Budgie - The Autobiography Read online

  I lightened up a bit as the journey wore on; it was hard not to because everyone was full of praise for the way I’d played and making me feel like a million dollars. When we arrived back in Blackpool, they said: ‘C’mon you’re coming out with us tonight fox-hunting – after the game you’ve had there’s no way you’re going home.’ The radio reports had also been raving about my performance, so in the space of five or six hours I’d gone from wanting to crawl into a corner to die with embarrassment at my skinhead suit to thinking I’d turned into Superman – I was getting totally swept away by all the euphoria. Blackpool was just as lively for nightlife then as it is now, and playing for the local team made you something of a local hero when you were out. People didn’t really know who I was yet, because I’d just joined, but all the other lads were getting plenty of attention, especially from the ladies.

  I’d had a couple of pints of beer and because I’d never really drunk before I was pissed out my brains, strutting my stuff on the dance floor like a man possessed. A woman took a shine to me and started dancing with me, and when she told me: ‘You’re coming home with me tonight,’ I wasn’t in any position say no. We got a taxi back to her place and she made it plain what she was expecting from me. She was all over me the moment the front door clicked shut and in the heat of passion we moved over to the settee. She lay back on the settee, so I knelt down and tried to get myself into position. Within seconds, I told her I’d finished, but it wasn’t her I’d been gyrating against – I’d been having my first sexual encounter with the cushion of the settee. I was cringing with embarrassment that I’d shagged a sofa! I suppose I can’t have been that embarrassed by the incident, mind you, because it was always a good story to pull out of the locker as an ice-breaker when I was getting to know new team-mates later in my career – I don’t think it ever failed to get a laugh.

  The Sunday newspapers used to give players marks out of 10, and to my delight I saw I had got 10 out of 10 for my performance at Everton, even if it was probably a zero out of 10 for my sexual prowess. However, the girl in question wasn’t too put off by my bungling attempts to be Casanova. I spent the next night with her too and, keeping well away from the cushions this time, I lost my virginity. I was starting to grow up, starting to become a man.

  At training during the week, I was told the manager wanted to see me. I went to his office and sat outside thinking he wanted to haul me over the coals about my night out clubbing, or something else I’d done that I couldn’t remember from my drunken Saturday night. Instead he told me to come with him because we were going for a drive. He took me down to Blackpool town centre and said he wanted to help me to start looking like a footballer. He got me two pairs of grey flannels, two blazers, some nice ties, five shirts, stockings and a pair of shiny shoes. ‘We’ve got Manchester United next and I want to see a performance,’ he told me. ‘Now you can look the part on and off the pitch.’ That was brilliant, a great gesture by him, and I felt so smart.

  In the build-up to the match, I was getting all sorts of advice on how to play against George Best – folk telling me to stand up when he was running through and not to let him make my mind up for me. All my friends from Workington were big Manchester United fans and were coming down to see the game. They wanted me to get autographs from Bobby Charlton and George Best and all the other United stars, so I took their autograph books and said ‘No problem’.

  Wearing my blazer and flannels, I may have looked like a footballer, but I was still just an excited football-mad boy at heart and two hours before the game I was standing outside the ground with my pals’ autograph books, getting George Best and Bobby Charlton to sign them. The Manchester United team coach pulled up, and there I was – looking like just another star-struck fan to them – saying: ‘Will you sign this, Mr Charlton, please? Will you sign that, Mr Best?’ I would be out on the pitch playing against them in an hour, but here I was bowing and scraping to them like they were my idols!

