‘Have you thought of Liverpool?’ I asked.
‘I wouldn’t get a game,’ replied Charlie, concerned that Rushie and I would bar his way to first-team action.
‘Listen, I’m going to get pushed back a bit into midfield,’ I told him. ‘There’s plenty of people at Liverpool. The pressure would not be so great on you to contribute. If you go to Arsenal, you’ll be the “big saviour” with more pressure. You’d be better off with us.’
Charlie went to London. His return of 54 goals in 184 appearances at Arsenal wasn’t shabby, but a forward of Charlie’s calibre could have done more. He still got the better of Liverpool that frustrating day in April.
Our season was crumbling fast. Six days later, we lost at Norwich City, and I really lost my temper. As our ambitions drained away like water from the bath, Bugsy and I raged at the players for an hour. Eventually, my spleen vented, I left the dressing room and bumped into Dennis Signy, a reporter I knew.
‘Kenny, I’d like you to meet Delia Smith. She’s doing a column for us in the
Sunday Express
,’ said Dennis, introducing me to the famous cook.
‘Pleased to meet you, Delia. By the way, you’ve not got a recipe to turn a 2–1 defeat into three points, have you?’
‘No,’ replied Delia. Nor would she. Delia’s love for Norwich ran deep. Still does.
With Liverpool looking vulnerable, the critics attacked me from every quarter. Typical was an abusive piece in the
Mirror
, claiming I was staring at ‘the grim spectre of failure’, adding that ‘Liverpool will finish empty-handed for only the third time in fifteen seasons. It is not a prospect which will go down well on the terraces or in the boardroom where the chairman John Smith has often been quoted as saying “winning is not the most important thing, it is the only thing”.’ The board were rock solid behind me, so I wasn’t sweating on the mood of the chairman, who knew we were rebuilding in the background. But the most polite way I can describe the 1986–87 season is transitional, and the restructuring behind the scenes caused some controversy.
Geoff Twentyman, the chief scout who discovered Rushie and Al in the grass roots of the professional game, left midway through the season. Nobody could deny that Geoff did a fantastic job for Liverpool. Spotting players was a knack Geoff had an instinct for. Now, however, he kept talking about his arthritis playing him up, and night matches never appealed to him. He always took somebody with him. So I called in Ron Yeats, like Tommo, a person who commanded huge respect within Anfield as a former captain. Geoff was quickly employed by Graeme Souness at Rangers in a part-time role, far different from the full-time position assumed by Ron.
Before leaving, Geoff was credited with recommending John Barnes and Peter Beardsley to Liverpool, although Stevie Wonder could have seen those two were top players, but his greatest find was soon to leave. The season began with Rushie sitting in my office, expressing his desire to join Juventus because of the handsome financial package on offer from a club rolling in Fiat money. Rushie was convinced Liverpool wanted to sell as the financial implications of the Heysel ban began to bite into club coffers, but I knew this wasn’t true.
‘Look, I want to keep you,’ I told Rushie. ‘I’ll try to find a solution. I don’t know what the position is, but I’ll go around a few companies and try to get some commercial contracts if that would help. Do you want to stay?’
‘The offer is so good, Gaffer.’
How could I deprive Rushie of the opportunity to set up his family for life by moving countries when a decade earlier I’d forsaken Scotland for England? So negotiations opened. Having worked assiduously at rebuilding Liverpool’s shattered relationship with Juventus after Heysel, PBR was close to the Italians, so talks were civilised. Selling our prized striker was never the olive branch some perceived it to be. Selling him was a simple business decision, based on the prospect of £3.2 million coming in, and Rushie’s desire to experience the lucrative Serie A. PBR agreed with Juventus that Liverpool could retain Rushie’s prolific services for one more season, and he responded with 40 goals in 57 games, a marvellous testament to his ability, and also to PBR’s skill in the trading game.
I couldn’t understand why people kept arguing that Rushie’s sale to Juventus signalled a shift in power away from Anfield. Exiled from Europe, Liverpool were painted as a club struggling financially, but we didn’t need to sell Rush to survive. Liverpool played friendlies to cover the shortfall, competing in events such as the Super Screen Cup. As for Rushie’s supposed craving for re-engagement in European Cup combat again, he never once mentioned that to me or to any of the Liverpool players. His farewell to the Kop came against Watford on 4 May 1987. Rush being Rush, he scored, threw his shirt into the Kop and departed like a hero as Anfield stood in an emotional salute. In the dressing room, everybody wished him well on his Italian adventure. Listening to the parting words from those Rushie spent so long with, I caught all sorts of comments: ‘thanks, Omar’, ‘all the best, Tosh’ and ‘piss off to Italy!’ Dressing rooms have always been quite cynical places and the only important people were those who remained. No ghosts could be acknowledged.
