by Mark Ward
In November ’91 Howard signed Scottish international centre-forward Maurice Johnston from Glasgow Rangers for £1.5m. Mo introduced himself to me the first day in training, saying how his pal Frank McAvennie had told him all about the ‘wee man’, and we instantly became good mates.
McAvennie and Johnston were like two peas in a pod. They were Scottish international forwards from Glasgow, with red-hair dyed blond, and both had played for Celtic. On the social side, they loved nothing better than shagging birds and having a little drink or six. And like McAvennie in my West Ham days, I ended up rooming with Maurice on away trips. Oh, and the most important similarity was that they both liked scoring goals.
By this time, though, Maurice was way past his best, and I remember telling him so just a few weeks in to his brief Everton career. Even so, we became firm mates and he was good company.
Our final league position of 12th was disappointing but Howard was still trying to put his own squad together. I was quite happy with my overall performance and I must have been consistent because I played in 37 out of the 42 league games in that 1991-92 campaign.
At the end of the season a tour had been arranged in the exotic location of Mauritius, where we were going to play friendlies against their national team and Aston Villa. The squad left Bellefield bound for Heathrow but, with cans of lager flowing fast from the moment we left Merseyside, I was feeling drunk by the time we reached the Keele services on the M6 in Staffordshire.
When we arrived at Heathrow airport, most of the squad were drunk – all except Peter Beardsley, who is teetotal. We still had a 12-hour flight to take in – Business Class and free booze all the way! It was going to be an interesting journey, because Aston Villa – managed by the flamboyant Ron Atkinson – were on the same plane.
In fact, the Villa players were there to greet us when we arrived in the VIP lounge at Heathrow. After hours of boozing on the bus, we must have looked like Raggy Arse Rovers compared to them but the one big difference between the teams in that lounge was that the Villa lads had their wives and girlfriends in tow.
Howard got his bedraggled squad together for a team meeting. He said: ‘Yes, lads, you can see that some of the Villa players have their wives and girlfriends with them. But it’s been a rule of mine that no women should come on any of our away trips. Okay?’ And that was that. We started to socialise with the Villa lads, who said that bringing along their partners was optional. The Villa party would be staying at a different hotel anyway, so it wasn’t a problem to us.
The alcohol was flowing freely again as soon as we took off. The plane was spilt between the Everton and Villa lads with some among our first division rivals Villa sat holding hands with the WAGs of the day.
For part of the journey I was seated in between Peter Beardsley and Villa’s Paul McGrath. Peter was great company even though he didn’t drink. He was always there on our nights out, looking out for the lads, and it was actually him who challenged me to drink a glass of champagne quicker than the Irishman McGrath, who had a reputation as a big drinker at the time.
He was also great company and we were getting on great but I knew I was up against it. Peter poured the vintage champers into the crystal glasses and said ‘go’. I felt the bubbly liquid rush down my throat and was struggling to empty the glass in one. Before I was even half way down my glass, McGrath was getting a refill. Beardsley was laughing, goading me that I was out of my depth.
I got hammered but it was McGrath who ended up passing out. Now that’s what I call a result … I always hated being on the losing side!
Paul and I were briefly interrupted during our personal drinking duel by Peter Beagrie spewing vomit all over the back of our seats. He was in a terrible state. Our squad had been drinking for hours, so it was hardly a surprise that one of us would be throwing up before landing.
Howard had been sat holding court with his squad while Big Ron was upstairs in First Class with his missus and the directors of both clubs. Atkinson decided to relieve his obvious boredom with a visit to see how his players were getting on. Still looking immaculate in his suit some 10 hours into the flight, he strode up the aisle of the plane and approached Howard whose shirt was open and stained with red wine. An interesting discussion ensued between two of the most famous managers in English football.
The Everton boss started to ask Big Ron how much he wanted for Paul McGrath. But as Atkinson knelt on the seat in the row in front of our boss to have a chat, he unfortunately placed his knee on a damp towel that was covering the remains of Beagrie’s sick!
