Hammered

by Mark Ward

  After a harrowing six months it all petered out. The Blackmailer later claimed in a book he wrote that Everton eventually reached a settlement with him. That was total nonsense – no-one gave him a penny, and his memory of the incident at The Conty differs from mine.

  Footballers and secrets go hand in hand. But it’s fair to say that I wish that particular chain of events had never happened.

  20. GOODBYE GOODISON

  HOWARD Kendall’s sense of humour was still much in evidence even after he’d resigned as Everton boss early in December 1993 in protest at the board’s failure to grant him sufficient transfer funds. The team were lying 10th in the Premiership and despite a 1-0 home victory over Southampton, Howard had decided he’d had enough.

  It wasn’t until after the players had left Goodison that night that I heard the news. As soon as I found out I rang him straight away but he didn’t sound too down in the dumps. In fact, he laughed as he told me that he was just clearing out his fridge at Bellefield!

  Even though we’d been on a poor run, it was going to be very difficult for anyone to fill Howard’s shoes. Reserve team manager Jimmy Gabriel was put in temporary charge of the first team, with Colin Harvey remaining as No.2, but results went from bad to worse over the Christmas period and it was obvious that a permanent successor to Howard was required. To most of us, Joe Royle, my former Oldham boss, was the obvious choice but the board turned instead to Norwich City’s Mike Walker.

  Walker had taken Norwich to third in the 1992-93 Premiership, behind Manchester United and Aston Villa, but it seems the Everton board were seduced by the Canaries’ shock victory over Bayern Munich in the UEFA Cup, just a couple of months before his arrival at Goodison. That result thrust Walker into the managerial limelight and, as it turned out, took him way beyond his limits.

  Just as my first impressions of Lou Macari at West Ham proved correct, so too was my quick assessment that Walker wasn’t the manager we needed when he was appointed in January ’94. He was a phoney from the start and, although he’d had an impressive 18 months at Norwich, I knew this job was just too big for him.

  The tanned Walker was the complete opposite to Howard Kendall. He’d arrive halfway through training sessions, dressed in a suit, as if he’d just stepped out of Burton’s window and stopped off at the sunbed shop en route to Bellefield.

  Walker got rid of Colin Harvey and left his coach, Dave Williams, to do all the training and it wasn’t long before the lads had major doubts about the new regime.

  The defeat against Liverpool, in which I’d been left out, was the final straw for me. The squad trained at Goodison before the game at Anfield the next day. Walker got us all together in the middle of the pitch and named the team. Then he added that the subs would be from Barry Horne, Paul Rideout, John Ebbrell and myself.

  I was absolutely fuming that he’d put ‘Preki’ – Pedrag Radosavljevic – in the side instead of me. The little Yugoslav midfielder would cry if you went anywhere near him in training and I knew he wouldn’t get a kick in the white-hot atmosphere of a derby in which our Premiership future was on the line.

  By also leaving out Barry and John, two strong, hard-working players who were needed in the cut-and-thrust of a big game, it showed the manager didn’t have a clue. Maybe he’d been involved in derby matches as a player at Colchester United, or as manager when Norwich City met Ipswich Town, but he had no understanding of what a Merseyside clash was all about.

  I’d already ruffled Walker’s feathers at Bellefield a couple of days earlier. He was such a poseur that he’d instructed the groundstaff to paint his initials on his parking space in the car park. Everton had been led by club legends such as Harry Catterick, Howard Kendall, Colin Harvey and Billy Bingham through the years and yet none of them were vain enough to want their own name or initials marked out for all to see. I decided to show Walker just how pathetic I thought he was being.

  I drove into the car park early on this particular morning and noticed the new ‘M.W.’ painted on the ground where the new manager clearly intended to park his car. So what did I do? I parked my BMW there! Well, I knew he wouldn’t be in before me. I’d more than likely pass him on the way home afterwards.

  After training, Walker summoned me to his office, where he abruptly demanded that I move my car out of the space reserved for him. He didn’t see the funny side of my joke. He then indicated that I ‘might be one of the subs at Anfield tomorrow’ but I didn’t want to be left hanging in the air like that, so I challenged him.

