Budgie - The Autobiography Page 9

  2 Stoke

  42

  20

  16

  6

  58

  31

  56

  +27

  3 Sunderland

  42

  22

  11

  9

  70

  46

  55

  +24

  4 Crystal Palace

  41

  18

  19

  4

  49

  24

  55

  +25

  5 West Ham

  42

  18

  14

  10

  68

  39

  50

  +31

  Because of the one-off nature of the game, and the fact it was being played on a Friday night, the match was generating a lot of interest throughout the country. Clubs had a lot to gain by us losing, and I knew I had to do my best to stay calm in the days leading up to the match and set an example to the younger lads. This was a huge game – as big as they come – and the last thing I needed on the night before was to be targeted by match-fixers.

  In an era long before the internet you didn’t really hear about match-fixing. Sure, there would be the odd dodgy result, or a performance that was too bad to be true, but that’s football – isn’t it? To prove that someone had actually thrown a game would have been impossible. I had never heard of match-fixing from any player I had played with and I would have punched anyone’s lights out if I suspected that they were willing to chuck a game. I may have been the joker, but football meant everything to me, and it would have been too much to take to work like a slave all week only for someone to affect the result.

  At the same time, I wasn’t naïve; I knew there were a lot of bad guys out there, and that there were certain people you didn’t get on the wrong side of. I may have come from Workington, but I knew the way things worked, and that criminals would use any enterprising scheme they could dream up to make a fast buck. Gambling was one lucrative way of generating cash, and even though football betting wasn’t as big a deal as it is now, it was seen as another way to extract some money from the bookies. I suppose if you are going to try to nobble the result of a game, then the best person after the referee to try to influence would be the goalkeeper. I just never thought anybody would be daft enough to try it on with me.

  On the Thursday night before the Palace v Burnley game, I was sitting watching television in the house, when my telephone rang. I picked it up, and on the other end of the line was someone with a Geordie accent. ‘Is that John Burridge?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said, none the wiser. ‘If Crystal Palace lose tomorrow, you could be a rich man. I’m right outside your house just now. Tell me there’s a chance they might lose, and in 10 minutes’ time there will be £25,000 sitting on your doorstep. Come outside and pick up the parcel. It’s yours.’

  I really didn’t know what to think. My first reaction was that it must be somebody having a joke. Maybe someone deciding to have a wind-up at my expense? After all, I’d played enough jokes on other people.

  But I wasn’t going to hang around to find out. I blurted out two words, the second of which was ‘OFF’. I hung up the phone on him and that was the last of it. I half-expected the guy to ring back and try again, but he’d got the message.

  I put it to the back of my mind and never mentioned it to anyone. To this day, I don’t know if I was the only one in the team to get a call like that. Or whether people involved in other games were targeted in that way. I honestly don’t know whether it was someone trying to influence the game for gambling purposes, or whether it was someone determined to make sure that Sunderland went up to the First Division. It would have been pointless for me to go running to Terry about it or going to the FA. For one, I’m no snitch. And anyway, how the hell would I have proved it anyway? It was only a voice on the other end of the phone. It didn’t affect me in any way before the game; I just put it down to a crank call and went on with preparing for a massive match where I had to make sure I would be at the very top of my game.

  The lads were brilliant in the hours before the game, completely focused, and on Friday, 11 May, 1979, we went out there determined not just to win the point that would deliver us into the First Division, but to beat Burnley and go up as the champions we believed we were. I had friends and family down, and Janet’s mum and dad were there in an amazing crowd of 51,482. There were thousands more locked out, I don’t know where they all came from. But what a noise they made inside Selhurst Park that night.

  It was a horribly uncomfortable game to be part of as a goalkeeper, because we had all the possession and pressure, and I just had to stand there and keep my concentration and hope that we could break Burnley down. I was kicking every ball and I leapt for joy when we got the goal that would put one hand on the Second Division trophy with just 14 minutes to go. Vince Hilaire sent over a cross from the right, and Ian Walsh got on the end of it to head us one-up. It was party time, and Dave Swindlehurst put the icing on the cake with a second. We’d done it, we’d come from fourth to grabbing the championship in the last 14 minutes of our season.

