The day after the game, I got a call from Yorath and, before I had chance to say hello, he was ranting and raving, accusing me of all sorts and ordered me to get to Cardiff to be assessed by the Welsh medical team.
Now people who know me well will appreciate that I don’t take kindly to being ordered about, so basically I told him to fuck off, and he replied that I would never play for Wales again. It was probably not the cleverest thing I have ever said, but on the back of a Cup Final defeat against your bitterest rivals and carrying yet another injury which had plagued me all season, I was in no mood for pleasantries.
These things happen in football and I was expecting Yorath to call me back and get things sorted, but what happened next shocked me as he got on to the press and was quoted the following day calling me a disgrace and saying that my international career was over. Although I took it on the chin, I was bitter about the way Yorath had treated me.
Wales failed to make it to the 1990 World Cup finals in Italy, and I’ll be honest and say I was a little mixed up watching Belgium do so well before eventually going out to England when David Platt scored in the last minute of extra time. Had I waited, maybe I would have played in that game for either side – who knows what might have happened? But to this day, I am extremely proud to have played for Wales and, in particular, that great manager and superb person Mike England.
7
HEART WITH A MERSEY BEAT
Liverpool can be a tough, rough place. Make no bones about it, it is a city that has more than its fair share of hard-cases and is certainly a place where the locals do not suffer fools. When I moved to Everton, I was warned by a few people that I may find it hard to get out and enjoy myself as I had a bad reputation which might have been a tag the Scousers wanted to test. And I had another distinct disadvantage … I was a Londoner!
The people who were worried about my general wellbeing did not know that I had connections in the city – very good connections indeed. Many years before I moved to Goodison, a gentleman named John Smith, who was a well-known local businessman, used to travel to London with the Golden Gloves Boxing Club from Liverpool and fight my local club, the Fisher Amateur Boxing Club. The Fisher lads were trained by Little Nobby, a well-known ex-member of the Krays’ firm. Through the boxing, John became friends with my Uncles Harry and Tommy who, at the time, ran The Crown, a well-respected pub in Jamaica Road, Bermondsey.
The Crown was near The Lilliput Pub, run by a Scouse boxer – Billy Aird – who fought for European and British Championships. He had been one of the Golden Glove boxers but liked London so much he decided to stay there. Another boxer who fought the Fisher lads was none other than Wayne Rooney Snr, father of the famous ex-Evertonian who, in his younger days, I’m told, was a decent fighter.
As soon as I moved to Everton, I got in touch with John and, to this day, he remains one of my closest friends, although he has had to clip my wings once or twice since we met. My first introduction to some of his infamous, hands-on discipline came soon after I made the move to Merseyside. I was guilty of turning up at another well-known boxing club, the Everton Red Triangle, pissed up, and foolishly threw John’s name into the hat when I was asked to fuck off, having made a bit of a nuisance of myself.
The bloke in charge, Joe Curran, phoned John to say I was acting a bit out of order, so John told him to stick me in the ring with someone while he came down to take me home. I went to the ring upstairs and was put in with a local lad called Tony Carroll and, not realising he was an up-and-coming pro, gladly agreed to spar with him. By the time John arrived, Tony had literally chased me round the ring, so I got out and told John to join me for a few minutes as this bloke was a bit too tasty for me. It was a big mistake!
John stripped to his vest and asked for these huge 16oz gloves which, when worn, made his hands look like fucking shovels. With not wanting to lose face, I commented that we would just have a bit of a spar and no proper hitting in the face. Tony said he’d keep time and we’d just have a minute, so I got ready. The bell went and ‘BOOM’, this 16oz glove smashed into my belly and it was game over in two seconds flat. I never turned up pissed at that gym again.