  ‘Am I going to be a sub tomorrow?’ I asked.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he answered.

  ‘Well I have,’ I told him. ‘I should be playing, never mind being a sub.’

  ‘You have a bad attitude,’ he told me.

  ‘You’re a bad manager,’ I answered back.

  ‘So you don’t want to be sub?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’

  I trudged away feeling absolutely gutted, knowing that Walker was going to ruin the club if he was left in charge for any period of time.

  I never kicked a ball for Everton again.

  My emotions were in turmoil – I felt so frustrated and angry at what was happening to the club I love.

  I was banished to the reserves but I couldn’t accept it. I’d never hidden away at any club before by playing reserve team football. Some shameless players couldn’t give a toss and are content to see out their contract in this way, but it wasn’t for me. I decided I needed to get away from Goodison, or Mike Walker to be precise, even on loan.

  After training one day the whole squad was assembled by Dave Williams. The man from Burton’s window walked onto the Bellefield turf dressed immaculately in his suit and his skin seemed to glow with a slightly more orange tint from a recent sun bed session. He was briefing the lads who were involved about travel plans to Tottenham the next day. ‘Any questions?’ he asked, ready to slope off quickly.

  What was said next was the final nail in Walker’s coffin at Everton as far as I was concerned. Big Neville Southall, clearly alluding to the fact that we hardly ever saw the manager, piped up: ‘No questions, boss, but you must have the warmest bed in Liverpool!’ Typical Nev – never afraid to tell the truth.

  All the other lads started laughing and were all made up that the big fellow had told the manager what everybody was thinking.

  Walker’s reaction was pitifully weak: ‘Well lads, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ was all he said before strolling off to his car. He’d failed to take on Nev in a battle of wills, never mind reprimand him for undermining the manager’s supposed authority.

  He was already finished at Everton in the eyes of most of the players but not before he nearly took the club down into the second tier for the first time since 1954. It took Graham Stuart’s bizarre winner, a tame shot that bobbled past Dons’ keeper Hans Segers nine minutes from time, to clinch a last-gasp 3-2 home victory against Wimbledon on the last day of the season that meant relegation had been avoided.

  I should have been there, fighting for the cause alongside my teammates, but in March I’d decided instead to go out on loan to Birmingham City until the end of the season.

  Millwall manager Mick McCarthy wanted me on loan and I was going to the New Den until I got a call from David Sullivan, the joint-owner of Birmingham City. Birmingham was much nearer home for me and David told me that if City managed to stay up, there would be a £50,000 bonus in it for me.

  Barry Fry was Birmingham’s manager at the time and I also received a call from him. It went like this: ‘Mark, I’ve followed your career since your Northwich days … come and show these cunts how to pass a ball!’

  He went on: ‘We’re already relegated but come and enjoy yourself anyway.’

  Barry is one of the game’s great characters and I liked his honesty and enthusiasm for wanting me to help out. The Blues hadn’t won in three months and were staring relegation from Division Two in the face. I knew I could make a difference. I was very fit and just want
ed to play first team football for a side that had gone 14 games without victory.

  My debut for Birmingham City, on March 26, 1994, ended in a long-awaited 1-0 win over Middlesbrough, who were flying at the time. I ran the show from central midfield and afterwards Barry was full of praise.

  I was determined to do my utmost to try and keep Birmingham in the division. I got on great with Barry at first and he was different to any manager I’d worked under. He was my kind of man – straight to the point and very much in your face. In fact, to some of the players he was intimidating with his trademark ranting and swearing.

  I really enjoyed the loan spell and gave it my all in the remaining nine games of that season. We won six, drew two and lost one. We produced a magnificent effort to win at Tranmere Rovers in the last game, only to see West Bromwich Albion – who also finished on 51 points – beat Portsmouth to stay just above us on goal difference. We dropped into the third tier along with Oxford United and Peterborough United.

  I was sat in the big bath at Prenton Park after we’d been relegated by the narrowest possible margin, when Barry came and sat next to me. Although obviously gutted that we hadn’t quite made it, he wished me all the best and thanked me for my efforts. Moving down a division came easily to me. I was able to dictate games from the centre of midfield and it wasn’t as demanding as playing in the top flight.