  The Palace team that night was: Burridge, Hinshelwood, Sansom, Kember, Cannon, Gilbert, Nicholas, Murphy, Swindlehurst, Walsh, Hilaire.

  It was a wonderful story – young boys of 18 had helped us win the title. I’d done it with my dicky shoulder and we were going up to the First Division.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE PIONEER

  ‘My dedication far outweighed anyone else. What is regarded as normal today, I was doing in the late 1970s, yet I was regarded as a bit of a weirdo at the time.’

  To prepare for life back in the top flight, it had been arranged for Palace to go to Florida for their pre-season, where they would play against North American Soccer League sides like the Tampa Bay Rowdies. Terry Venables was very friendly with Rodney Marsh, who was playing for them at the time, and that’s how the game came about. American soccer was massive at that time, and superstars like Pelé, George Best and Franz Beckenbauer were playing there. I would have loved to have gone there and seen all the razzmatazz first hand, but I couldn’t because I had to have my injury operated on urgently. I went to a private clinic to have my tendons fixed in my shoulder, and on the same day I checked in to go under the knife, the rest of the squad flew off to Fort Lauderdale to play Tampa Bay.

  I really would love to have gone there, but I had no option – my thoughts had to fully be on next season and getting myself 100 per cent fit to be part of it. I needed a lot of recuperation and physio treatment to get myself fit, and it was a major relief when I got the sling off after the op. I was very frightened at first that my shoulder was never going to be the same again. I’d had a few broken fingers and bust my nose more times than I cared to remember, but this was the first serious injury I had and you start to worry about the long-term effect it might have on you. But once I started swimming in the rehabilitation pool, the doubts started to ease and I had a tremendous sense of relief that I’d be able to play again. Between the end of one season and the start of another you only got six weeks off, but I was counting the days down like a kid does waiting for Santa Claus to come. I couldn’t wait to get started again, and to play with this young exciting team in the First Division.

  A few of the Palace players were already getting picked for England, Ireland and Wales and I was being touted for an international call-up too after the form I had shown in our promotion-winning season. Because I hadn’t been playing in the First Division it had counted against me, but now that we were going up it seemed like I was going to get my chance because Ron Greenwood, the England manager at that time, had been seriously considering me and taking a close look at me. Terry was telling me: ‘Budgie, you play like that again next season and I promise you you’ll be getting an England spot.’ It was easier said than done, of course, because Peter Shilton and Ray Clemence were dominating the No.1 jersey at the ti
me, so the competition was fierce.

  When Palace came back from Florida, one of the first things I needed to do was to see Terry Venables about my salary, because I thought I deserved a rise. I was on a two-year contract and was coming to the end of it. I’d just had one of the best seasons of my life, letting in only 24 goals in 42 league games, so I felt I was in a fairly strong bargaining position. Palace were splashing the cash on the back of their promotion – they had bought Mick Flanagan from Charlton for £650,000, and Gerry Francis from QPR for a million – huge money for 1979. I was on £500 a week, and as soon as I heard that they were on £1,000 a week and had got big signing-on fees, I was knocking on Terry’s door. I said: ‘Look, Terry, I helped win you promotion; I put up with cortisone injections and played through the pain barrier for you. I want a £25,000 signing-on fee and a new contract and I want to be on the same wages as them.’

  I suppose I lost my temper a little bit, but while Mick and Gerry had both played well for their respective teams, I had played well for Palace and I thought that deserved to be recognised. Like I said, I think the goalkeeper is the most important position on the pitch, and that I deserved to be on a par with the top earners. Terry was a bit taken aback, and he pointed out to me that I still had the best part of a year left on my contract. I wanted an extension to that deal, on better wages, and when he knocked that back I exploded. In the heat of the moment, I snapped at him: ‘Fine, get yourself another goalie.’ I said to him that if he wanted me to play that season and be happy, Palace should give me the money I was asking for. Terry was always Mr Cool in those situations and, to his credit, he said he would speak to the board and get back to me. But when he did that, it wasn’t the news I wanted to hear – he said they had heard him out and listened to my terms, but they couldn’t do it.

