I was impressed – if Hellenic were good enough for England’s World Cup-winning legends, surely they were good enough for Pat Van Den Hauwe? I wish I had been sober enough to ask the Greek owner how many games they had played for him, as once sober I made a few enquiries and I was informed that the names mentioned had indeed played for his club, in a one-off exhibition match when they had all finished playing professionally.
Eventually, I was handed a contract which in my inebriated state I would have signed there and then. To be bluntly honest, I was that pissed I’d have signed a valentine card for Patsy Smith or a get well card for Ozzie Ardiles! Luckily enough, Nick was on the ball and it took him hours to get it through to them that there was no way I was signing such a shit contract. Eventually, the owner said they would pay me 5,000 Rand a month, which was about a grand. On top of that, I would get various bonuses and accommodation, as well as the best car the club had to offer. They were sorry they gave me that, as it was written off within a month as I struggled to come to terms with the fact that the locals insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road.
I signed for three months with a view to a much longer deal if I did the business. It was not great money but decent for South Africa as it was a cheap place to live. I thought that I would piss it, as the standard was so poor. However, I did not take into consideration the time it would take me to adapt to the country and climate. It was horrible at the time, we were smack in middle of their winter and it was cold and continually pissing down and, although I tried – albeit not very hard – to adjust to my new surroundings, I just could not settle.
I was put in a hotel and, as is the case with hotel life, you either vegetate in your room or hit the town, and that was a no-brainer for the likes of myself. Soon I had Nick in tow as he was basically on holiday for a week now that the deal had been signed and sealed. Within a few days, we had our first fall-out as, like I have done all my life, I met a lovely young lady and fell for her. Nick was trying to get me back to the hotel as he knew that I could not go missing during my first week at the club. During the silly argument that followed, I kicked him in the balls and told him to fuck off as I was too old to require a babysitter. I was totally out of order and we fell out briefly before he returned to England, so I informed him that I was going home with him. Nick was a rock and persuaded me to stay and to see out at least the three-month contract I had signed. Taking his advice was one of the best decisions I ever made in my life.
With Nick gone, I was looked after by Colin Gee, who trained the youth team. He took me all over Cape Town looking for somewhere to stay, showing me all the options available and eventually I got a nice apartment on the beach front. Things were looking up. I found a nice little bar 50 yards up the road, run by bloke called Selwyn who became a very good friend of mine and who helped me settle into life in South Africa.
I was enjoying life except for the football, as from day one I found the training tedious. It was all this clappy-happy shite, dancing about, it was useless and embarrassing. We were training like Brazil but were sadly lacking in rhythm, never mind quality, so I started to do my own thing which pissed them off straight away. I played a few games but I was not doing well, I was struggling with my fitness, as I was on the beer and, along with not taking training seriously, I was found wanting when we played.
It did not help when I was sent off in one game for two elbow offences, although I would probably have got away with a yellow had those two incidents not occurred at the same time. Two players were on my back at a corner and I did them both in a split-second before realising the referee was just a yard away.
Eventually, Colin Gee pulled me to one side and said that if I did not play well in the next game I was on my way home, so I bucked my ideas up and trained hard for a few days. There was a top striker up against me that everybody was raving about, but I did him early on and we won. Another contract was put in front of me that I signed and everybody was happy, for a week at least.
Our next game was away, which involved a short flight, which was delayed for a few hours, so I clattered the bar at the airport and ended up losing my ticket. One of the club officials went mad but they eventually got me on the plane so I carried on drinking. The following day, I was summoned to the manager’s office and he went berserk, telling me I was a disgrace and a waste of the club’s money and if he had known that I was such a headache he’d never have signed me.
Deep down, I knew he was right; everything he said was spot on, but I was having such a superb time at night that his so-called bollocking fell on deaf ears. I simply told him that I had not lost my flight ticket on purpose and to chill out. I think he was probably expecting an apology – he deserved one – but at the time there was no way I would give him one so he fined me a month’s wages. I lost the plot and turned on him, telling him to fuck off. He said all the fine money went into a player’s kitty, but I accused him of trying to line his own pockets and we rowed for ages about it until eventually I said, ‘Fuck you, fuck your club and goodbye …’ I walked out the door and that was that.
By this time, I had cashed in a pension from England was given a pay-off from Hellenic thanks to Nick’s negotiations, so I had about £60,000 burning a hole in my pocket. I was now looking to enjoy South Africa and had a considerable amount of money to do it – a dangerous combination. In local currency, I had over half a million Rand and, believe me, was I going to make the most of it!
Despite only being in the country a few months, I had made some great friends, so even though the reason I had arrived in Cape Town – to play football – had gone west, I had no intention of flying back to England. As I lived in a club apartment, I had to find somewhere to else to stay as I was no longer on the club’s free housing list, so I set about finding myself a nice place to live in the thick of the action. I was introduced to a couple who were friends of Colin Gee’s, who told me that their brother-in-law had a huge house in an area called Hout Bay which was a truly beautiful place to live. It sounded too good to be true and there was indeed a problem – the bloke who owned this magnificent property was gay.
