Budgie - The Autobiography Read online

  It was a great feeling to go to Newcastle; there was a vibe about the place that convinced me that this was one move that was meant to be. Jim Smith was an excellent manager, and like me he was a bit of an eccentric. He was part of the reason the move was so attractive to me. He shouted a lot, but I was now at the age where I could take it when it was dished out. When I had been at Villa and Ron Saunders was giving me earache, I could be a bit of a shrinking violet and I couldn’t take being shouted and screamed at. But by this stage of my career, managers could say pretty much whatever they wanted because I had been through the mill and played hundreds of games, so it was easy to take – water off a duck’s back.

  My first season went unbelievably well and off the pitch everything was rosy too. I had managed to find a lovely house in Durham – a former monastery – although I had lost £75,000 on my house in Southampton, having paid £300,000. On the pitch, we had a team full of characters and good professionals – including Micky ‘The Mighty’ Quinn and Roy Aitken, the Scottish international, who I quickly became very good friends with. Roy and I were the non-drinkers of the team and wouldn’t be seen in the nightclubs, so we bonded right away. I think a lot of people saw me and my eccentricities and immediately thought I must be a bit of a drinker because I was outgoing and liked a laugh, but that was never me. Because of my antics, people thought I must be a wild man and a big bevvy merchant, but they were a millions miles away from the truth because I was totally dedicated to my football. I’d be in bed early if I was playing, because matches and making the most out my career were what mattered to me more than anything. You do hear of a lot of players from that era who thought the best way for a team to function was to play together and drink together, but Roy Aitken and I were proof that you didn’t have to drink to be respected and be part of the team.

  Roy was Captain Fantastic for us. He was a hard boy and he kept the team running. He was a terrific professional. The first year I had at Newcastle was great, we were fighting for promotion all the way and I got voted player of the season after a string of solid performances. As we neared the end of the season, we had a great chance to go up. We played Middlesbrough, and if we had won we would have got promoted to the First Division. Boro were in a bad way at that time. Their existence was under threat and they had to win to stay up and have any hope of keeping the bank manager at bay. We should have wanted a win in that game as much as they did, but for some reason they were more fired up than us on the day and they beat us 4-1 at Ayresome Park, which was a grim place to play. My memories of Ayresome Park are particularly unpleasant, as it was the one ground where fans would throw everything at you, including piss! I’m not joking; when you went to ask for the ball back from the crowd for a goal kick they would chuck plastic cups full of piss on you and saturate you.

  The defeat against Boro put us into play-offs in May 1990 and as fate would have it, we had to play Sunderland – our greatest rivals. You hear all about Celtic v Rangers, Manchester United v City and Liverpool v Man Utd, but this rivalry was every bit as fierce. It’s a huge game up there in the north east – Geordies v Mackems – and to be up against Sunderland in the play-offs was one of the biggest games ever between the teams.

  We went to their old ground, Roker Park, on the Saturday for the first leg and it was packed. I had one of my best games in a Newcastle shirt, and with the score at 0-0 in the 90th minute they won a penalty. I’d seen the Sunderland left-back Paul Hardyman take penalties before, because when I wasn’t playing I used to watch a lot of games during the week and I’d seen him stick one to the keeper’s right against Torquay. I had a funny feeling he was going to put it the same way, and he did. I leapt low to my right and made a decent stop. The Newcastle fans went mad, but the lights went out for me – Hardyman’s frustration boiled over and after missing the penalty, he followed up by kicking me right in the face as I lay on the ground clutching the ball. All the Newcastle lads went crazy, and it turned into a free for all, while I lay oblivious to the battle going on around me as I stayed down on the turf. Hardyman was sent off for booting me in the head, denying me any chance of revenge, and everything seemed stacked in Newcastle’s favour to beat them in the return leg.