  It was the days before Bosman, and I knew I had to be ruthless as I was the only one who could do something about it. My nose was well out of joint and I told Terry I didn’t want to be at Palace, and that I wanted a move. The impasse lasted a few days, but eventually Palace dug into their pockets thanks to Terry’s diplomacy and I got what I wanted. I got the year’s contract, I got the signing-on fee, got the salary matched to the top men. I admit I was selfish when it came to money. My philosophy was simple – if I felt I’d had a really good season then I always wanted a rise or a new contract. Basically I was adopting the ‘Bosman’ approach before it came in.

  The rules of employment were all wrong and stacked against players in the 1970s and ’80s. It was the only job in the world where you could come to the end of your contract and then your employer could keep you there and demand compensation for you. I’m glad Jean-Marc Bosman took it to the European courts and won, but back then I was doing what he later made famous, and winning. If I thought I was one of the best players at the club then I wanted to be one of the best paid – why should goalkeepers be any different? I know it sounds mercenary, and it will probably upset some fans who appreciate a bit of loyalty, but footballers have a short working life and you have to gather in as much money as you possibly can while you’re playing. I felt I deserved a decent wage, given my dedication to football and my professionalism. At Palace, one night week all the lads would go out for a good drink, but not me. I’m not acting all prim and proper here and frowning at the rest of the lads’ behaviour – each to their own – but I was never into that. My night was watching Top of the Pops and a good night’s sleep. My dedication far outweighed anyone else in the team.

  We started the season impressively, picking up where we had left off in the Second Division, and really underlined our potential as the new kids on the block when we faced Ipswich Town in September. They were managed by Bobby Robson, God rest his soul, and their line-up included players like Russell Osman, Terry Butcher, George Burley, Eric Gates and Paul Mariner – they were just a fantastic team. I had a good pre-season behind me, my shoulder felt strong, and I was pumped up at the thought of playing in the First Division again. I was also well pleased with my signing-on fee and contract, so I was one very happy goalie. Terry Venables had gone up even further in my estimations – here I had a great manager whom I really respected and it wasn’t lost on me that he’d had to fight the board tooth and nail to get me the contract I wanted. He had taken all my cheek as well, when a lot of the time he would probably have been well within his rights to tell me to get lost. Terry Venables always went that extra yard for me.

  I remember that Ipswich game for a lot of reasons. We had recently been in Bilbao to play a friendly in a tournament, in which Dynamo Moscow were also taking part. I was spellbound as I watched the Moscow goalkeeper before the game – he had been out on the field on his own to do a warm-up. This was in the days when everyone stayed in the dressing room until five to three and any warm-up was done within those four walls. I had been watching him and taking mental notes, thinking to myself: ‘That’s brilliant – I’m going to start doing that!’ So, against Ipswich Town I came out more than half an hour before kick-off and the old groundsman at Selhurst Park was telling me: ‘You can’t go out now, you’re not allowed on the field!’

  He kept on at me, determined to clear me off the pitch, telling me: ‘You’re not allowed a ball.’ So I said to him: ‘No ball, no problem.’ I had done a lot of gymnastics at school, somersaults and stretches and so on, so seeing as I couldn’t have the ball I started walking on my hands across the penalty box and doing somersaults. Word had got to Terry Venables in the dressing room about what was going on, and he came out to see what the commotion was. It would be no big deal today. Everyone is out there now doing stretches, but in 1979 there was Terry looking at me and thinking my head must have gone as he stood there watching me bouncing about doing somersaults. He was worried I’d do my back in! From then on it used to become part of my pre-match routine. I came back into the dressing room after 20 minutes, and Terry asked me if I was all right. But even then his revolutionary mind was working overtime and the more he thought about it, the more he thought it was brilliant.