  My friends had all gathered behind the goal and I could hear them giving me stick and cheering on United – so much for getting behind their mate and encouraging him in the biggest game of his career so far. Instead, I could hear them shouting: ‘Hey Budgie, they are going to put five past you!’ But that was all I needed to spur me on – I was ready for battle, and there was no way I was going to embarrass myself with them watching my every move. When United got their first corner, Bobby Charlton looked me up and down and recognised me from outside the ground. ‘Didn’t I just sign an autograph for you? That’s never happened to me before!’ he laughed. From another corner, we went 1-0 down. The ball was bouncing around the box like a pinball, before it fell to the deadly boot of Denis Law who stuck it in the net. After that, though, I came into my own and was magnificent. I saved what would have been a certain goal in the top corner, then we equalised just before half-time. When we changed ends at half-time, all my mates were behind me again. I didn’t mind anyone else giving me stick, but to hear the mates I’d been to school with dishing out the abuse riled me. I was game for anything. All the words of advice I had been given about George Best started rushing through my mind when I saw him running through, with just me to beat. I was thinking to myself, ‘Stand up to him, stand up to him’, so I held my ground till the last second, and when he feinted to take the ball round to my right, I went down at his feet with all I could muster, and took the ball cleanly. As I smothered the ball, I could feel him hurtling over the top of me, and as I got up I could hear him a few yards away screaming like a pathetic little girl: ‘Aghhh my foot!’ I had the ball in my hands, and completely forgetting the football God, idolised by millions, that was lying in front of me, I started ranting and raving at him: ‘You poof, get up.’ I knew he was a superstar, but there I was berating him and telling him: ‘Next time you run through, I’ll make sure I break your leg, now fuck off out of my box.’ It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever to say something like that to somebody as classy as George Best, but I was just carried away with the moment and the adrenaline had kicked in and taken over my mouth. I had been getting his autograph just a couple of hours earlier, but here I was doing my best to sort him out on the football pitch. To be fair to Georgie, he just got up, gave me a funny sideways look as if I had just beamed down from another planet, and got on with the game. The match finished 1-1, a creditable result for Blackpool against such famous opponents, and it took me a while to come down after that. I made sure my so-called mates were put in their place too – even Manchester United couldn’t beat Budgie that day! What a buzz I got from the experience – I was desperate for more.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE ITALIAN JOB

  ‘I’d never even been on an aeroplane before – Budgie was about to get his wings!’

  I had settled very well into my role as a First Division footballer, and was enjoying every minute of Blackpool. It had been great playing against the superstars of that day like Martin Chivers and Alan Gilzean of Tottenham and Bobby Charlton and George Best of Manchester United. Every week held something different, and it was a far cry from my baptism into football at Workington.

  I’d only just turned 18 and I still had my £1,000 signing-on fee sitting in the bank. I hadn’t needed to touch it. I was averaging more than £100 a week and in 1971 terms that was decent money for a teenager. But the club was heading for the Second Division. We’d only won four out of 42 games, and although the writing was on the wall long before Stokoe took over, we finished bottom of the heap. There was no time for moping about relegation, though, because in the summer of 1971 Blackpool embarked on one of their greatest and most glorious adventures – the Anglo-Italian Cup.

  Some of you will never have heard of it, but it created quite a buzz at the time. It was a complicated competition which had been created the previous year, partly because Swindon Town – who had been in the Third Division at the time – had given the authorities a headache by winning the League Cup, as they were barred from playing in Europe due to their lowly status and
facilities. Swindon went on to win the 1970 version of the Anglo-Italian Cup, although their final with Napoli had to be abandoned with them 3-0 up at the time due to serious crowd trouble. We’d heard a bit about the Italian fans, and some of the players, and their reputation for violence, so it didn’t seem the wisest idea to give them some fresh English legs to kick.