But regardless of the bloke’s sexual preferences, I needed somewhere to live, so I went and met him. I got on with him within minutes of us being introduced and, although 100 per cent camp, Kevin was a very intelligent and funny individual. I put him in the picture that I was straight and had no interest in men, and he promised me that he understood the situation and that all he wanted from me every month was the rent. The situation was better than I could have hoped for as he informed me that he was an air steward. This meant he obviously travelled frequently, leaving me as the sole occupier of this huge house situated in one of the most sought-after areas in town.
We shook hands and, to celebrate our new arrangement, he asked me to join him for a drink and, as expected, he took me to a gay bar … or, in his words, ‘a poofs’ bar’. I am not being homophobic – it is what Kevin and his mates called it when in my company. In fact, to this day, he is still in my phone contact list under Kevin the Poof!
I was a new face on the block and, as soon as I entered the bar, all his mates were trying their luck with Kevin’s new lodger. One by one, they were told in no uncertain terms that if they did not keep their distance, they would get a dig. Eventually, the penny dropped and they started asking me to go out with them to other venues as a mate, not a potential target. One club we frequented was called The Bronx, totally gay, but an amazing place.
My new home was nicknamed ‘The Queen’s House’, but it was more like a mad house. Every night Kevin was home, there was a party to commemorate something or another as he would celebrate the opening of a tin of soup! He had wardrobes of women’s clothes and quite often, after a few too many drinks, his mates would ask me to dress up with them but one glare was enough to let them know I was a jeans and shorts man.
The place was a millionaire’s hang-out and was where I was introduced to a property developer called Mr K, a top fella, who lived in
Durban. He had business interests worldwide and was forever in Cape Town setting up all sorts of deals. He owned two Harley Davidsons and a Dodge Viper and we would bomb about the strips on the Harley and pull birds left, right and centre. We became huge friends and he introduced me to a lifestyle that made my time in Birmingham, Liverpool and London seem like Sunday school outings.
His home in Cape Town was a superb apartment in a place called Buckhoven, 20 minutes from where I stayed. Within weeks of meeting him, we were coked off our heads and visiting all the top night spots, basically living the high life. Every night we were bang at it, bird after bird, huge amounts of cocaine and even larger amounts of alcohol. I would drink six pints of lager then hammer a bottle of vodka.
Every day was manic; it was an amazing time of my life. I was living like a rock star and, although it was fantastic, it obviously had its drawbacks.
During this period, Budgie got sacked as manager of Hellenic. Colin Gee took over and was soon on the phone pleading with me to rejoin them. Under normal circumstances, I would have laughed at the offer; I was having the time of my life, but needed to be working to secure a visa, as every six months you had to fly back to the UK and renew it. My beef had been with Byrne, not Gee. He had helped me get a place to live when I jacked in, so it suited both parties when I agreed to rejoin Colin at the club.
With my visa sorted, I was back to the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle and, although I gave it a month at the club, I ended up walking out again. I should never have gone back as I hated it there. Colin never tried to stop me; he knew I had bundles of money and was on the piss big time, as well as hitting the Charlie. It’s fair to say we left by ‘mutual agreement’ – I told him I was fucking off and he agreed that I should.
Some months later, I had to fly home again to renew my visa and was shown a press cutting by a friend with the headline ‘FROM SOCCER STAR TO BEACH BUM!’ The story went on to say how I had fallen from grace and was now a drunken, womanising bum living on the beach in Cape Town. They were right on two counts, but I lived in a top gaff and I was extremely angry that people in the UK would have read the article thinking I was living like a tramp. Due to my experiences with Mandy, I still had some very good contacts in the press so made a few calls and, within an hour, was given the name of the person who had sold the story to the highest bidder … Colin Gee!
Two days later, I was back on the plane to Cape Town and my first stop was Hellenic Football Club. I went straight to the ground, pushed past the security guards and walked into the middle of a training session with the first-team squad, stopping it dead. I looked at Gee and gave it him big time. I called him every name under the sun and let every single player know that the bloke was a grass. I also let them know he was a liar, as they knew where I lived and that, although off the rails, I was no beach bum. Gee was in a state of shock and was muttering that I had got it all wrong and that he had nothing to do with it. When I told him that I had spoken to the bloke who wrote the story, he just held his head in shame.
Colin later became the agent for Quentin Fortune, one of South Africa’s most famous players, but received plenty of bad press, none more so than when he turned to opening up academies that were hardly run as they should have been. To this day, the man is well known in South Africa as one not to be trusted – and I, for one, can vouch for that.
17
IN LEAGUE WITH THE DEVIL
Once again, my football career was over, so I carried on partying with Mr K in between his busy business schedule which meant more booze, more birds and, by this time, far too much Charlie. It got to the stage where I was going off with friends of friends to score coke in dangerous places. One night, we were that desperate for drugs we even went to a black township called Gugulethu. Now I went with these guys whom I hardly knew and, as we pulled into the garage where the drop-off had been arranged, my new ‘mates’ all pulled out loaded pistols in case the deal went pear-shaped.
