Conti had experienced the joy of becoming a champion of the world, overcoming great German players such as Karl-Heinz Rummenigge and Paul Breitner in the 1982 final in the Bernabeu, but the Italian had never before encountered anything like what awaited him 12 yards away. Bruce bounded around on his line, turning his legs into spaghetti, doing everything to psyche Conti out. Poor man. He was clearly stressed out and his kick flew over the bar, throwing a lifeline Liverpool’s way.
So it went on. Souey rattled his kick in, Ubaldo Righetti made it 2–2. Rushie then made his way towards the spot, a choice by Joe that surprised me. Tosh was confident, however, and did his duty expertly, making it 3–2 to Liverpool and really cranking up the pressure on Roma. Graziani walked from the centre, his steps seeming to me to resemble the gait of a condemned prisoner heading towards the gallows. Bruce clowned about, leaping all over the place, pretending to be scared, trying to put Graziani off. As with Conti, Graziani was tipped over the edge by Bruce’s carry-on. His penalty hit the bar and disappeared, probably into the Tiber. Bruce never even had to save a penalty, Graziani and Conti were that traumatised by the occasion and Bruce’s antics. When Graziani missed, all the Liverpool players cheered, of course. The shoot-out was turned on its head. Then I realised who was taking Liverpool’s fifth penalty.
‘Oh no, it’s Barney,’ I said to Craig as Alan Kennedy walked towards the spot. At Melwood, Barney kept hitting the right-hand stanchion. Under immense pressure in Rome, would he do the same? He went exactly the same way but with a fraction greater accuracy, beating Tancredi, bringing Liverpool a fourth European Cup. Game over, party started. The boys were itching to get over to the celebration at the hotel but I was held behind for a drugs test. God knows why they wanted to check my urine. Uefa’s dope-testers wouldn’t have found anything stronger than adrenalin and pride flooding through my system. Mind you, if they’d tested me the next morning, they’d have detected an incredibly high level of Champagne.
‘Hurry up, I’ve got to get to the celebration up the hill,’ I kept telling them. The boys started without me but I soon caught up and it was another special evening, ending with a real singsong with punters who’d filled the foyer. Having scored the winning goal in a European Cup, Barney was the toast of the night. At one point during the wonderfully drunken evening, we were singing the Phil Collins version of ‘You Can’t Hurry Love’. Already totally gone, Barney was prone to mix up words anyway. He was singing at the top of his voice: ‘You can’t hurry up’. So we all joined in, shredding the lyrics even more. Towards dawn, when I was making even less sense than usual, Marina sensibly dragged me up to our room.
‘I must tell something to Charlie,’ I insisted to Marina on stumbling into the room.
‘No, Kenny, don’t. He’s in with Danielle,’ said Marina. ‘Give them some peace.’ I wouldn’t be dissuaded. Picking up the phone, I dialled Charlie’s room.
‘Oh you can’t hurry up,’ I sang down the phone.
‘Piss off, Kenny,’ replied Graeme, slamming the phone down. Charming.
A few hours later, gathering for the flight back to Liverpool, I was in a complete state, as was Graeme, and we vowed to lay off the booze for a while. During the open-topped bus ride round Liverpool, I was still struggling.
‘We’ll have a kip on the trip to Africa,’ I told Graeme.
‘Good idea,’ he responded.
Liverpool had agreed to play the Royal Swazi Sun Challenge against Spurs on 3 and 9 June 1984 at the Somholo Stadium. At least the long flight would give us a chance to sober up. Graeme and I settled down in our seats on the short hop to Heathrow.
‘No way am I having a drink,’ I told Graeme.
‘Right, we’re playing Sunday, no more to drink,’ he replied. At that point, the captain’s voice came over the Tannoy.
‘Welcome on board everyone – and a very special welcome to Liverpool Football Club. Congratulations on winning the European Cup. On behalf of the airline we’d like to offer a bottle of Champagne for each and every one of you.’ As he signed off, the trolleys came down the aisle. As the trolley closed in on Charlie and me, I almost had the theme tune from
Jaws
crashing through my throbbing head.
‘I’m not having any more,’ I told Charlie. ‘No.’ Then POP. I heard the unmistakable sound of a Champagne cork being given its freedom. Graeme and I looked at each other.
‘Rude not to,’ I said.
‘Exactly.’
So that was us sorted. At Heathrow, we boarded another plane to Johannesburg and I just about remember the captain coming over the speaker.
