Budgie - The Autobiography Read online

  The outcome of it was that when I turned up on the Monday I was still feeling really uneasy and worried about how Kevin would react. When I walked into the training ground, all the Newcastle lads had something to say to me – some saying ‘well done’, others saying I was a traitor – it was a mixed bag. Ginola was saying to me in his broad French accent: ‘Oooo Budgie, fantastique!’ while others were not so kind, calling me ‘Judas’ and saying they should give me a kicking! I didn’t know what the coaches were all going to say, so I stuck my head round the door and asked if I could come in. Kevin said: ‘Come in and have a cup of tea.’ I thought I would be okay, but you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. I don’t know if it was my paranoia but it was all very uncomfortable. Kevin was getting a hard time in the local press, with the papers saying he’d been naïve to let me play – an experienced player who knew his opponents inside out. From that day, I was regarded as a bit of a traitor, because it was true – if I hadn’t played, Newcastle might have won that game one- or two-nil. It was a horrible feeling, and bad for Newcastle, but it was great for Manchester City. I said to Kevin: ‘I’m sorry, but I did warn you that funny things happen in football.’ When it started to get splashed all over the local papers it was getting even more embarrassing, and I went to him and asked: ‘Do want me to resign, Kevin?’ He said: ‘No way.’

  Kevin was getting it in the neck for playing me, but the newspapers were full of kind words for my performance. In Newcastle, Simon Turnbull’s report in the Northern Echo after the Manchester City game said:

  It boded ill for Newcastle United’s European ambitions that the golden oldie who appeared for the second half ended the afternoon as the unchallenged star of the show. When Tony Coton limped off at half-time on Saturday, the odd goalkeeping bird known as Budgie became, at 43, the oldest player to settle on a Premier League perch. That he did so as, simultaneously, City’s third-choice goalkeeper and Newcastle’s part-time goalkeeping coach made for the kind of human interest story Esther Rantzen might have featured, alongside the feathered, talking Budgies, on That’s Life.

  CHAPTER 21

  WONDERWALL

  ‘I couldn’t fault Noel and Liam Gallagher; they were really nice. They were just grateful I had helped play a part in saving Manchester City from relegation.’

  It was an uncomfortable time for me to be hanging around Newcastle after the 0-0 draw at Maine Road and I was quite happy when I got the chance again for my end-of-the-week escape to Manchester.

  The point City had earned against had Newcastle had lifted them out of the bottom four and given the club a renewed sense of belief that they could beat the drop. Our next game was against Aston Villa, another one of my former clubs, and because Tony was in hospital and out for the season I was in line to play again.

  Before we got on the coach down to Birmingham for the game, Francis Lee congratulated us on the point we had won against Newcastle on the Saturday. He reminded us that if we won and Leeds beat Crystal Palace on the same night then we would stay up – it would be mission accomplished. He pointed to a huge pile of boxes – every one of them was full of champagne – and he said that they would all be cracked open if we stayed in the Premier League. He gave a really passionate talk and left us in no doubt that this was a massive game for Manchester City and one we had to win. It was putting us under pressure, but he really roused us and we headed down there in a determined frame of mind.

  I had played at Villa Park countless times before, but there were none of my old team-mates left from that era – it was a completely different team. The players may have changed, but a lot of the Villa fans remembered me and they gave me a great reception, recognising that I had done well for the club. They were tense as well, because they were in relegation trouble too and just a couple of points above us.

  I was buzzing for that game, and was taking my crosses well, kicking it well, handling it well – just feeling great. My confidence soared again when Dean Saunders hit a rasping shot and I tipped it over the bar. But we suffered a major setback when Villa took the lead in a goalmouth scramble. Ugo Ehiogu actually punched the ball into the net with his hand, but the referee hadn’t seen it and he gave the goal. City didn’t panic, though, and Uwe Rosler equalised just before half-time. Then, with 10 minutes left, Paul Walsh scored for us and we won it 2-1. We’d shown a lot of guts, and when we learned that Palace had been beaten 3-1 at Leeds, it was an absolutely brilliant feeling. We were staying in the Premiership, with two games to spare, and I’d played a part in it – no matter how small. Francis came in with the champagne, as promised, and the celebrations began.

  I played the two remaining City games that season. We lost 1-0 to Nottingham Forest at the City Ground, then 3-2 to QPR at Maine Road. As it turned out, it proved to be my last top-flight league game ever. The record stands to this day – the oldest player to have played in the Premier League – because when I faced QPR on 14 May, 1995, I was 43 and 162 days. There’s been a few threatening to take the record over the years, Brad Friedel and David James especially, and I dare say it will tumble one day soon, but I’m proud it has lasted so long.

  As I was driving home with Janet after that QPR game I made a snap decision and told her I was not going to play in the Premier League again. I didn’t mind playing non-league or lower league football, or heading up to Scotland, but I didn’t want to be in that situation again. I felt I’d upset Kevin and betrayed the Newcastle supporters.

