Budgie - The Autobiography Page 12

When we started pre-season training I went in to see Tommy to thrash out my future. Tommy acknowledged that I’d been good for the club and asked me to write down how much I wanted on a bit of paper. The next day I scribbled a figure down on a bit of paper, stuck it in an envelope and left it on his desk. When he saw me later that day, Tommy said: ‘Fuckin’ hell, who do you think you are – Gordon Banks?’ It wasn’t really Tommy’s call on the wages though – the owners of Wolves were more intent on making cutbacks than forking money out to keep me happy.

  When the season started they brought a young kid through the ranks – a guy I have always thought the world of – Tim Flowers. I had taken him under my wing and worked with him since he was 16. He used to travel from Coventry every day and I would give him lifts to and from reserve games, let him have a quick nap at our house before he played, give him some egg and toast and a cup of tea, and then go down to the ground to watch him play. When I told Tommy I wasn’t going to play for the wages I was on, he was sympathetic enough. He agreed I deserved to get what I wanted, but his hands were tied, so they started young Timmy in my place, which wasn’t right because he was only 17 years old.

  Wolves under the Bhatti brothers were in freefall. They had put a club legend, Derek Dougan, in charge as chief executive, but that didn’t mask their shortcomings. They took all the assets out of the club. There were big demonstrations at the way things were going. The fans were upset at Andy being sold, that I wouldn’t play and that Wayne Clarke was going to be sold. It was clear that there was no investment; they were just stripping the club bare. Wolverhampton’s ground was in the town centre, and the word on the street was that they wanted to sell the stadium and make a killing. It became pretty obvious why I couldn’t get a pay rise, and I thought I was better off out of it. They were only too happy to sell me – money for me in their coffers and another senior player off the wage bill. When I wasn’t playing, and they were struggling down the bottom of the league I felt sorry for them. But I had to stand my ground. I had nothing against the team though and I really loved the fans. I would pay my way into the game and go and watch it with the crowd. But attendances had dropped. It was sad, because Wolverhampton Wanderers tumbled from the First Division to the Fourth Division in successive years. It’s great to see them doing well now, back in the Premier League where they belong, and with a lovely stadium, because they are a fantastic club. Jack Hayward turned them round in the 1990s and made them the proud club they are today, but the previous owners very nearly put them out of business.

  CHAPTER 14

  FOXY COXY

  ‘Arthur Cox was in the central reservation, hopping mad and with a teapot in his hand, about to launch it at my car.’

  For the first few weeks of the 1984/85 season I became more used to watching games than playing, but then I finally got a chance to escape from my financial stalemate at Wolves. Tommy Docherty was good friends with Arthur Cox at Derby County, and I got a call from Tommy saying Arthur was interested in taking me there on a loan deal. I agreed and thought it would be a good move to make, just to get playing again and put myself in the shop window.

  Derby County were another club that had been in serious financial trouble, and they had been relegated to the Third Division in what was their centenary year. But Robert Maxwell had invested in them, and his son Ian was put in charge as chairman. I went over to see Arthur and he gave me the warmest of welcomes. He was an old-fashioned football man, and I loved his dedication. He showed me round the training ground – the Ram Arena – which was probably the best training ground I ever played on. Arthur was very clear in his vision for the club and was confident Derby County were going places. He explained to me that I was being brought in to help them with their promotion push. We started off the season very well. Derby still had some big players like Kenny Burns and John Robertson – veterans of Nottingham Forest’s championship and European Cup-winning team – and Arthur had brought in a lot of new faces he was going to mould into an exciting side. I played six games for them, most of which we won, but while I was there I got a call from Ian Porterfield, the manager of Sheffield United. I was about to have my head turned.

  Sheffield United were potentially a massive club, and were going well under Ian in the Second Division, and the idea of moving to a big city club really appealed to me. So, after I had played the last game of my loan deal for Derby County against Hull City, I went in to see Arthur. He had been over the moon with how I’d done and I was the blue-eyed boy because we’d kept winning during my spell on loan. He recognised that I was controlling the defence and liked my input. But when I went in to see him and told him: ‘Arthur, Sheffield United want to see me on Monday,’ he replied ‘Don’t be silly son, you’re signing for us.’