I was shocked at first. We were only buying a quarter-of-an-ounce and I never realised that some dealers in the townships would shoot you for the money involved in such a small transaction. When we got home safe and sound, Mr K told me that I was a fool going there as it was a place where you could be killed and nobody would bat an eyelid.
I became very close to Mr K and began going to business meetings and the like with him and visited his home in Durban quite frequently. On one such visit, I had too much money in my pocket so spent a week in the Beverly Hills Hotel which cost me 10,000 Rand, which was a hell of a lot of money in those days. The reason behind it was simple – I had met and wanted the manager’s wife, a very attractive lady who was also up for it. After days of getting nowhere, she ended up getting drunk with us one night and I managed to get her back to my room and it looked like my 10,000 Rand was a good investment, but she was so pissed she just crashed out naked on my bed and slept like a baby all night. I was gutted, but more so when her husband found out and barred me from the hotel.
A few weeks later, I was told that he was going to get me done in, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated, so I went and met him and I told him to fuck off. I was once again out of control and did not give a flying fuck about anything. After six months, they split up and he moved back to the UK, so the next time I visited Durban I called her and we more than made up for her nodding off in my company on our previous date.
I was introduced to a guy called Costa who owned a Shwarma bar, imaginatively called ‘Costa’s Shwarmas’. It was a great meeting place and I bought my first gun from him for 2,000 Rand. I went to register it in a police station but was told I could not take it home to Cape Town as firearms weren’t allowed on an aeroplane. So I kept it there with him and took it everywhere with me when I was visiting. By now, I was visiting often as the rock ’n’ roll, drug, booze and bird lifestyle I was growing fond of was even better in Durban.
I had the most hilarious time ever when a member of the Millwall ‘Five Ball’ arrived in Cape Town but, as well as it being hilarious, he caused absolute murder. The ex-player – who I will not name for the sake of his reputation – called and said he was coming over to visit, so I agreed to collect him at the airport but, of course, forgot due to being on another planet. Eventually, he tracked me down and he was in a right mood until I took him out and introduced him to my new lifestyle. Within half-an-hour, he pulled a bird in this stunning bar overlooking the ocean and the locals inside looking out of the huge glass windows were treated to a bit of a show. Some were not impressed and the following day the owner pulled me to one side and told me that I needed to get a grip of my pal as that kind of behaviour could get him locked up if the police had caught him in action. I relayed the message but it fell on deaf ears, as this member of the ‘Five Ball’ gave even less of a fuck than I did. We would be on a crowded beach and I could sense he’d be planning something; the next minute he’d stand up, stretch, make a bit of noise to get attention, strip off bollock-naked and walk the length of the beach to the sea while blokes covered their birds’ eyes in disbelief!
We went out one night with Mr K on a business meeting with some of his opposition, a firm who had some right lumps with them. My pal took offence to something that was said to K, so he jumped up threatening the biggest one among them. He was rattling on about ‘don’t speak to my mate like that …’ when, in reality, he had only known K for five minutes. I tried to calm it down but he was having none of it, even when I pleaded with him to leave it out. Eventually, this huge Chinese geezer told me to stay out of it and they took the disagreement outside where I witnessed the worst attempt at a straightener ever as every punch that was thrown missed its target. We all ended up rolling about laughing and went back in the bar as friends; even the business deal came off.
A few days later, another meeting we attended didn’t go quite as well, so K handed me a .38 Special on the way home and said if this firm arrived at his home heavy-handed, be prepared to use the shooter. We were off our heads on Charlie and we went to the top f
loor of the apartment and were told to sleep on the balcony and keep watch in case this firm turned up looking for trouble.
We were lying there under this big blanket, shitting ourselves, and every time the wind blew or a cat ran through the garden we were up pointing this fucking gun in every direction. God knows what would have happened if someone had actually turned up – thank the Lord they never did!
We continued going to every pub, club and bar in town and all the bouncers wanted to kill my ex-team-mate as he was so disrespectful to them. It was a nightmare going out with him, but such good fun it was impossible to stay in. It was a crazy couple of weeks that I will never forget and, when he eventually buggered off back to the UK, it took me months to iron out all the problems he had caused. I have never seen him since and if he ever comes knocking on my door, my wife has been given instructions to tell him that I am out.
During my trips between Durban and Cape Town, I met a model called Candice who had a friend we called ‘The Doc’. He could get Charlie that was almost pure; it was the best gear available, but that is the kind that gets you hooked, and sadly that was the case. I got heavily into the drug scene and stared going around with a gang of lads who all rode Harleys, and was introduced to a bloke called Steven Kentridge, an introduction that almost cost both of us dearly.
I was still having the time of my life, although I’d started to suffer paranoia due to the amount of devil’s dust going up my nose, so I’d taken to carrying a gun at all times. I had bought my own .38 Special with an air trigger and I carried it religiously, loaded with deadly dum-dum bullets. If I ever had to shoot anybody, they were dead, as those things blew a hole the size of a football in you.
Pat Van Den Hauwe Page 18