  I didn’t regret a minute of my time at Manchester City though, and the club and the fans have been brilliant to me since that day I came on against Newcastle. About a year later, when I was playing for Queen of the South, I got home from a game in Dumfries and my daughter Katie, who was 14 at the time, came up to me and asked me if I still had any contacts at Manchester City. ‘Why, what for?’ I asked, like any suspicious parent would. She explained that she wanted tickets for Oasis at Maine Road, and asked me if I could help out because they were like gold dust. I hadn’t even heard of Oasis back then. But I did remember a conversation I had had with Francis Lee on the bus back from the Nottingham Forest v City game. He had come over to me and said: ‘Look, Budgie, we can’t sign you. We owe you for helping us not go down, but we can’t offer you a contract. But anything we can help you with in the future, don’t hesitate to pick up the phone.’

  I thought Katie might be looking for two or three tickets, but she asked for 14! ‘Bloody hell,’ I thought, but I didn’t want to let my daughter down so I rang Francis Lee’s secretary, thinking: ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Francis was out of the country, but his secretary promised to speak to him about it and get back to me. True to her word, she called me back the next day, but she said she was sorry, but I couldn’t have the tickets because it was all sold out. I felt my heart sinking, but then she told me to bring all the girls down to the main entrance at the stadium and ask for Francis.

  I hired a minibus and drove all these 14-year-old girls, with Oasis playing on the stereo the whole way from Durham. When I got near the ground, it was about five in the afternoon and I’d never seen so many people. When I drove into the car park, I kept being asked to show my tickets by some stewards, and started to panic a little bit, but when I got to the main entrance I saw one of the City officials that I knew and he told me and the girls to come in.

  Francis came down to welcome us then took us to the directors’ box and gave the girls some Coca-Colas. It was an amazing sight; the whole of Maine Road was full, including the pitch – there must have been 80,000 people in there. Oasis were due on at 9, and at 7.30 Francis came in and told me and the girls to follow him. We wondered where he was taking us, and it soon became clear – straight to the dressing rooms to meet Noel and Liam Gallagher. I couldn’t fault them, they were really nice. They gave the girls T-shirts, signed everything, and it made me cry a little bit seeing my daughter so happy and being treated like royalty. The excitement wasn’t over, though. When it got to 9 o’clock, Liam allowed the girls to come
with him and sit to the front of the stage. He was so grateful I’d helped play a part in saving City from relegation and he even said during the gig: ‘This is the daughter of the boy that helped save us from relegation – John Burridge.’ I was in tears; he was singing ‘Wonderwall’, and it was brilliant.

  After the show we were taken to one of the lounges and Ryan Giggs and a few of the Manchester United players had come in. Unbeknown to me, there was a bit of history between Liam Gallagher and Ryan Giggs. A few years before Oasis had become famous, Liam used to work in a car wash. Apparently, Giggsy had driven into the car wash, and when Liam had told him to do one, a big row had broken out between them. So when Giggsy walked in, Liam – who had knocked back a few drinks by this point – started screaming ‘Get that arsehole out of here!’ I didn’t know there was bad blood between them, but I was laughing my head off. I thought it was just because he was a Man Utd player, but the other United players didn’t have to leave, just Giggsy. Noel didn’t like Giggsy much either, because he’d scored against City on his debut. The whole night was brilliant though and whenever I went back to Manchester City I was always treated like a king. They never forget you there. Maybe I couldn’t do the somersaults any more at 43, but I did my best for them. I wish I’d been at City when I was a younger player because it was one of the best clubs I ever played for.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE BOSS

  ‘It is exactly the same drain on your time and energy managing Blyth Spartans as it is managing Real Madrid – the only difference is the number of noughts at the end of cheques.’

  I knew from the age of 15 when I first went into football as a professional that one day I would be a manager or a coach. I also knew I’d be in football until the day I died. I really hope I die on the football field or the training ground – although not just yet! I’m really in love with the game. Football makes me what I am; I’m not a person who’s introvert and keeps myself to myself, football makes me happy. I like to see people play football with a smile on their face. I hate to see these people who go on to a football field all serious and nervous. I knew I could take that enjoyment into coaching and I’d always known I wanted to be in football until the day they put me in a box.

  After my last game for Man City I was inundated with calls from so many teams – Third Division, Fourth Division, Scottish league, all wanting me to play on – it was incredible. I turned most of them down, but when I was approached by Blyth Spartans it was hard to resist – they were only about 20 minutes’ drive away from my house. They played in the Northern Premier League and were managed by Peter Harrison. We came to an arrangement where I was allowed to stay on and continue working at Newcastle, and by that time I had also started dividing my coaching time by taking the goalkeepers at Leeds United for a couple of days a week.