  It was a Saturday night when I spoke to Arthur, and I told him that I had arranged to meet Porterfield and the Sheffield United chairman Reg Brealey, who was pumping a lot of money into the club, in Nottingham on the Monday at two o’clock. ‘No, you can’t,’ Arthur told me, as if that was the end of the matter.

  We agreed to disagree, but Arthur rang me at home on the Sunday and said: ‘Son, you’re not going to Nottingham tomorrow, are you? I’ll see you at training, eh?’ I said: ‘Boss, I won’t be at training tomorrow. I’m going to Nottingham to speak to Sheffield United.’ He knew I had to pass Derby to get to Nottingham from Wolverhampton, so he said ‘Okay, but pop in on the way to have a cup of tea with me.’

  He phoned me again at home at 9am on the Monday to check I was coming, so I promised him I would be there, but again I told him I was still going to meet Porterfield and Brealey. Arthur Cox was plain football crazy. When he wanted a player, he wanted him bad. He was so dedicated. He will die on a football field, and will be quite happy to go that way – he’s just like me that respect.

  When I got to the Ram Arena, Arthur was waiting for me and he beckoned me into his office. But as soon as we were inside, he walked back over to the door, took a big bunch of keys out of his pocket and locked the bloody door. He said: ‘You’re not getting out of here, you bugger, until you have signed for Derby County.’ I started laughing, thinking it was a joke. ‘But I’ve got to see Sheffield at two o’clock,’ I protested. ‘You’re not going, son. I’m signing you.’ He started to give me the hard sell. ‘You like me, son, don’t you?’ Yes. ‘You like this football club?’ Yes. ‘You like the supporters?’ Yes.

  We kept talking for about an hour and he was throwing everything at me, urging me to sign. I was trying to reason with him, saying I’d think about it, but I still wanted to meet Sheffield United and hear what they had to say. But there was no getting through to Arthur – he was miles away, his eyes looked like they were on fire, he was so intense about it.

  He started to make me an offer he thought I couldn’t possibly refuse. He wrote a figure down on a bit of paper, offering great wages, an unbelievable package – £2,000 a week and a signing-on fee. It was a hell of a salary, I admitted. But I was getting twitchy and looking at the clock, which was creeping towards one o’clock. The players were already at the Ram Arena for training, and as they went past the window they were all giving me a wave.

  In desperation, I tried to reason with him, saying that I would meet Sheffield United and then get back to him. But he wasn’t listening. ‘I know what you want, son, you want a car don’t you?’ he said. ‘You can have mine!’

  For a second I was tempted to take his car. He had a beautiful new Ford Granada, and told me: ‘Take my car son, take it now. I can get another one from Mr Maxwell.’ He phoned him while I was there sitting in the office, and told me Maxwell would give me whatever I was looking for. It was now after 1pm, and I had less than an hour to get out of there and see Ian Porterfield. Arthur hadn’t taken his eyes off me, but thinking he was winning me round he dropped his guard and eventually asked ‘Would you like a cup of tea and a sandwich, son?’

  I said I’d love one, so off he went to the door, unlocked it and shouted up the corridor to the tea lady.
But we’d been in there for so long, she’d knocked off for the day and was nowhere to be seen – so Arthur had to desert his sentry post and go off to get the tea himself, taking care to lock the door behind him.

  He hadn’t covered all the bases though. While he was away busy making us a cuppa, I wriggled out of his office window, ran across the car park and jumped in my car. As I pulled off, I saw his door fly open and Arthur came running towards the motor with a teapot in his hand. When you came out of the Ram Arena there was a one-way system, so you had to turn left, go along the dual carriageway then turn round and come back again. But as I drove back, there was Arthur standing in the central reservation with the teapot still in his hand. He could see I wasn’t for stopping and I had to swerve to avoid knocking him down. When I looked in my mirror I could see him hopping mad, and then he let fly with the teapot, hurling it towards my car. He was raging.