  In that game, I was so happy that when we went 1-0 up, I did a back somersault in my box. When we banged in a second goal I did it again. The crowd thought it was fantastic that I’d be doing somersaults every time we scored a goal, and I was kept busy entertaining them that afternoon because we were running riot. We got a third, then a fourth goal, and I thought: ‘I’ve got to something that’s going to make the fans REALLY cheer,’ so I climbed up onto the crossbar and sat there – Budgie by name, Budgie by nature. I was sitting there grinning, on the corner between the bar and post, at the stanchion. I was taking the piss out of Ipswich and their striker Paul Mariner was looking at me open-mouthed, at this nutcase sitting on the crossbar. I was shouting over to the rest of the lads: ‘I’ve got the best seat in the house – you get a cracking view from up here!’ But then one of the Ipswich players tried a shot from just inside our half and I had to jump down and save it. If my manager had been Ron Saunders he would have had me strung up on that crossbar, but Terry Venables came up to me at the end of the game and said: ‘That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in football in my life.’ To this day I don’t know why I did it, I just did. You would get into all sorts of problems with the FA now for unsporting conduct and all that politically correct nonsense, but I just did it to send the fans home smiling. They couldn’t have been any happier to be honest – we’d just thrashed one of the best sides in the country 4-1 and Crystal Palace had gone top of the First Division for the first time in the club’s history.

  A few games later we were away to Manchester United at Old Trafford. You come out of the tunnel at Old Trafford in the corner at the Stretford End and everyone was looking a bit uptight as we prepared to come out on to the pitch. My way of easing the tension was to walk out of the tunnel, then across the box in front of the Stretford End, on my hands! The United fans and players were wondering what was going on, but I was only warming myself up to play a football game. It didn’t do us any harm as we got a 1-1 draw.


  After that, my acrobatics became the centrepiece of my regular pre-match ritual. I’d be quite happy out there on my own, and because a lot of the groundsmen wouldn’t let me onto their pitch until kick-off, I’d get round that by staying off the field and doing my routine behind the goals so they couldn’t stop me. After a while, Terry started to think about what I was doing and decided it would be good for the whole team to go out at 2.30 to warm up. So Crystal Palace were trailblazers by becoming the first team to come out onto the football field half an hour before a game. Our old groundsman wasn’t happy with the situation – he was old school and didn’t like anyone messing about with his own long-established rules. It had dawned on Terry that it made a lot of sense for players to get a feel of the ball and a feel of the pitch before kick-off. He would get the centre-forward to take shots at me, all stuff that’s still done to this day. Other teams started copying us and it became the norm. It became common practice, but because I had done it first I was regarded as a bit of a freak, an extrovert, an oddball – but the truth of the matter is that I was simply thinking ahead of my time. And time has proved me right, just look at the methods used by the top clubs now.

  I remember another time we played Nottingham Forest, just before Christmas 1979. Forest had won the European Cup the year before and had a very strong side. We played them at Selhurst Park and they had Peter Shilton in goal, who was the England goalkeeper at the time. Just having him in the opposite goal helped me raise my game and I played great that day. We won it 1-0 and it was another big feather in our cap. All the lads were in the mood to celebrate and headed down to the players’ lounge afterwards for a couple of well-earned beers. But while they were all showered and changed and knocking back lagers in the warmth of the stadium, I was out on the pitch on my lonesome, going through my warm down and getting rid of any tension in my muscles.

  Terry had seen me out on the pitch doing my stuff and then running round the track, and when I was changing in the dressing room on my own, the door opened and Terry stuck his head round. ‘Budgie,’ he said to me, ‘I wouldn’t even swap you for their keeper.’ That meant everything to me, made me feel so big, so fantastic. I thought to myself, if I’m ever a manager that’s the way I want to be. With just a few sincere words, he had built up my self-belief. It was just another example of Venables’ man-management genius. You may think I am going overboard in my praise of the man, but I can’t speak too highly about Terry Venables – he was absolutely fantastic for me. Instead of branding me a nutcase, like most people did, he used to let me get on with my eccentricities. He would accept them as long he saw that I was playing well. He accepted me for what I was. He was quite happy to go along with my revolutionary ideas.