Having learnt a valuable lesson, I began showing a bit more respect and John introduced me to a good friend of his – Tony Unghi. Tony was another well-known local businessman who owned The Royal George in Park Road, Toxteth. I had some fantastic times in that boozer; if ever I had problems or wanted to get away from all the hassle of being in the spotlight, that was the place to go. It was nicknamed ‘Black George’s’ and I was treated like a local in there at all times. When I went missing from training, that’s where I would be; it was the one place the likes of Terry Darracott and his staff would not come looking for me. I remember one night shagging a cleaner on the pool table and, from that day on, she was nicknamed Nora Van Den Hauwe by all the punters!
Another great pub John took me to was run by ex-Everton winger Gary Jones called The Albert in Lark Lane. It was another place I spent time in when I should have been elsewhere … but that’s another story. Gary was a fantastic bloke and I was lucky to be over in the UK when he got married and I attended the ceremony with John and his wife Lynne.
I went out quite often with a bloke called Dave Dolby who was also a good friend of Graeme Sharp. Dave, an ex-copper, ran a boozer near where we lived called The Royal Blundell. One day, he sorted it for me to go to the police station, showed me around and we ended up going into the shooting range in the basement. It was a totally secure area, with guns all over the wall of all shapes and sizes. I was allowed some target practice under supervision and fired a .38 and a big Magnum. The .38 was a piece of piss but the Magnum was mental and, when I pulled the trigger, I nearly blew a hole in the roof. I kid you not – when I fired it, I came close to shitting myself as a huge ball of fire came out of the barrel and the noise was deafening. It was far too powerful for me, hence it ended my introduction to firearms.
A few weeks later, I mentioned to Dave that I fancied another go with the Magnum and tried to convince him I’d be able to hit the target, not the roof! Dave told me in confidence that it was not going to happen as a day or two after I had visited the range he had been informed that he was not to take me there again due to my so-called ‘connections’ with the Liverpool underworld and, in particular, a family named the Bennetts.
The Bennetts! Where do I start? They are the family who allegedly ran me out of town, who slashed my legs or broke my ankles, depending on who is telling the story. In reality, that is utter bollocks as they were friends of mine when I was at Everton and are still friends of mine today. In fact, there is a picture in this book of me at Joey’s 40th birthday party along with some other snaps from the old days, and what crazy days they were.
I first met Joey Bennett Snr when he worked on the door at the famous Conti Nightclub. It was a regular haunt of all the players and I got on really well with Joey and we became firm friends. Before long, I was introduced to his family and spent more time around their dinner table than I did around my own. They were down-to-earth and warm-hearted – my type of people.
Joey also worked at the docks and I loved going down there and meeting all the lads. I felt at home on the docks because of the working-class, salt-of-the-earth environment. I would often sit in the dockers’ canteen and have a chat and laugh with the Scousers for hours.
After we beat Liverpool at Anfield thanks to Sharpy’s goal of the season, I called at Joey’s house and told him to get ready as we were going out to celebrate. As it happened, he had to work that night on the container base at Seaforth docks so we decided to nip down the docks, book him in and head to the Conti. For a laugh, I said I’d go and book him in while he waited in the car, so joined a huge queue of dockers.
They were all dressed in thick coats and hats wearing hobnail boots and I looked a bit out of place wearing a smart suit ready for a nightclub! Soon, a few dockers recognised me and sussed what we were doing; they found it surreal that an Everton p
layer was calling in for a night shift on the waterfront. We had a great laugh waiting to book in. Gradually, I got to the front and met the time-keeper who booked all the lads in and I calmly gave him Joey’s number, 572. He looked up at me and blurted out in a broad Scouse accent, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are with your London accent and smart-arse suit? I know whose number you have given me, and you’re not Joey Bennett!’
The bloke did not have a clue that a few hours earlier I had played in a famous Everton win at Anfield and the other dockers were in fits of laughter. He clicked who I was and, luckily, he was an Evertonian so booked Joey in and told me to get him back for 3.00am as that was when the ship docked!
On the way to the Conti, I appreciated that the talent I had meant I did not have to queue for real and work a nightshift on the docks. Sadly, I did not always appreciate how lucky I was. We had a great time, the club was bouncing that night as the rest of the squad were there and they could not believe I had been down to the docks to put a shift in.
