just for me but for the whole crowd. Many people have asked how I held it all together. That was down to Keeleigh. She was only six so she had hardly seen me play because Cathy and I had divorced when she was two, and injuries meant I didn’t play a lot during the years when she was old enough to watch me. She was glued to the screen as I started to fill up. I was just about to break down when she said, ‘Daddy, you were quite good when you were little.’ You couldn’t have scripted that. I realized I had put on a bit of weight but that was priceless!
It is fair to say my weight fluctuated over the years—but never more so than then. I was weighed as normal the day before the Newcastle match. I was 14 stone. I weighed myself on the morning of the testimonial, three days later, and was 14 and a half stone. Even by my standards that was pretty good going. Within two months of my retirement, I had put on two stone.
21
FROM FINAL TO FARCE
‘JUST MY LUCK. I GIVE MY ALL TO THIS CLUB FOR 16 YEARS
AND THEY REACH THE SODDING CUP FINAL THE YEAR AFTER
I RETIRED. I WONDER IF THE TWO ARE CONNECTED?’
I must admit it hurt like hell when Saints reached the 2003 FA Cup Final against Arsenal, the first season after I retired. It was Sod’s Law it’d happen the moment I packed up.
It had been another good solid season under Gordon Strachan who assembled a good unit of quality players. And they also had the luck of the draw. They were drawn at home to a disinterested Spurs side in the third round and won easily 4-0—and did not face any Premiership opposition again until the final. Strach ensured there were no slip-ups against Millwall, Norwich, Wolves and Watford.
The final at Cardiff was a real bitter-sweet occasion for me. I was working for Sky and the atmosphere was absolutely incredible. I know pundits often say that—in fact Chris Kamara says it every game—but this really was something else. I reckon the whole of Southampton must have been in Wales that day. One end of the stadium was a great wall of yellow. With the roof closed the noise was deafening and I’d have given anything for one last match. There was a real lump in my throat but I managed to hold it all together until the pre-match show went to the adverts just before kick-off. I went out and stood on the balcony as ‘Abide With Me’ was played. Tears were in my eyes. I was so proud of the team and the fans but I was also sad, not just for myself but for Francis Benali and Jason Dodd who’d also spent so many years at the club but had to miss out on the big one through injury. And my big mate Claus Lundekvam almost missed out on the final even though he played. He was very nearly sent off in the first minute when he clearly fouled Thierry Henry in the box. It should have been a penalty and a red card but, to his great credit, Thierry stayed on his feet allowing the referee to play the advantage. It was not exactly a classic final and Saints lost 1-0 but…what an achievement.
With Arsenal qualifying for the Champions League, it meant Southampton were guaranteed a UEFA Cup place whatever the result of the final. Things were looking up. And at Christmas 2003 they were in fourth place in the Premiership—yes, fourth place. And on merit. No one seriously thought they would actually qualify for the Champions League but nor did anyone foresee a cataclysmic decline. That began when Gordon Strachan abruptly left in February 2004. The whole thing was a shambles, badly handled from start to finish. Gordon had planned to go quietly at the end of the season but it was leaked to a national paper who plastered it all over the back page. That put Gordon and the club in a very difficult position.
As I’ve said, his hip operation sounded a bit strange. Whatever the real reason, Gordon had given Rupert Lowe plenty of notice about his intention to go at the end of his contract, giving Saints plenty of time to find the right replacement. But when the news leaked out it created a problem. It undermined the manager’s authority in the dressing room. He could no longer shout at players because they’d just turn round and say your opinion doesn’t count, you won’t be here much longer. It meant, in effect, that Gordon had to go almost immediately. There was a lot of tension and stress around the club and among the fans—heightened by reports that Rupert was lining up a sensational return for Glenn Hoddle.
IF YOU THINK
THAT THE
DEPARTURE OF
DAVE JONES WAS
HANDLED BADLY,
I BELIEVE RUPERT
MADE AN EVEN
BIGGER MESS OF
THIS ONE.
If you think that the departure of Dave Jones was handled badly, I believe Rupert made an even bigger mess of this one. The Hoddle story split the supporters right down the middle. A few were prepared to forgive and forget his quick exit to Spurs but most didn’t want him back at any price. It showed how out of touch Rupert was with the fans. He thought he could just reappoint Glenn and everything would be sweetness and light. I must admit I didn’t think he deserved a second chance with Saints. How could we be sure he wouldn’t do exactly the same thing again if another bigger club came calling?
The only way Glenn could have come back was with a touch of humility. But that was not in his nature. He needed to apologize to the fans, say he’d made a dreadful mistake and promise to be fully committed to the club. But I could not see him doing that. Rupert wanted to press ahead regardless, but some of the board were wary of losing the fans’ goodwill and they abandoned the plan. After that Rupert just made one mistake after another. First Steve Wigley took over briefly as caretaker manager before Paul Sturrock was unveiled as the new boss. I think Rupert hoped it would be another appointment in the Dave Jones mould, and there was no doubt he’d done well to take Plymouth from the bottom of League Two to the threshold of the Championship. I didn’t know him as a person but I am in favour of giving a chance to managers doing well in the lower leagues, so I definitely felt it was a good move.
Paul was a decent guy and he knew the game but he didn’t look like a Premier League manager. It seemed a bit much for him. His comfort zone was in the lower leagues, and he proved that when he eventually returned to Plymouth and did very well again. Some people just suit certain clubs. But Paul did not help himself. He was forever going back to Plymouth and talking about Plymouth. In pre-season, he took the players for a week to a training camp in Austria and then immediately to Sweden for some friendlies. The lads hadn’t seen their families for almost a fortnight by the time they got back and thought they’d get a day off. But the next friendly was away to Plymouth, and Paul wanted his new team to put on a good show so he ordered the lads in for two days of training followed by an overnight stay. Before the match he was given a massive welcome on the pitch while our lads stood swelte
ring in the tiny tunnel on a baking hot day. They lost 3-1 and I suspect it was a bit of a two-finger job. Then they gave a shocking display at Villa on the opening day and Sturrock went by mutual consent. I think he knew things weren’t right and he was struggling to cope with the pressure.
Steve Wigley again stepped in and everyone assumed he was the caretaker—until he announced he had got the job. I’m not entirely sure that was what Rupert planned. His endorsement seemed less than whole-hearted and no one really knew what was going on. Steve is a lovely guy and a good coach but, like Stuart Gray before him, he found it very difficult to step up from being the players’ friend to their boss. His team selections were sometimes puzzling to say the least, particularly his exclusion of summer signing Peter Crouch, who is a much better footballer than he is often given credit for. Coming from Villa I think he was tarred with the same brush as their previous lanky striker, Ian Ormondroyd, who was just gangly. But Crouchy can really play. He is probably not quite as good in the air as he should be for a man of 6ft 7in, but he is much better on the ground than his frame suggests.
Things went from bad to worse under Wigs and, eventually, the club was forced to make yet another change—and nobody saw this one coming. Of all the managers to walk through the door, the last person I expected was Harry Redknapp. He’d left our big rivals Pompey just a couple of weeks earlier, but that wasn’t the biggest reason I was taken aback. He just never struck me as Rupert’s type. Rupert is like a city toff, full of himself to the point of arrogance while Harry is what Rupert would call ‘old football’. He is down-to-earth, a man of the people, a bit of a wide boy and a wheeler-dealer who knows the game, and I thought it was a good appointment. With all his experience I thought he’d have enough about him to get the club out of trouble. We were third from bottom but I was confident he’d sort it out.
Taking le Tiss Page 19