  I still had 12 months left on my contract at Everton but I wasn’t looking forward to going back there in the summer of ’94. Thanks to that last day miracle at Goodison – Everton had been 2-0 down to Wimbledon before goals by Graham Stuart (2) and Barry Horne saved the day – and with other results going their way, Walker had just managed to keep the club in the Premiership. He wasn’t getting the sack just yet. Sadly, Joe Royle’s Oldham, Swindon Town and Sheffield United went down instead.

  It was only a short drive from Tranmere back to Liverpool, where Jane and I packed to go on holiday to the Cayman Islands. On the long flight to Grand Cayman the next day my wife and I discussed our future as well as my own. We weren’t getting on that well and I hoped the holiday might help bring us closer together again. As we sipped our wine half way over the Atlantic, it suddenly dawned on me how close I’d been to collecting that £50,000 bonus David Sullivan had promised me. Money was never a motivating factor in my football career but missing out on such a massive bonus, on goal difference, was hard to swallow.

  I hoped that the Everton board would sack Walker and I’d be able to pull on the blue jersey once again at the start of the 1994-95 season. But, sadly, I’d definitely played my last game for the club.

  21. WHO’S THE JOKER?

  THE day I arrived back from the Cayman Islands, I was invited to a charity dinner held at the Moat House hotel in Liverpool city centre. The event was in aid of the Alder Hey children’s hospital and I was the guest of Caber Developments Ltd – a building company owned by my mates Paul Downes and Barry Jackson, who had been kind enough to give my brother Billy and cousin Kevin some work.

  Feeling completely knackered having travelled for almost a full day, I only went to the dinner on the insistence of Billy who told me I’d be okay after the first few drinks.

  My brother dropped me off in my black suit and dickie bow for what turned out to be a star-studded evening. Ian Rush was on the next table to me, snooker star Tony Knowles was there and so, too, were comedians Jimmy Tarbuck and Kenny Lynch.

  Compering the event was the well known Liverpudlian comedian Stan Boardman, who wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea. A professional Scouser or, to some people, a pain in the arse.

  I was to have a big altercation with Stan that evening but the trouble between us had actually started months earlier, when I met him in a bar in Liverpool. Bill Kenwright, an Everton director at the time and now chairman, had invited me and a couple of mates to the after-performance party of his play, The Blood Brothers.

  I’ve got a lot of time for Bill. He has Everton blue blood running through his veins and I was happy to accept his offer, attending the party with Peter McGuinness.

  The cast of the show were all there, enjoying their evening, and I first noticed Boardman when I heard him shouting above the crowd: ‘Someone get a box for Wardy to stand on, so he can get the ale in!’

  I’ve always had the mickey taken out of me because of my size, so Stan’s verbal assault was nothing new. But he wouldn’t leave it there. He was drunk, and even his mate was trying to stop him from winding me up.

  I turned to Peter and said that I was going to shut him up the only way I knew. ‘Don’t Wardy,’ he said, ‘that’s what he wants you to do.’

  I left the party telling myself I’d catch up with Stan Boardman one day.

  At the charity dinner in the summer of ’94, Stan was doing his usual stand-up act on stage but I really wasn’t listening to his tired, old jokes about Scousers. After a long plane journey and no sleep, and with the champagne flowing, I became drunk very quickly.

  Stan had actually played in the same football team as my dad – the Farmer’s Arms in Huyton. He was a very good centre-forward and Dad always said he was a character in the dressing room. But on this occasion he went a little too far with his humour.

  I was nominated to sing a song on stage, after a table of 10 all put in £50 a man, so I climbed up on stage, where Stan handed me a microphone. I was drunk, but not too far gone to forget the words to my party piece, Summertime. I could sing the song backwards and started my performance confidently – well, it was for charity after all. As I belted out my version of the George Gershwin classic, though, Stan started to ridicule me.

  ‘No wonder Everton are shit and Birmingham got relegated!’ he shouted at me.