  After my penalty save I thought to myself that it was all fated – I was completely convinced we were going to win the second leg at St James’ Park. It was a funny situation, because whoever won would be going up. Swindon Town were about to be punished for alleged financial irregularities, so whoever got to the final at Wembley – Newcastle or Sunderland – would automatically be promoted, regardless of their result against Swindon, as they were heading for the trapdoor anyway.

  The atmosphere was frenzied for the return leg, but my pre-match vibes that Newcastle were going to finish the job were proved sadly wrong. Eric Gates and Marco Gabbiadini scored for Sunderland and they beat us 2-0 at St James’ Park – it was devastating. It wasn’t a nice game to play in, and I’m not just saying that because we lost. I love derbies, but there was just too much at stake for both sides and there was an ugly atmosphere. The fans’ frustration boiled over, and a pitch invasion after the second goal held the game up for half an hour. Losing that game was definitely one of the most heartbreaking moments for me in football, especially after I had stopped that penalty in the first leg from Hardyman. But, the way I look at it, everything happens for a reason. If we’d gone up that season Newcastle might not have enjoyed the revival they experienced under Kevin Keegan four or five years later, and seen their ground transformed into the magnificent stadium it is today. I later ended up working for the club for 12 years as a player and a coach so I was well placed to judge a few years down the line. In my opinion, if they had gone up back in 1990, Newcastle would have remained the yo-yo side that they always had been. We would have gone up in 1990 and straight back down again – we weren’t well enough equipped for a sustained run in the top flight at that time. It all changed when Sir John Hall bought Newcastle and brought Kevin Keegan in. They bought guys like Les Ferdinand, Philippe Albert, Alan Shearer, Robert Lee – all unbelievable players – but I honestly think none of that would have happened had we gone up in 1990.

  The play-off disaster aside, I really enjoyed my first season at Newcastle, and I was playing out of my skin at 39 years old. Sadly, Jim Smith carried the can for failing to get us up and he got the sack towards the end of the following season. There were three or four games left of the season, and as we sat in the training ground it was announced that the new manager was being brought to meet us. Nobody knew who it was, it was all hush-hush.

  We were all sitting there in the dressing room speculating who it might be, when the chairman Gordon McKeag came in and announced with great gusto: ‘I want to introduce to you the new manager of Newcastle United Football Club…’

  The door opened and in walked my old sparring partner, Osvaldo Ardiles. The incident at The Dell, where I had clocked him for pushing me down the stairs, immediately invaded my thoughts. My mind was racing and I honestly managed to convince myself that he wouldn’t remember – it was ancient history and water under the bridge as far as I was concerned.

  He started going round the dressing room smiling and shaking hands with the players, and when he arrived in front of me, the chairman – blissfully ignorant of the history we shared – said: ‘And this is John Burridge, our star goalkeeper…’. I extended my hand for him to shake, but he totally blanked me and walked on to the next player.

  ‘This isn’t good,’ I thought to myself, and went home for a sleepless night. I trained the next day, and began to think it would all just be a storm in a teacup. The team were due to play West Ham at the weekend, then Charlton Athletic the following Tuesday in two back-to-back away games, so the plan was for the squad to stay down in London for the duration of the two matches. The day before we were due to head south, I was in my car when Janet phoned to say she’d just seen the local paper and it was reporting that I’d been dropped. ‘No chance,’ I thought, as we’d just won 2-0
in our last game and I’d saved a penalty. But when I got to the training ground my kit wasn’t in its normal place in the first-team dressing room. I asked the kit man where it was and he sheepishly told me that the manager had ordered him to put it in the reserves’ dressing room. Ardiles hadn’t even had the guts to tell me, and instead word was passed down through the ranks that he wanted me to train with the reserves.