  There had been a lot of debate about whether it was worth repeating the exercise, but they went ahead with the Anglo-Italian Cup again in 1971, and Blackpool were lucky enough to be one of the six English teams invited to take part. We were in a group of four, along with Stoke, Verona and Roma, but would only play the two Italian teams in our group home and away. To reach the final, you not only had to win your group, but you also had to out-score the English teams in the other groups. Two points were awarded for a win, one for a draw, then an additional point for each goal you scored. I can guess what you’re thinking and you’re right – it was bloody hard to work out what the hell was happening, and the best thing to do was leave it to the mathematicians. All the emphasis was on attacking football, which meant some busy nights for me, but that suited me just fine. I wasn’t going all the way to Italy to stand and watch the game. Nowadays, players are on a plane and on their holidays as soon as the season is over, complaining of fatigue and the need to recharge their batteries, but we had four games to play inside eight days – including two games in Italy – and no one grumbled. I was well up for it – I had never even been on an aeroplane before. Budgie was about to get his wings!

  We started off badly, and I saw a few goals fly past me – we drew 3-3 at home to Verona, but then lost 3-1 to Roma at Bloomfield Road. The Italians were generally quick, good on the ball and brutally physical when they needed to be. Somehow, though, we turned it round in our Italian double-header. We hit four past Verona then beat Roma 2-1 and to our amazement we were in the final thanks to the 10 goals we’d scored in the four games. The top-scoring Italian side were Bologna, so it was agreed we’d play the final in their stadium, the Stadio Renato Dall’Ara.

  English football was the strongest in Europe at that time – Leeds had won the Fairs Cup and Chelsea had won the European Cup-Winners’ Cup – so we were bidding for a treble. The Italians were desperate to salvage some pride, and we had been expecting it to all kick off if we got our noses in front. But it was a brilliant cup tie, played in the right spirit, and the Italians were nothing but sporting towards us on and off the pitch.

  They took the lead, but our captain John Craven equalised to take it into extra time. Then in the first half of extra time Mickey Burns nabbed it for us. Our fitness was fantastic, and although the home fans were creating quite a racket, it only spurred us on. It was an amazing night.

  Here’s how the Blackpool Gazette’s reporter Patrick McEntee memorably saw the game from the press box…

  The conquering heroes of Blackpool – every one of them who took part in the Anglo Italian League tournament but particularly the 13 who won the memorable final against Bologna – should get the freedom of the borough. Being at this final was an unforgettable experience. Standing in the press box, I had a perfect view of Blackpool manager Mr Bob Stokoe’s jig of delight along with the other Blackpool officials when the final whistle ended 120 minutes of gruelling action on a hot Italian night. The small but loyal band of Blackpool supporters, who had made their trip to Italy in charter flights, waved their union jacks and tangerine and white scarves high on the terraces. The disappointed Bologna fans, who did so much to restore one’s faith in the sportsmanship of Italian soccer supporters, sportingly waved their red and black banners in tribute as the victorious Blackpool team did a lap of honour, skipper John Craven waving the 22-inch high gold trophy aloft. Another English team had triumphed against the odds in Europe and being British at that moment in the stadium was the supreme status symbol. Against the odds I said…and I mean every word. For the dice were loaded in favour of the Italians almost of necessity and Blackpool had to overcome the disadvantages that any visiting English team would have encountered. Remember, too, that they are a second division side, while Bologna finished fourth in the Italian first division. The biggest disadvantage was the heat. Despite a 5pm kick-off, the temperature in the sun-bleached stadium was in the high sixties, beautiful for the fans, murderous for British players. Blackpool had to fight its effect and the lung-bursting strain of the dry air, a combination that sent several of them tumbling down with cramp late in the game and in extra-time. On an occasion when most of the crowd were supporting the other team they also had to adjust their game to take account of the fact that the Austrian referee would allow little of the tackling we take as normal in the English game. And they disciplined themselves so superbly that they not only achieved this but gave Herr Schiller, whose decisions seemed to rather favour Bologna, no trouble at all. It’s true Mickey Burns and Johnny Johnston were both booked but there was nothing aggressive about their offences. The game was impressively clean and sporting throughout, with hardly a bad foul in the entire 120 minutes. Both teams deserve a lot of credit for this. But briefly Blackpool won because they had in the end an apparently greater determination and will to win than the individually more skilful Italians. The way they picked up their weary legs to go into a half hour of extra-time, for men unused to such conditions, demanded character of the highest order. No praise is too high for the way these Blackpool players fought back from behind to win. They were all magnificent.