  I didn’t want to go back into league football, so the arrangement was perfect. I couldn’t deny that I still wanted to play, because even though I was 47 I was as fit as a fiddle. I played a year with Blyth before they sacked Peter Harrison in March 1997. I was viewed as a big name locally, and it was well known that I had my coaching badges, so I was approached by their chairman who asked if I’d be interested in taking over from Peter. I pointed out to him that I had coaching commitments at Newcastle and Leeds, but he was happy to accommodate them. At the back of my mind I already knew my workload was heavy enough, but I couldn’t resist the idea and said I would have a go at it. I’d had 30-odd years of being on the receiving end of managers’ words, so I thought I’d try the boot on the other foot. But when you are a part-time manager it is far more difficult than being a full-time boss. My workload was already unbelievable at Newcastle, and that was made worse by the fact that I was driving down to Leeds twice a week to train the future England keepers Nigel Martyn and Paul Robinson, and then playing for Blyth on a Saturday.

  In management, the job never ever stops – Arthur Cox and Kevin Keegan had always told me that was the case. It is exactly the same drain on your time and energy managing Blyth Spartans as it is managing Real Madrid – the only difference is the number of noughts at the end of cheques. Kevin and Arthur warned me that I would be taking on an awful lot by getting into management and I soon realised they were right. The phone never stops, even at non-league level. You’re constantly thinking about what you are going to do for training. I used to finish training at Leeds, drive all the way back up to Newcastle, then head straight to Blyth.

  I used to make sure my players were paid £150 a week – a big salary at the time in that league for part-time players, because all the other clubs were only paying their boys £50 a week. But it wasn’t just a case of turning up and collecting a pay packet – they had to work hard for it, and harder than anyone else in the league. I insisted that they had to train Monday, Tuesday and Thursday to earn their money. Under previous regimes they had expected to just come in on a Tuesday and Thursday, have a quick eight-a-side game and then go home. But it wasn’t like that with Budgie, being the stickler that I am. We used to play on a Saturday, then we would all be back in on a Monday in the gym at Gateshead Sports Centre. I’d make them do upper-body work and fitness routines. I’d do all the gym training with them, then we would head outside for a bit of cross-country to build up stamina, after that we’d go onto the track and do some short, sharp sprinting. They’d be knackered and moaned their heads off about it, but I’d quickly remind them that they could go and play for someone else for £50 a week. I was also quick to point out that it was making them all better players. I was only being professional in my approach and we were the fittest team in the league by far. I’d had my gripes about Ron Saunders and Alex Miller, but both were sticklers for players working hard at training and they taught me well in that respect.

  On the Tuesday training nights we would work on tactics – defensive duties then a game of five-a-side. On Thursday nights the emphasis would be on attacking, then another five-a-side. It was a full-time job really, but I made it that way for myself. The self-imposed workload was too much and it wore me out. I did two years of that and it started to take its toll. I was knackered at the end of each week. I was getting older, even if I wouldn’t admit it to myself.

  Football management is a business and, like any other business, you are called into boardrooms and expected to give your input. People would say: ‘Budgie, we’re £30,000 in debt, we’ve got VAT bills to pay – what are we going to do about it?’ Some people are oblivious to all that side of football – they think it’s just a case of turning up on a Saturday and playing, but when you become a manager everything is heaped upon your shoulders. To sort out our financial problems, I arranged for Newcastle to bring their full team to Croft Park for a pre-season fund-raiser. Shearer, Ginola, Fox, Lee, Bracewell, Albert – they all came and helped to pack the place out. We had 8,000 people in Croft Park and we raked in about £25,000 in gate receipts. With one gate, I’d paid off the VAT bill. I also asked Howard Wilkinson to bring Leeds United for another friendly, and they brought a team that included Viduka, Kewell, Hasselbaink, Martyn, and all their stars. We pulled in another full house and another thirty grand, so I’d paid the wage bill and put money in the bank for the club. I was told in the boardroom: ‘Budgie, you’re a miracle worker, well done.’ But I responded with: ‘Yeah, thanks, but don’t forget I might want a player out of that money.’

  You were never able to switch off from the job. Every spare night I had I’d be watching a game, at Spennymoor or Bishop Auckland, or watching future opponents and trying to get a tactical edge over them. I would even go to watch pub teams on a Sunday just to see if there were quality players who had slipped the net and not come to anyone’s attention. I would constantly be on the phone to Middlesbrough or Sunderland pestering them to see if they had any youngsters on the radar, or a club like Darlington and Hartlepool trying to get players to Blyth on loan. Bryan Robson would call me and tell me there was a player at Boro I should watch, and I would say: ‘Put him in the reserves and I’ll c
ome and have a look at him tonight.’ Before I knew it I’d be in the car driving to Manchester to watch a reserves game for a player who may or not be an asset to my team, getting back late at night. It was an unbelievable workload, but you become blinded to how much you are doing. You become obsessed with wanting to make the team better. It was even worse for me because I was player-manager. I found it much harder to go out and concentrate on my game when I had the rest of the team to worry about, as well as tactics and substitutions as the game unfolded.

  After two years, I went to the Blyth chairman and said: ‘I can’t do this any more. I can’t continue like this – I’m dying, it’s killing me. I’m working my backside off at Newcastle and Leeds with my goalkeeping jobs. I really enjoy the management side of things but it’s taking my life away.’