‘We are proud to have Liverpool Football Club on board with us today. As a show of our admiration for your magnificent performance in Rome, we will be serving a special thank you from the nation.’ Or words to that effect. It was getting a bit fuzzy. POP, POP, POP. Champagne corks flew past me like the Red Arrows. We changed planes in Johannesburg for the final hop to Swaziland, squeezing into one of those small, twin-prop numbers. As we neared our destination, Graeme prodded me awake.
‘Look out there,’ he said. ‘There’s Spurs training.’
‘Where?’ I asked, peering out. I saw them.
‘Christ, they’re doing doggies.’ And they were, sprinting up and back. Madness. It must have been 100°F out there. Winning the Uefa Cup had not encouraged Spurs to ease up.
‘Fly a bit lower,’ Bruce shouted to the pilot. ‘Let’s give them a scare. Buzz them.’
Spurs certainly got a shock when our bus pulled up outside the hotel just as they were getting back from training. Graham Roberts, Alan Brazil, Steve Archibald and the rest were soaked in sweat. Moisture also trickled off my forehead but it was pure alcohol. We staggered into reception all red-eyed, hardly looking ready for a showpiece tournament. At dinner, Liverpool ate in one part of the restaurant while Spurs sat demurely, nibbling away in another corner. A guy was playing the piano so we all joined in the usual songs – Beatles, Chris Rea, Phil Collins.
‘Ask him if he knows “You Can’t Hurry Up”’ I shouted to Barney.
After we finished dinner, the pianist decamped to the bar, so we followed and carried on singing. Brazil, a friend from Scotland trips, sneaked in to join us.
‘I can’t stay long. The gaffer wants us in bed for nine thirty,’ Alan said. Hansen, Souey and I burst out laughing.
‘Nine thirty in the morning?’ I asked.
‘No! Night-time.’ Brazil was serious. Spurs were treating this competition very professionally, certainly more than Liverpool were. Their manager, Keith Burkinshaw, soon marched across.
‘Time for bed, Brazil,’ he barked. ‘Big game tomorrow.’ Charlie knew Burkinshaw from Spurs, so he thought he’d intervene.
‘Behave yourself, you’re not sending the boys to bed at half nine, are you? Let them have a drink, man. We’re just having a wee singsong.’
‘Bed,’ insisted Burkinshaw.
‘Come on, Keith, let them relax,’ said Graeme. Brazil shifted uneasily on his barstool.
‘Bed,’ Burkinshaw declared.
‘I’ll need to go,’ said Brazil sadly. He sloped away, casting a final, doleful look at the bottles of wine lined up on the bar ready for inspection. ‘Have a good night.’
Alan can rest assured we didn’t let him down. By the end of the night, we’d been through the wine list and the pianist almost had steam coming out of his fingers. In the morning, Joe Fagan sensibly organised wake-up calls for all the Liverpool players. The shrill sound of the hotel phone stirred all but one.
‘Where’s Graeme?’ asked Joe as I stumbled down the stairs.
‘He’s not well,’ I replied, only half-untruthfully.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘He’s not feeling too great. I’ll take his kit up for him.’ Grabbing Graeme’s kit, I dashed back upstairs.
‘Charlie, there’s your kit, you’ve got to get up. We’ve got to go for lunch.’
‘I can’t get up,’ replied Souey, pulling the sheet over his tousled head. He was a mess, in no fit state for watching football, let alone playing it. Realising the impossibility of my mission, I returned to reception.
‘Where is he?’ asked Joe.
‘He’s not hungry. He thought it best to stay in bed.’
Joe knew it would be embarrassing if Liverpool Football Club turned up without one of their best-known players for this prestigious occasion, a tournament organised by the King of Swaziland, whose country was paying the winners of the European Cup handsomely, so I made a final attempt.
‘Come on, Charlie, we need to go.’
‘Dugs, I can’t make it. I’m not well.’ When I explained this to Joe, he shook his head.
‘It was that food last night. I bet Graeme had the prawns.’ Trying not to laugh, I made my way to the coach. Prawns? More like Pinot bloody Grigio!
‘Gaffer, remember my calf, it’s a bit tight, so I’ll happily go on the bench.’
‘Kenny, just play midfield, give us the first half, fill in for Graeme.’
Spurs had the full hit out – Garth Crooks, all the big guns. I knew they’d been training hard but I also knew Liverpool had been drinking hard. At half-time, I was panting.
‘Gaffer!’ I beseeched Joe.
‘Just give us a few minutes.’
Joe took me off with a minute to go. Amazingly, we won 5–2. Back in the room, Graeme had perked up. He also had some news for me. Graeme and I were always honest with each other.
‘Dugs, I think I’m off. Sampdoria.’