  When I got to the hotel in Nottingham, it had gone two. Another 20 minutes passed and there was still no sign of Ian Porterfield or anyone from Sheffield United. I was thinking to myself ‘bloody typical’ after what I’d gone through to get there, but then I heard a call: ‘Mr Burridge to reception please.’ I thought it must be Sheffield United saying they were going to be late, but it was Arthur begging me not to sign for them. I couldn’t get into another conversation with him, but I was saved from more earache when Ian and Reg arrived.

  I liked what Ian had to say, so we shook on it and agreed that I would go to Bramall Lane the next day to complete all the formalities for a permanent move away from Wolves.

  When I got back to Wolverhampton, Janet told me Arthur had been ringing the house all day, pestering her to make sure I rang him the moment I got in. Much as I admired Derby and believed in Arthur, Sheffield United were a much bigger club with a greater history, and my mind was made up. Out of courtesy, I phoned Arthur back and he answered before it had even rung once. He was ranting on again – telling me Porterfield was doolally, that their stadium was rubbish, that kind of thing. He was doing everything he could to put down Sheffield United and make out that Derby County were the best thing since sliced bread. Eventually, he cut to the chase and said: ‘So, are you signing for us then Budgie?’ When I told him: ‘Sorry Arthur, I’ve agreed to sign for Sheffield United,’ there was a moment’s silence, then the phone went dead. He’d hung up on me.

  I had to go to Derby to fetch some of my stuff, and because they had a game on the Tuesday I thought I’d go along and watch. I spoke to John Robertson, and he arranged to leave a ticket for me. When I got into the Baseball Ground I walked down the steps to the front and shouted over to Robbo to thank him for the ticket, but just at that moment Arthur walked out from the tunnel and spotted me. It was half an hour before kick-off and there were about 10,000 people inside, but that didn’t stop him walking round the track and letting rip. ‘There he is, the traitor!’ He’d gone crackers. He turned to the crowd and shouted: ‘What do you think of the traitor? One minute he’s doing somersaults for you, the next he’s sticking two fingers up at you! Stewards, get him out of here!’ So two stewards came along and took me out of the ground.

  As it turned out, that season Sheffield United didn’t win promotion. With the benefit of hindsight, I had made a bad decision. Instead of signing me, Derby County got a lad from Leicester City called Mark Wallington, who did very well. Arthur Cox’s team went from strength to strength and there was a lot of ill feeling between Derby County and me. Robert Maxwell went out and spent fortunes on good players and they gained promotion after promotion. It was a terrible decision to turn someone like Arthur Cox down, who was football crazy. Not going to Derby with Arthur was probably one of the biggest mistakes I made in football because the man was an absolute winner.

  About two months later, Derby were playing Doncaster Rovers away. It wasn’t far away from my new home in Sheffield, so I thought I would pop down to see the game. Derby won quite easily and I thought Arthur would be quite happy. I was standing in the tunnel when the Derby lads came out and I cheerily said: ‘Hello Arthur.’ But instead of saying hello back, he just growled at me: ‘Don’t you come near me. You’re cancer, I might catch it.’ He then backed himself slowly along the wall, as if I was contagious. I could see in his eyes that at that moment, he actually hated me. I had crossed him, and he wasn’t going to forgive me. Terry Venables was technically the best coach I ever worked for, but Arthur Cox and Kevin Keegan were by far the most enthusiastic – I used to call him Mr Football, and coming from me, that’s some title!

  Janet and I sold our house in Wolverhampton and moved across to Sheffield, where we moved into an even bigger property. Sheffield’s famous for its steel, and the house had belonged to a tycoon who had made his fortune selling knives and forks to just about every house, hotel and restaurant in England. He had been a multi-millionaire, but had gone bankrupt and we got a tip-off from one of the Sheffield United directors that his house was being auctioned off. You had to make your offers in a sealed envelope and the next day we found out we had won – we got it for £115,000. It was an absolute mansion with big gates and it came with a snooker room, a swimming pool, a tennis court and nine bedrooms. It was like a dream come true – it was the best house I owned in my career. It was an old house and just for good measure it was meant to have a ghost. You could apparently hear noises coming from where the servants’ quarters used to be. The story went that one of the servants had been thrown down the stairs by the owner a hundred years ago, and although I never heard anything myself, Janet swears she did, and sometimes heard noises coming from the stairs. All the players would come over and bring their families round on a Sunday for a bit of swimming and snooker. My house became the Sheffield United social club.