I used to meet up with Joey and his pal Tommy Hobart and go down to Paddy’s Gym on Shaw Street where they did some sparring and bag work. One day, Joey must have been in a bad mood as he nearly knocked the bag through the wall. I remember Tommy saying to me that if Joey had caught me with that punch I would have been out for about three seasons; I told him I was just thinking the same thing. Joey’s brothers – Tommy, Mickey, Sammy and Tony – were sparring, they were all excellent boxers and I was given the option of who I fancied a round or two with. My reply of ‘None of you … I’ll see you in the pub later …’ raised a smile. I loved going to that gym; it was like being in a movie set in the Bronx, New York, a fantastic place.
Before the first Merseyside Cup Final I sorted Joey some tickets out and he picked them up from me at the training ground. I asked him where he was off to and he said the pub, so I jumped in with him and Tommy. We had to call at Goodison as Tommy had a season ticket and needed to collect his Cup Final ticket from the Goodison Road box office. When we got there, the queue was about a mile long and stretched down Walton Hall Avenue. Joey commented that we’d miss last orders, so I got Tommy’s season ticket, went through the players’ lounge and sorted it in two minutes. To celebrate, we went on a bender and I stayed out for a couple of nights.
I called in at Joey’s house a bit worse for wear and he told me that Kevin Ratcliffe had been on the phone asking if he’d seen me, as the last time I had been spotted was getting in his car. Joey’s wife Jean came in and gave me a bollocking, telling me to get back to Everton and to stop giving her husband a bad name.
Joey and his family were my guests at the 1986 Cup Final party in the Grosvenor Hotel where we had a great night, even though we lost the cup. The players had arranged a bar for friends and family where the drinks were cheaper, so I told Joey to get a round in for the lads while I went to the toilet. Unfortunately, he went to the wrong bar, and I was stung with an £80 tab for 16 pints of lager.
The Bennetts were mad Evertonians, so the day I was called up for the Welsh squad I got Rushy to phone Joey and tell him that I was his new team-mate and was proudly wearing a red shirt. Joey was going nuts until he heard us pissing ourselves laughing and he sussed it was a Wales shirt, not a Liverpool one!
Every Monday evening there was a family night at Bernie’s Inn and I religiously joined the Bennett clan for a meal. The first time we went there the waitress approached us to take the order and I asked for a fillet steak. She asked how I would like it cooked so I replied, ‘Edible … two flips … that’s it!’ I insisted that I didn’t want anything else – no vegetables, potatoes, side orders, nothing, just the steak and a pint of lager.
She looked very bemused and the family thought it was hilarious, but that’s all I ever had in such places. The meal arrived, a blood-covered steak and a pint of lager. I demolished it and told the waitress that it was delicious. The same thing happened for the next few visits – every time it was the same waitress and the same order. Eventually, she stopped asking me what I wanted and would just say ‘same again for soft lad’. After weeks of this happening, the chef popped his head out of the serving hatch and asked the waitress, ‘Where is he?’ She pointed to me and he shouted, ‘Fucking hell … is it you? No wonder they call you Psycho Pat!’
One day, myself and Joey and his young son were driving along Dock Road when I saw an old tramp sitting on a cardboard box on the floor. I stopped the car, approached the man and handed him a £20 note, which in those days was a decent amount. I went over to the nearby café caravan and gave the lady who was serving another £20 asking her would she would make sure that the tramp would be fed and watered for the next 20 days as there was a huge sign advertising ‘£1 for tea, soup and a roll’. I returned to the car and said something like ‘any one of us could end up like that …’ and thought nothing more of it. Twenty years later, at his 40th, young Joey reminded me of that incident and told me he was so touched by my gesture that he would never forget it. I was amazed he remembered it, and it showed that even as a young lad he had respect for everyone.