  That was it, the spark I needed to finally shut his fat mouth. I turned quickly, grabbed him round the throat and, with all my strength, pushed him backwards. Stan went crashing into the drummer and I jumped on top of him, locking my arms around his head and not letting him go.

  There were no bouncers or security present because it was a charity night – the last place you’d expect any trouble. All my mates and Stan’s entourage tried to drag me off the comedian, who was screaming: ‘Get him off me.’

  I eventually let go, and was marched off by my mates to the reception area to calm down. Moments later, Stan appeared, aiming a load of threats at me. ‘My son is going to fuck you, Wardy!’ he shouted, so I just called back at him: ‘Go and get him then …’

  Paul Downes and Barry Jackson then took me to The Conty, where the beer and champagne continued to flow. Most of the celebrities from the dinner began to turn up, and Kenny Lynch grabbed hold of me and said: ‘Mark, do you know what, son? You’ve done something tonight that millions of people have wanted to do for years – put Stan Boardman on his back and shut him up!’

  I didn’t make it home that night. I stayed in Barry Jackson’s flat at the docks and woke up with a terrible hangover. I rang The Egg to arrange for him to pick me up and he arrived just before midday. I was already thinking up my excuse to Jane.

  As we were leaving the city, The Egg asked me if I’d had a good night. I told him it was ‘all right’. Just at that moment, the Radio City news came on at 12 noon. And the newsreader’s first bulletin was: ‘Stan Boardman is playing down a fight he had with Everton midfielder Mark Ward at the Moat House hotel last night.’

  ‘Fucking hell, Egg, pull over!’ I said. It was only then that everything came flooding back to me. I quickly got on the phone to Jane and she said: ‘What have you been up to? Don’t come back here – there’s press outside the house and the phone hasn’t stopped ringing.’

  Boardman told the press that I’d forgotten the words of my song and was very drunk, and that the whole thing had just got out of hand.

  ‘Lying prick,’ I thought. I wanted to see him again over his remarks but I was in deep trouble with Jane. She wouldn’t let me back home for two weeks. In her eyes I’d fucked up again.

  22. FRY-UPS, FLARE-UPS AND PISS-UPS

  T
HE 1994-95 season was just around the corner and I was heading back to Everton – or so I thought. Out of the blue, I got a phone call from David Sullivan. The Birmingham City chairman and co-owner said how well I’d done on loan at the end of the previous season and although it wasn’t quite enough to save them from relegation, he said he wanted to offer me the chance to become a player-coach at St Andrew’s.

  I had a massive decision to make. Stay at Everton and play for the reserves while waiting patiently for Mike Walker’s inevitable exit, or drop down two divisions and attempt to help Birmingham City win promotion while taking my first steps in a potential career in coaching?

  In the end it was no contest. I had zero respect for Walker and I loved a challenge, so I agreed to meet multi-millionaire Sullivan at his mansion in Theydon Bois.

  I knew this lovely part of Essex well, having lived just a couple of miles down the road in Loughton during my West Ham days, but I didn’t want to travel there alone, so The Egg said he’d drive me. My good mate Mick Tobyn was also going to meet us for a drink in the Sixteen Jack String pub, which is opposite Sullivan’s palatial home.

  It was a lovely summer’s day as we pulled into the empty car park of the pub. Mick was already there, having travelled just a few miles from his home in Romford, and my two mates wished me luck as I strolled across the road and up to the big electric gates in front of Sullivan’s castle.

  I was greeted by his house-keeper and couldn’t believe the opulence and grandeur of the place. It was very impressive. I’d met David during my time at West Ham and always felt comfortable in his company. His racing manager, Eamonn Connelly, was a big friend of mine, and the Birmingham chairman made it very clear that he was keen for me to sign for the Blues on a permanent basis.

  David walked me around his 14-bedroom home and it took an age as he showed me almost every room. It had a cinema, bowling alley, a bar area and its own nightclub. It’s a magnificent empire, the result of all the millions he’s made from the sex industry, as publisher of the Daily and Sunday Sport titles. One of the country’s leading property tycoons, he was ranked No.114 in the 2009 Sunday Times Rich List with a personal worth estimated at around £450m.