  I had some good times at Sheffield United, and I used to drive my room-mate on away trips – Mel Eves – mad with my eccentric ways. He’d come up to the room on the Friday night before the game, just wanting to watch a bit of telly, and I’d be there waiting for him in my green goalkeeper’s jersey, lying on my bed wanting him to throw rolled-up socks or fruit at me, using the headboard as a makeshift goal. He was just wanting to get his head down for the night and get some sleep, but I’d be screaming at him: ‘Test me, Evesey!’ I’d be leaping around the bed, tipping socks over the headboard, and telling him: ‘Peter Shilton stopped me getting 100 caps for England!’

  Evesy stayed in the same street as me in Sheffield – Riverdale Road – so I’d be driving him mad most afternoons because he was just a phone call away. When I got back from training I’d be bored and restless, so I’d call him up and drag him out to the gym I used. It was full of Hells Angels and serious bodybuilders, but they were good guys and just as dedicated as me to their fitness. I think Mel thought I was leading him to a mugging, but he got into the spirit of it!

  We had a good bunch of lads at Sheffield United and the banter was good. I used to get slaughtered for the ‘lucky shirt’ that I wore. We weren’t the type of club to wear tracksuits to away games, so we always travelled in club blazer, flannels, shirt and tie. I had a white shirt that I swear brought me luck, and I would insist on wearing it. But it was ancient and had a dirty big hole ripped right down the side, so all that was really left was the collar and the front part – like a bib! One day it was so hot on the bus, I took my jacket off and there was absolute uproar. The lads were falling about, so I started parading around and doing a few poses for them and playing to the crowd. Still kept wearing the shirt long after that though!

  Another trip that raised a few laughs was when we were coming back from a challenge game in Holland. As we were walking through the airport, I noticed a couple of empty seats behind a check-in desk and jumped into one. There was a bunch of holidaymakers shuffling along behind us, so when they approached I shouted in my best official-sounding voice: ‘PASSPORTS please!’ They fell for it hook, line and sinker – they formed a queue and started handing their passports over to me to be checked. I was just smiling away, making polite small ta
lk and waving them on, until I noticed one of the Sheffield United directors had joined the back of the queue. I got myself out of there pronto.

  Throughout my time at Sheffield United I was playing well enough, and was an ever-present for the 1985/86 season, but as a team we weren’t firing on all cylinders. I wasn’t having the impact on the team I had done at Crystal Palace and QPR, and although we briefly got into the promotion spots in the first part of the season, we couldn’t push on and finished seventh. It cost Ian Porterfield his job and after he was sacked they brought in another Scot, Billy McEwan.

  I was still enjoying the football, training and the city of Sheffield, but I felt uneasy when I saw what was happening at Derby – the games they were winning and the players they were buying with Maxwell’s millions. I could feel it gnawing away at my stomach that I’d made a mistake.

  Derby were alongside us in the Second Division for 1986/87, having eased up from the Third under Arthur, and much to his satisfaction they beat us home and away on their way to winning the championship, while we limped in to a distant ninth. We had a real problem scoring goals that year. Keith Edwards had scored more than 20 the season before, but he’d been sold to Leeds and the void wasn’t filled. We just never quite had the players we needed to win promotion. I tried my best for them and actually kept quite a few clean sheets, but collectively it didn’t happen.

  When I came to the end of my contract, for once I wasn’t in a position to ask for any more money, because we hadn’t gone up – we’d failed and I’d failed, which was sad because it was the type of club with the sort of fans that deserved to be in the top league. They wanted rid of me because my wages were too high, and my old centre-half Chris Nicholl had taken over at Southampton, and when he got in touch with me it looked like Budgie was about to fly south.