‘I’m not surprised, Charlie.’
A man who loved a challenge on and off the pitch, Graeme’s personality was suited to moving abroad. I sensed the European Cup final simply endorsed Sampdoria’s view of Graeme, prompting them to get the chequebook out quickly. His last few days with Liverpool were certainly eventful. There was no way I would let Graeme know but I’d miss him. Charlie was always good fun to be around, particularly when we went about our regular wind-up work on Stevie ‘Bumper’ Nicol, our right-back as gullible off the field as gifted on it. One day, Graeme and I were hanging about after lunch at Anfield when Nico walked in.
‘Have you seen Derek?’ he asked. Derek Ibbotson was the man from Puma who sorted Stevie’s boots.
‘No, Bumper, sorry,’ I replied. Nico wandered off, leaving Graeme and I to concoct a plan. Liverpool’s switchboard lady, Nina, was often a willing accomplice in some of our practical jokes, so Graeme and I nipped down to reception to see her.
‘Nina, do us a favour,’ I asked. ‘Write this wee message out for Nico. “Meet Derek Ibbotson at Burtonwood Services at 1 p.m. on Sunday and don’t be late.”’ When Nina finished scribbling the note, I continued, ‘I’ll go to the players’ lounge. Phone and I’ll pick up. Ask for Nico.’ Nina was as good as gold and within a minute of Graeme and I returning to the players’ lounge, the phone went.
‘Bumper, phone-call, Nina.’ Sticking brilliantly to the script, Nina told Stevie she had a message from Derek. When Nico returned, he never mentioned anything.
‘Christ, we thought you were getting boots off Puma,’ I asked. ‘Where are they?’ Nico stayed silent, although he had a quiet gleam in his eyes. Nico felt he was going to meet up with Derek, collect a pile of boots and we’d all be envious.
The following Monday, as we boarded the bus for training, Al parked Nico in the corner of the back row, so he couldn’t get out. Al wasn’t in on the wind-up. He always did this so Nico couldn’t escape if he wanted some fun at Nico’s expense.
‘Heh, heh, Al!’ Nico laughed. ‘You didn’t think you’d catch me with that one, did you?’
‘What are you on about?’ Al replied.
‘You know!’
‘No.’ Nico looked at Hansen, thinking maybe Al didn’t know that he had made a wasted journey to Burtonwood. Hansen didn’t. Graeme and I were falling about laughing. The next day, Nico went up to Alan.
‘Big Al, you know what I was saying yesterday?’
‘Aye, what were you on about?’
‘You told me to meet Derek Ibbotson at Burtonwood on Sunday.’
‘I never told you.’ Nico looked confused.
‘Well, I did fall for it. I waited two hours for him. I even took my wife.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Al. He looked around the bus. ‘Come on. Who set Bumper up? Kenny, was it you?’
‘It was Charlie,’ I said. ‘We were going to tell Bumper it was a wind-up before he went to Burtonwood but forgot. Hope his wife enjoyed the trip.’
If Bumper felt safer after Charlie went to Sampdoria, I felt sadder. My room-mate and close friend was gone and, far more significantly, a great player for Liverpool was gone, a really popular one. When Charlie headed a goal at Maine Road once, everybody started laughing. We were not laughing at City but at Graeme scoring with his head. He was running round, slapping his head, celebrating a special occasion. I genuinely believe that Liverpool were their strongest ever when Charlie roamed midfield. Exuding an air of authority, Charlie just looked unbeatable. When Bob or Joe wrote Souness’s name on the team-sheet, it immediately gave us a psychological edge. When that team-sheet was delivered into the opposition’s dressing room, I always suspected a shiver of fear ran through anybody reading it. Opponents knew if that red No. 11 shirt was worn by Souness, they were in for a battle. Replacing Graeme Souness as midfielder, leader and character was going to be a hell of a job. Having discussed it, the players all reached the same conclusion that there would never be another Graeme Souness. However much a relief for the persecuted Bumper, it was deeply disappointing for the rest of us. Our leader was leaving.
‘Do you ever fancy moving abroad, Dugs?’ Graeme asked as he packed his bags.
‘No, Charlie,’ I replied. ‘I’d really miss the banter in the dressing room. If I joined a foreign team and didn’t speak the language, I’d always worry what they were saying about me. If we’d gone away from home, and I’d missed a sitter, I’d be convinced the other players on the bus back were having a go at me. I’m really happy at Liverpool.’
‘The money’s good in Italy,’ Graeme pointed out. I knew Graeme wasn’t leaving solely for financial reasons, but it was tempting.