  I still couldn’t believe it. I thought he was just trying to scare me, so when the team bus was about to leave for London I still turned up in my suit and club tie, ready to head down with the rest of the lads. It was when I read the team-sheet and saw my name wasn’t on it I knew it was no joke. I got into my car, totally disappointed, my thoughts all over the place as I tried to make some sense of it all. With Osvaldo down in London with the team, the earliest chance I would get to speak to him face to face would be the Wednesday. So I bided my time till the Wednesday, then headed in to St James’ Park for a showdown. As I was standing in reception, ready to have my say, the secretary Russell Cushing came down and said: ‘Sorry John, the boss wants you out of here. He doesn’t want you on the training ground; he doesn’t want to see your face in the club again.’

  I had two years left on my contract so it was a lot to take in. It was obvious that he harboured grudges big time. I couldn’t believe that he didn’t have the guts to tell me himself.

  CHAPTER 17

  HIB, HIB HOORAY

  ‘A forward booted me right in the face and burst my nose. I could just hear him growling “Welcome tae Scotland, ya Sassenach”.’

  My treatment at the hands of Ossie Ardiles at Newcastle was difficult to take at the time, but it proved to be career-changing – and for the better. This cloud really did have a silver lining. When Ardiles was appointed and froze me out, it was near the end of the season and there were only four or five games left. I had won the player of the year award that year and even though it was traditionally presented to the winner on the pitch at the last home game of the season, Ardiles wouldn’t let me have it. Micky Quinn and I were the best sellers at the time or merchandise in the Newcastle club shop, but when I popped in all the signed pictures of me had been taken off the shelves, and so had the No.1 jerseys. He was trying to obliterate every last trace of me from Newcastle, and I thought he must really have hated me.

  I didn’t even get picked for the reserves, so I just trained and saw the season out. In the summertime I was contemplating my future and what to do next. My old club, Blackpool, who were in the Third Division, came in for me, which would have been a nice move, and Hartlepool also made an offer, which would have allowed me to stay at home in Durham. Falkirk, who were managed by Jim Jefferies, had also been alerted that I was available, and I played a pre-season game for them with a view to going there. But as I was pondering those possibilities I got a call from Hibernian one night. Their manager Alex Miller rang me up and said: ‘Do you fancy trying something different – the Scottish Premier League? Come up and see me, and have a look for yourself.’

  This was all happening a week before pre-season training was about to start, and there was no time to waste. I got on the train from Durham, and was first of all surprised at how short the journey was – an hour and 20 minutes. The journey up was scenic, and I was already getting good vibes. When you get off the train at the Waverley Station, Edinburgh is one of the most impressive cities you have ever seen in your life – as you come up the ramp from the station you see the big castle on your left and Princes Street on your right. I liked the cobbled streets and I thought to myself this is a nice place to be. I took a taxi down to the Hibs ground, Easter Road, which was a nice little stadium – and I got a feel for what Scottish football is all about.

  When I met Alex Miller, he explained to me: ‘We’ve sold Andy Goram to Glasgow Rangers for a million pounds, and we’ve only got a couple of kids, Chris Reid and Jason Gardiner, as keepers and I don’t know if they are ready yet for playing week-in, week-out in the Premier League.’ I was impressed by the city and the club, and I decided I would give it a go. We came to an agreement on my salary – it wasn’t a lot in terms of a weekly wage, but I was 39 and there was a good signing-on fee, so we shook hands on the deal.

  What I didn’t realise when I signed was the trouble Hibs had been in at that time. I didn’t know anything about Scottish football as all my attention had been on English football, and apart from looking at Aberdeen’s results from time to time when Ian Porterfield was manager, I hadn’t paid much attention to the Scottish Premier League.

  I had to report for pre-season training a few days later, so I caught the train up and headed down to their training ground at Wardie where I would meet up with my new team-mates. To say it was a shock doesn’t do it justice – it was the worst training ground I’d ever seen in my life. It was basically a public park. You got changed inside a hut and the showers didn’t work properly. At clubs like Aston Villa and Newcastle, I had been used to purpose-built training grounds where you would be well looked after. I was used to being given breakfast and a cup of tea and having people fussing around you. But at Hibs, we had a dive of a training ground, and the players started turning up looking down in the dumps.