Enough respect existed for the boys to organise a surprise send-off. Rushie thought he was going for a quiet meal with Ronnie Whelan and their wives. Taking them into a restaurant, Vitch led them down some stairs to a room bathed in darkness. One of the most alert people on the football pitch, Rushie never suspected a thing. When I flicked the light switch, Rushie was stunned to find the whole team sitting there, cheering, ready to bid him a boozy goodbye. Deep into a fairly alcoholic evening, Rushie suddenly appeared behind Marina, holding his farewell cake in the air. The cake was huge and covered in icing spelling out a message in Italian, not that Rushie would have understood it. Chuckling away, he looked over at me.
‘Yes?’ he inquired.
‘No,’ I mouthed back. I couldn’t believe he would even think of it. Too late – BANG! Rushie brought the cake straight down on Marina’s head. Assaulted by cream and sponge followed by the stainless steel salver, Marina shouted, ‘Owwww.’ Rushie’s wife, Tracy, jumped up.
‘Oh, Marina. I’ll replace your outfit. I saw it in the shops.’
‘Kenny said it was OK!’ Rushie was laughing.
Knowing Marina, I feared for Rushie. Hell hath no fury like the wrath of a woman whose hair has been messed up and her favourite dress ruined. Marina was surprisingly calm, never uttering a word, just rubbing the bump on her head. She went to the Ladies, rinsed her hair, tied it up in a napkin and carried on with the meal. Thinking he’d escaped retribution, Rushie sighed in relief. How wrong he was.
The following Friday, we were all training in preparation for the final game of the season next day at Chelsea. While we were at Melwood, Marina drove to Anfield to wreak havoc. Her revenge mission planned with typical precision, Marina sought out Jimmy, the man who looked after the dressing room.
‘Jimmy, I need to get in,’ she said.
‘No problem, Marina,’ replied Jimmy, unlocking the dressing room.
‘Jimmy, where’s Rushie’s bag?’
‘Over there.’
Marina marched across, opened Rushie’s bag and poured in the itching powder she’d brought with her. Knowing that I was a stickler for players wearing collar and tie to games, she removed Rushie’s tie. On Saturday morning, Tosh phoned me.
‘Gaffer, where’s my tie? I’m supposed to be doing an interview for
Football Focus
in twenty minutes.’
‘What are you taking about?’
‘Gaffer, you know where the tie is, you’ll be involved somehow.’
‘Honest to God, I don’t know.’
‘This is out of order,’ shouted Rushie, slamming the phone down.
Watching Rushie on
Football Focus
, my attention was immediately drawn to his garish tie, which struggled to match his shirt, and also his curious habit of scratching himself. The confused look on my face was replaced with a huge smile when Marina confessed. Marina is not a woman to throw herself into things half-heartedly and Operation Revenge on Rushie was not complete. Returning midway through the following season for Al’s testimonial, Rushie attended a special dinner at the St George’s Hotel.
‘Hi Rushie, remember?’ Marina remarked, immediately putting him on edge. The England team, Al’s testimonial opponents, were at the dinner, most of them oblivious to the evening’s sub-plot. Rushie sat there, watching every move Marina made. If she leaned forward for the butter, Rushie braced himself for an aerial onslaught. If she raised her glass, Rushie shuffled back in his chair, fearful of water coming through the air, but a far greater degree of sophistication underpinned Marina’s mission. The seating plan had been arranged so that Rushie sat with his back to an emergency exit. When Rushie was distracted by the waiter bringing his main course, Marina made her move. I watched her nip out and then appear stealthily through the emergency exit. Suddenly, she was behind Rushie brandishing a cake. The England boys looked on bemused as the cake was smeared liberally all over his head and suit. The reaction from the England lads ranged from ‘what’s going on here?’ to ‘that’s disgraceful’ as all of us Liverpool lads laughed. We knew it was just Marina getting her revenge.
Rushie’s planned departure gave us time to prepare for the following season. At Christmas 1986, John Smith, PBR and I sat down for a meeting about players.
‘There’s money available,’ said PBR. I’d come armed with a shopping list, which I then read out.