He shot up, grabbing a napkin to wipe away the mess, before telling a fully relaxed Howard to control his players and returning upstairs to the sanctuary of his wife.
There was no expense spared on the trip to Mauritius. On arrival at our hotel we were introduced to our own butlers and we had lavish rooms all to ourselves. Everybody just wanted to get some sleep, even though it was mid-afternoon, but Howard told everyone to dump their gear in their rooms and to meet at the pool bar as soon as possible. Neil Moore, one of the young lads in the squad, was instructed to bring along his ghetto-blaster to provide some musical entertainment around the pool.
We all started to congregate around the pool bar and I noticed the hotel was full of honeymooning couples. ‘God help them,’ I thought.
‘Mooro’ turned up looking a bit sheepish with his music box but Howard immediately put him at ease: ‘Right son, turn it on, let’s see what you’re made of.’ Young Neil pressed ‘play’ and the deafening sound of Little Richard’s ‘I Feel Good’ shattered the tranquil air. The couples around the pool shot bolt upright, startled by the noise, only to see a group of drunken footballers dancing and diving into the pool.
I felt so sorry for the newlyweds in our hotel. But one thing was made clear by Howard – nobody was to disrespect the hotel staff or other residents. He wouldn’t stand for any of that nonsense.
We were on the Indian Ocean paradise isle for a full two weeks and the game against Aston Villa was played in front of a 20,000-plus crowd. The kick-off had to be delayed by an hour because there were so many trying to get in. We lost the game but I put that down to the fact that the Villa squad hadn’t drunk as much as we did!
These trips abroad – we also visited Switzerland, Spain and Ireland – were all about team-bonding and creating a unity and spirit among the players and management. The ideal tour venue for me was Dublin. On one trip I asked Howard if he could arrange a day at the races for the lads who wanted to go. ‘No problem,’ he said and the gaffer organised a day out at The Curragh, in nearby County Kildare.
After two or three days on the black velvet, three Scousers – captain Dave Watson, Alan Harper and me – were the only ones with the staying power to take up the free booze on offer in the champagne bar at Ireland’s premier flat racecourse. My good friend Dave Taylor, a big Evertonian, had flown over for a couple of days and accompanied the three of us.
It wasn’t long before we’d backed a few winners and made new friends in the bar. The bubbly was flowing and by the end of the race meeting the bucket, which was in the shape of a top hat, had been on all of our heads while we merrily sang songs to keep all and sundry entertained.
The Moët & Chandon champagne bucket was on my head just as Alan Harper walked past to go to the bar. He jokingly hit the top of the bucket with his fist but I wish he hadn’t. The ‘top hat’ dug into the bridge of my nose, causing blood to spurt from a deep wound and turn my white shirt red. I was that drunk, I never felt a thing, but ‘Waggy’ lifted the bucket off my head and took me to the toilet to try and stop the bleeding.
We left the racecourse in the company of a rock band, who took us to a little pub for a bowl of clam chowder before we headed back to our hotel.
Contrary to Dr Watson’s diagnosis that it was ‘just a scratch’, the wound across my nose was still seeping blood and it obviously needed stitching. To make things worse, my eyes had started to swell up. It looked as though I’d taken a b
ad beating and had been fighting. I had to make sure I wasn’t seen by Howard.
Sod’s law, wasn’t it? Just as we walked through reception, who should be strolling out of the bar but the gaffer. He couldn’t have timed it better. He looked straight at me and said: ‘I don’t want to know, you’d better not have been fighting – that’s the last time I organise anything for you.’
‘I haven’t been fighting. I had this champagne bucket on my head and …’
Before I could finish explaining, he cut me short and told me to get upstairs and clean myself up before anybody else saw me. Waggy and Alan tried to tell the full story and plead my innocence but Howard had a right cob on and left not believing his captain.