  I then started hearing stories that there was no money in the club, that they’d nearly gone bankrupt, and that a fella called Wallace Mercer, the chairman of their rivals Hearts, had tried to put them out of business to make Edinburgh a one-club city. I heard that people had been threatening to kill him or shoot him because of what he was trying to do to Hibs. I thought to myself: ‘What have you let yourself in for here, Budgie?’

  We started training and it was all very downbeat. I took that for three or four days then said to myself: ‘I’ve got to do something to lift this place’. I was reading the Edinburgh evening papers and all the talk was how the players were unsure of their futures. The season before I arrived, 1990/91, Hibs came close to being relegated as they’d finished ninth of the 10 teams. The league was reconstructed to make it a bigger 12-team league, and while they would have stayed up anyway as only one team went down, everyone knew Hibs had beaten the drop by the skin of their teeth.

  I didn’t know any of that when I signed. I hadn’t done my homework if I’m being honest, and all the emphasis was on keeping away from relegation; that was the chat – from the manager as well – because they had fought a relegation dogfight the year before and it was still preying on their minds. It was a terrible atmosphere and I thought: ‘C’mon Budgie, you have to work your magic here,’ so I started the old Budgie antics around the dressing room, making people laugh and lifting their spirits. I remember one morning I let the rest of the lads go out before me, telling them I’d be out once I’d put some tape on my fingers. They were all out on the pitch, kicking a ball about, when I ran out to join them totally starkers – apart from my goalie gloves!

  We played four or five pre-season games against part-timers up in the north of Scotland. We didn’t do very well – we were hopeless in fact, drawing or losing against a bunch of amateurs. I knew we had to start winning and quick. I knew if we couldn’t beat Highland League teams then we could be heading for trouble.

  I looked at the team and we weren’t bad – we had some good players, we just had a problem with motivation and belief. So I started having a laugh and a joke around the place and all of a sudden it was a bit more joyful and we started to get rid of the bad feeling that had been created by Wallace Mercer and his attempted takeover. But the only way you can truly get rid of that feeling is by winning football matches. It was as simple as that.

  We played St Mirren in the first game of the season on home turf, and I knew that a win was vital, because a defeat could sap morale and set the tone for a long, hard season. The Scottish Premier League was of a much better standard than I thought it would be. I mistakenly thought it might be Third Division standard, but when we kicked off I soon knew I’d misjudged it. In the first 20 minutes we were awful, just far too nervous and inferior in our minds b
ecause we didn’t have the winning mentality. I remember a cross came over and someone gave me a right good clatter and I dropped it. I gathered it at the second attempt, but the forward booted me in the face. My nose was all bleeding, and I could just hear a voice in a broad Scottish accent growling: ‘Welcome tae Scotland, ya fuckin’ Sassenach.’ I was playing against my pal from Newcastle, Roy Aitken, who had moved to St Mirren because he couldn’t get along with Ossie either, and I knew he was an out-and-out winner and would have them fired up. But whatever they threw at us, we threw back. We settled down and started to play out of our skins; we won it 4-1, and I was delighted with my own performance too. I ran to the fans, on a crest of a wave, and they seemed to take to me right away as I bowed before them and threw my gloves into the crowd.

  We then won our second game, against St Johnstone, so we were off to as great start, and kept up the good work by going the first 10 league games unbeaten. The lads started believing, and you could see them visibly growing in confidence. They were enjoying their football again. I was playing as well as I had done in my career and I made the crowd laugh with my gymnastics. I was playing up to them, putting the smiles back on their faces, and it was a completely different atmosphere. A local millionaire called Tom Farmer, who had made his fortune from the Kwik-Fit garage chain, had come in and put an awful lot of money in to stabilise the club, and I think he had helped pay for Keith Wright, who we had signed from Dundee for half-a-million. Tom had bought the club first and foremost to stop Wallace Mercer shutting it down, but to his delight we had made an unbelievable start to the season.