On his 18th birthday, Joey Jnr bumped into me at the Conti and, at throwing out time, some of his mates invited me to join them at a ‘rave’ in Sefton Park. I was hesitant as I was wearing suit and also it was not really the kind of event footballers should be attending. After a minute of mild persuasion, one of the lads gave me a cap and a denim jacket to wear and off we went. We were having a good time when this big bloke recognised me and started to give me a bit of stick. It got out of hand and came close to blows before it settled down when the bloke apologised. I accepted his apology, even though I was still fuming as he was bang out of order.
We continued to enjoy ourselves but one of the lads who was in our company needed the toilet, which was a right hike across the park, so he simply pulled his zipper down and pissed all over this unused BBQ, which was situated next to where we stood.
Half an hour went by when, to our amusement, somebody came and lit the BBQ and started selling burgers. Revenge was sweet when the first customer to buy one was none other than the bloke who had given me grief earlier. That made our night.
In 1986, young Joey was playing for Liverpool schoolboys who had a few Everton fans in the side, one of them being Steve McManaman, who went on to have a great career. During a visit to Joey’s house, the young Macca was there when I walked in, and he was a bit star-struck and asked for my autograph.
A few years later when I had joined Spurs, McManaman had got into the Liverpool first team and we were playing them at Anfield, so Joey turned up at The Moat House hotel to get some tickets for the game. He told me about Steve’s progress and reminded me that he was his mate from all those years ago and laughed that I may want his autograph now. I replied, ‘Mate or no mate – if he goes past me, I will kick him. Why’s a good fucking Blue playing for them?’
Young Joey was actually on Everton’s books as a kid and I often wonder, as does his father, if the rumours that swept the city had anything to do with him being released by the club. The rumours were nonsense and the reason I left Everton were purely personal and had nothing to do with problems in the city with the Bennetts or any other family either. As I have said, they were great friends of mine when I was at Everton and they still are today.
I did fear for my safety once when Joey Snr phoned and told me to get my arse around to their house pronto. I had no idea what I had done wrong and was truly shitting myself when I arrived there. I walked into the front room and Joey was sitting around the table with some friends, Les and Joan Powell. They proceeded to hand me their latest telephone bill, which was an astonishing £650 for a quarter.
I then had a horrible flash-back to a couple of months earlier when I had gone to a local pub with Joey and some family friends, including Les and Joan. We had ended up back at the Powells’ for a party and, when everyone had gone to bed, I crashed out on the couch. After a few minutes, I began thinking of Kimberly Cusack, a girl I had met on tour in Haw
aii, so decided to phone her. I must have been on the blower to her for about three hours! In my drunken state, I had thought nothing of it, but weeks later the phone bill was a sobering reminder.
Joey just said, ‘What are you going to do about this?’
I looked at Les and Joan and said, ‘Will you take a cheque?’ I paid the bill and we had a good laugh about it, although I was not invited to stop over at the Powells’ ever again.
I hadn’t long left Everton when I met Mandy Smith and was being driven around London one day in a Rolls-Royce drinking champagne, so I got Mandy to phone Joey and told her to invite him and Jean down for a weekend. They thought I was nuts and did not have a clue who she was. Before long, I wished I hadn’t heard of her either.
The likes of John Smith, Tony Unghi and the Bennetts made my time in Liverpool extremely enjoyable. In fact, one of the main reasons I had to leave was that they were too enjoyable!
I was born in Belgium, raised in Millwall and played for Wales … but my heart is 100 per cent Scouse!
8
A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
While we were still celebrating the most memorable season in Everton’s proud history, disaster struck. The trouble at the Heysel stadium has been well documented and the tragic events that occurred on the 29 May 1985 – when 39 spectators, nearly all of them Juventus fans, were killed when a surge of Liverpool fans caused a wall to collapse at the European Cup final in Brussels – was, of course, a tragic event. However, for the life of me, I still cannot get my nut around the fact that somehow Everton were denied the opportunity to play in the same competition the following season.
Pat Van Den Hauwe Page 8