  Blackpool: Burridge, Hatton, Bentley, Ainscow, Alcock, Suddaby, Burns, Green, Craven, Suddick, Hutchinson.

  After we won the cup, we had a big civic reception in the town hall and the town square was all decked out in tangerine for us; it was like we had won the league – those scenes were absolutely unbelievable. When Blackpool won the play-offs under Ian Holloway in 2010 and returned to the Premier League – the first time they had been back there since I played – it very much reminded me of our celebrations nearly 30 years before. They are a great club Blackpool, with loyal supporters who make the team feel such an important part of the town, and I couldn’t have been happier for them.

  The year after we lifted the Anglo-Italian Cup, we were back to defend our crown. First up, we went to play Sampdoria in Genoa, another stunning city (most of them in Italy were, from what I remember) and using the experience we had picked up from the year before, we cruised to a 4-1 win. We knew how to play the Italians, and because the competition was all geared towards scoring goals, it didn’t really suit their natural style of play. In Serie A, they would be used to games of cat-and-mouse where there might only be a maximum of one or two goals in the game. But in the Anglo-Italian Cup they had to open up if they wanted to progress in the competition and I think that definitely suited the English sides better. It certainly fitted in perfectly with Blackpool’s style of play at that time, because the players we had were happy pressing forward. It was an interesting experiment, that’s for sure, and I think the fans liked it too because they were pretty much guaranteed to be watching goals.

  Before returning to England for our final two group games, we beat Lanerossi Vicenza 2-0. Back home, we again beat Sampdoria 2-0 – another clean sheet – but we saved the best till last, when we annihilated Vicenza 10-0 in a truly incredible match at Bloomfield Road on 10 June, 1972.

  Mickey Burns and Alan Ainscow put us 2-0 up within two minutes and usually when that happens, the game settles into some kind of natural rhythm and the defence that has leaked the goals manages to tighten up a little. Not that night though! We simply kept raining goals down of them and they had no answers to our attacking power. Tommy Hutchison was marvellous in that match and he had a hand in just about every goal, while Alan Ainscow ended up getting a hat-trick. It got so bad for the Italians that their keeper Roberto Anzolin walked off the pitch when they 7-0 down, claiming he was injured and couldn’t continue, but his replacement didn’t fare much better and he was unable to do anything about stemming the flow of goals, letting in another three. I could have w
alked off the pitch at any stage myself for all I had to do on the night. I’d have been better getting myself a deckchair and a newspaper, because the Italians never looked like scoring. The upshot of the record-breaking 10-0 win was that we’d finished our four group games with a 100 per cent record, and with by far the best goal tally, so were in the final again.

  This time however, against a very determined and well-organised Roma, there was no happy ending, and we were well beaten on the night in the Stadio Olimpico. Goals from Cappellini, Scaratti and Zigoni left us with no way back, and although Terry Alcock got us a last-minute consolation, that’s all it was – consolation.

  I really enjoyed the travelling and seeing new cities and a different culture first hand, and it gave me a taste for seeing more of Europe, which I’d enjoy again later in my career with Aston Villa and Hibs. I also enjoyed the bonuses we had been picking up hand over fist for our success in the tournament.

  The first season, the club had rather generously offered to give us a tenner per man for every goal we scored, but because they had to fork out a fortune in bonuses, they had a rethink for 1972 and made it a fiver a goal. Maybe that’s what spurred us on to hit 10 past Lanerossi. I wasn’t complaining. Okay, it wasn’t me who was scoring them, but I more than played my part with a lot of clean sheets and I was proud of my performances against some top-class players. It had made a refreshing change from the bread and butter matches of the English league and it was good to broaden my horizons.