I also upset Howard following several eventful nights out with Maurice Johnston. Mo and I would go out socially after games and on a Monday, if we didn’t have a mid-week match, he’d encourage me to go for a ‘wee shandy’ that would inevitably lead to a lager-top, then progress to a full pint and, before we knew it, we’d been out all day and most of the night.
One memorable escapade happened while visiting a German training camp in the pre-season of 1992-93. We had some big-name clubs to play in the two weeks we were there and having trained very hard, Howard decided to give the squad two days off.
Maurice and I were out late on our second day of steady drinking and heading back to the hotel at the training camp. We were about 10 miles from base when we realised we were way past our curfew with a tough game against Borussia Moenchengladbach coming up the next day. There was just one watering hole left before our hotel, so we decided to have one more drink before getting back.
This bar was empty but for about four frauleins all sat at the bar. We were well hammered by now and after getting my beer I slumped into a big leather couch. Maurice started dancing in the small area by a stage and I was egging him on as he started to take off his shirt. This amused the women and with their encouragement, he was down to his undies in seconds. I was telling him to go ‘the full monty’.
At this point I rushed to the toilet, at bursting point after all the lager I’d consumed. As I stepped back into the bar, I was stopped dead in my tracks. There, stood at the bar, were Howard Kendall, Jim Greenwood, Everton’s chief executive, and the chairman, Dr David Marsh.
And stood among them was Mo – in his underpants!
It didn’t look good on the two of us. We were supposed to be back at the hotel, tucked up in our beds, like all the other players.
I couldn’t leave my mate to take all the stick, so I walked to the bar to face the music. Howard greeted me with: ‘I knew you’d be with him – what do you want to drink? And you, Maurice, go and put some clothes on.’
Talk about sobering up quickly. I tried to hide how pissed I really was by saying as little as possible. Howard told us to finish our drinks and ‘fuck off back to the hotel as quickly as possible.’
He then he added: ‘I haven’t seen you two today – and you haven’t seen us either. Okay?’
With that we scarpered out of the bar and got into a taxi. But the action didn’t end there. We got back to our room and all the other lads were asleep. But instead of crashing out after our massive bender, Maurice started a fight.
He could get very aggressive when he’d had too much to drink and we squared up to each other. I caught him and as he fell to ground, his head crashed against the wooden bed. Blood gushed from his head and I bolted from the room in search of our captain.
Waggy was asleep but I woke him to say that Maurice was carrying on. He first advised me to ‘knock him out’ but then got up out of bed to calm the situation, and eventually we all got to sleep at the end of a long and eventful night.
After breakfast, the squad congregated at the front of the hotel for the start of training. Howard strolled over and as he walked past Maurice, he asked ‘Present from the little fella?’
Mo’s bruised face had a big cut and looked even worse with his eyes closed. Maurice was always apologetic to me and after awaking that morning he wanted to know why his face was in such a state.
There were never any hard feelings between us. The ironic thing was, while I struggled to play the full 90 minutes against Moenchengladbach, Maurice had the luxury of nursing his hangover from the subs’ bench, laughing his bollocks off at me!
Another altercation I had with him came in January 1993, after a long day out at a Southport restaurant owned by Evertonian Joe Farley. Joe was a mate of my father-in-law, George, and had been at mine and Jane’s wedding. He was a tough, well known figure in Liverpool and also a black belt in karate.
Ian Snodin, Graeme Sharp, Mo and I left training to meet Joe at his restaurant. There were a few other lads there and we enjoyed great food and the wine was flowing.
Then Maurice, not unusually, started to be a bit disrespectful to everyone around him and he picked on me in particular. I just knew he wouldn’t stop and as arguing with him was a waste of time, I asked him outside with me. We both got up to sort it out but before we reached the door of the restaurant, big Joe grabbed us by the scruff of the neck and said: ‘If there’s any fighting to be done here, it will be me knocking the fuck out of both of you. So behave yourselves.’