‘John Barnes, Peter Beardsley, Ray Houghton and John Aldridge,’ I listed, knowing the board would try their best. Ian Snodin, the Leeds United midfielder, knocked us back, going to Everton. ‘Aldo’ arrived within the month from Oxford United for £750,000. It grates on my obsession with value for money to admit that Liverpool could have had this prolific forward for free. Back in Shanks’s time, John Bennison went round to Aldo’s house in the course of doing his day-job – checking the gas meter – and Aldo’s mum told him how good her son was. Benno invited the 15-year-old for a trial. Inevitably, Aldo scored but they lost 8–1 and his contribution was forgotten. Thirteen years on, and rather more expensively, PBR and I met Aldo at Manchester airport to sort out personal details. When Aldo signed, PBR rang Robert Maxwell, Oxford’s owner, whose grasp of football’s finer points could best be described as weak.
‘That’s it done, Mr Maxwell, thanks very much,’ said PBR.
‘Can I speak to John?’ Maxwell asked. PBR put Aldo on.
‘I’m really pleased for you,’ Maxwell told Aldo. ‘You might get a game for England now.’
‘Mr Maxwell, I’m Irish.’
‘OK. Whatever. Goodbye.’
Bought with the following season in mind, Aldo still managed to get a feel for the Liverpool way with 10 appearances, plus the bonus of two goals. Ludicrously, he received some stick in the papers, one belittling him as a ‘£750,000 misfit’. Rubbish. Having watched Aldo closely, I knew what he could bring to Liverpool. He’d scored enough times against Liverpool for us to be aware of his threat. On my final scouting trip, I admired Aldo in action for the Republic of Ireland, noting how he outstripped the centre-back. ‘I didn’t think you could track that quick!’ I told Aldo after he joined.
His early critics ignored one thing – Aldo began the 1987–88 season on fire, having had five months to settle in. This was time enough to get used to playing for his boyhood heroes, a particular pressure I knew daunted some footballers. Liverpool born and bred, Aldo was a massive Kopite and just needed a few months to believe he belonged pitch-side of the hoardings. His stats were always going to improve when John Barnes glided into town. On the day Marina received her cake shampoo from Rushie, Barnes starred in Watford’s front line against us, strengthening my desire to include his many gifts in Liverpool’s attack.
‘I’ve not got just a winger if I get him,’ I told Tom Saunders. ‘I’ve got a front man as well.’ John took time and persuasion to coax north. Liverpool agreed a deal of £900,000 with Watford but John kept hesitating, hoping an Italian club would come in for him. Eventually, I set him a deadline of 8 June. Picking up a national newspaper shortly before the deadline was due to expire, I was surprised to read some unhelpful quotes from John.
‘If I cannot go abroad, I would prefer to stay in London with a club like Arsenal or Spurs, and I simply cannot believe they are not interested in signing me,’ John was quoted as saying. When this article appeared, causing consternation on Merseyside, John immediately phoned PBR.
‘It’s not true,’ he told Peter. ‘I’ve been misquoted. I know I am taking my time. I’m just thinking over your offer.’ Peter relayed the details to me, immediately giving me hope.
‘Right, let’s strike while the iron’s hot,’ I said. ‘Phone John straight back and tell him we’ll meet him at Sandbach. We’ll talk to him.’
The meeting took place and we voiced our ambition, impressing on John how he’d fit seamlessly into the attacking style I wanted. When John said ‘yes’, my heart leapt. I had no doubt that ‘Digger’, as he was swiftly dubbed, after ‘Digger’ Barnes in
Dallas
, would be a sensation at Anfield. The only question mark I ever had over John Charles Bryan Barnes was his clothes. On attending pre-season training at Melwood, Digger appeared to have been given Elton John’s wardrobe as a farewell present by Watford. All the Liverpool players were stunned by his flamboyance. In later years, I know Liverpool were criticised for the 1995 FA Cup final white suits, but I promise you they were a safer choice than anything John Barnes wore in 1987.
‘Imagine if Digger designed the Cup final suit,’ I told Al. ‘The boys would look like eleven Liberaces.’ Digger himself had the swagger to carry it off.
Even more recently, when his competitive instincts took him into the dangerous arena of
Strictly Come Dancing
, John continued putting on the glitz. On one programme, I thought he resembled a yellow bird, but the suit looked fine on John. He never bothered what people thought of his clothes anyway. One day at Melwood, Digger walked in looking like the fifth Beatle, wearing one of those collarless grey suits made famous by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. The boys immediately burst into a resounding chorus of ‘Help!’