That was good enough for me but not Maurice. He was still angry and kept blabbering on. Joe instructed Mo’s mate, Dave Sheron, to take him home and, much to everyone’s relief, that’s what he did.
Sharpy then thought it would be a good idea to go and see Peter Beardsley at his local pub, The Fisherman’s Rest, in nearby Birkdale. It was a Wednesday – quiz night – and teetotal Peter’s only night out of the week.
What happened when we arrived at the pub is still a bit of a mystery to me. The pub was busy and I noticed Peter sat at the bar. As we made our way to greet him, a Liverpool fan made a disparaging remark about Everton. And in a split second, Sharpy, myself and Snods were scrapping with a couple of lads. It was over before it started and Peter quickly got us all away from the pub and into his car.
We thought nothing of the little fracas – no-one got hurt – and were laughing about it on the way to our next port of call. At training the next morning, we were all talking about the strange events of the previous evening – Maurice being sent to bed and the little skirmish at The Fisherman’s Rest. Everybody had arrived at training except Maurice. I presumed he felt too rough to make it in.
But, just as we were about to start the session, he poked his head into the dressing room – and what a head it was. He was deformed! His whole face had swollen like a balloon and his mouth was lopsided. He was in so much pain that he could hardly speak.
Colin Harvey entered the dressing room, looked at Mo and me and said: ‘The gaffer wants you two in his office straight away.’
Howard had heard about the fight in the pub by the next morning. He had plenty of local friends and contacts and you could never keep anything from him. One of the Sunday tabloids ran with the big headline: ‘Everton Star in Pub Brawl’, accompanied by a picture of yours truly and reported that I’d been barred from The Fisherman’s Rest for my unruly behaviour.
Maurice quickly explained what had happened to his face. He was often put to bed stinking drunk but this time it turned out that he’d woken up in the night and tripped over a shoe at the top of the stairs. He fell the whole way down the gallery staircase, hitting his face on the wall at the bottom. He said he hit it so hard, the plaster came off the wall.
I felt like saying ‘serves you right for being a prick’ but I felt sorry for him – he was a right mess. We stood there in front of Howard like a couple of naughty schoolboys.
‘I’ve heard what happened last night in the Fisherman’s Rest. You’re both being fined two weeks’ wages. I’ve had enough of you both. You’re going to hospital this minute,’ he said to Maurice and then told me to get down stairs and ready for training.
I tried in vain to explain what happened to Howard, saying: ‘Maurice wasn’t with me in the pub last night, gaffer.’
&nb
sp; I’ve never seen Howard so angry. ‘Well, how the fuck has he got a face like that?’
I turned to look at Maurice, the Elephant Man, and I had nothing else to add. It looked all over as if he’d been in a brawl. Howard added that he admired my loyalty before telling me to get out of his sight.
There was no denying that Maurice had a broken face. His cheekbone was smashed and he couldn’t play for six weeks. Years later, I told Howard again that Maurice hadn’t been with us that night the fight broke out at the pub but he still wouldn’t believe me.
Howard hated any of his players or staff speaking out of turn to the press or disrespecting the club in any way. Tony Cottee had been going through a lean patch in front of goal towards the end of 1992 and a piece in a Sunday newspaper headlined that the Everton squad wasn’t good enough and the midfield lacked creativity. Tony insisted afterwards that his criticism was really directed at the manager, for not picking the right players, not his team-mates. Whether he was misquoted or not, Howard was livid.
On the Monday morning before training, he gathered everyone together and announced that Tony would be taking the whole squad and staff out for a Chinese meal that night … all paid for by him. As far as Howard was concerned, Tony had betrayed his team-mates and he wouldn’t tolerate it.
Every player had to attend the Chinese – no excuses – and I was made up that we were all going to enjoy another night out. The table went the whole length of the restaurant. I remember looking down to the opposite end of the table, where Tony was sat, and his face was as long as the table! The food bill came to £1,000 and he was so pissed off that I don’t think he ate a thing.
