10

WELCOME TO THE BIG TIME

AFTER MY TEMPERED reaction to promotion to the Premier League I adjusted my attitude; after all, this was what I had set out to achieve. This was why I had bought a football club and now we were there, amongst the purported big boys. We had reached the promised land of football and I was now the youngest ever owner of a Premier League football club.

Unfortunately my jar of honey was topped up with vinegar. Literally less than a week after promotion 121 succeeded in claiming back in excess of £4.5 million off me. My lawyers heralded this as a victory as the original claim was for £6.5 million. They appeared to forget that I had paid them £1 million in fees to save a further million.

Following the conversation with Dowie after the play-off final win I made a conscious decision to improve our relationship. I formalised his brother Bob’s role with the club. I respected Bob’s football knowledge and as his background was in commerce, he knew about the business side of things.

I made him director of football, and he was to become a conduit between Iain and myself. His first task was to look at player recruitment for the ensuing Premier League season. This was much harder than first anticipated; our scouting network was not really geared up for acquiring players for top-flight football. On the whole players required for the Premier League were of a different calibre than some we had previously bought.

We needed a team capable of competing in the Premier League, which brought about its own set of challenges.

In order to assemble a squad we had to first overcome the fact that a newly promoted team were the bookies’ favourites for relegation. As players spent a large amount of time in their shops it was a task to convince them to join a ‘doomed’ enterprise, according to the ‘experts’.

If you managed to hook a Premier League player, the next challenge was to convince them that if they were in fact part of a relegated team their wages would then be reduced, which of course met with complete resistance.

And while we obviously weren’t competing with Chelsea, Manchester United and Arsenal for players we were competing with two other promoted sides and five or six established Premier League teams with bigger budgets, who were not only competing for players with us but ultimately for a place of safety in the league. Whilst gaining promotion through the play-offs was the ultimate high it gave all our rivals a four-week head start on us.

Invariably English players were overpriced, for no other reason than their nationality, as ludicrous as it sounds. And the eagerness, or perhaps desperation, of promoted teams to build a squad that met the expectations of the fans as well as your own ambitions frequently forced you into the European market, which is where we found ourselves. In my view, being forced into the European market because of price rather than ability to some extent reflects the current state of English football. Perhaps it is why we continue to have an overinflated opinion of our players and an underwhelming level of achievement

If our scouting network in England was challenged imagine our lack of expertise in a European market! But needs must.

As I was contemplating this I was invited to attend the annual summer AGM of the Premier League. The Premier League’s communications director Phil French reached out via my friend the journalist Paul Smith, requesting a meeting with the chief executive Richard Scudamore, who was apparently intent on telling me how to conduct myself in the Premier League.

Suffice it to say I took an exception to such a summons as I had no desire to be told how to behave.

No sooner had I ‘politely’ declined this request for an off-the-record chat, I accepted the invitation to attend the annual Premier League summer summit.

I attended this two-day meeting for precisely two hours! Reflecting on the worthless meetings I had attended in the Football League whilst driving up towards Leicestershire, I decided that I’d get in, show my face, and depart as quickly as I could.

At the meeting of all the great and good of English football were my old pals David Dein of Arsenal, David Gold of Birmingham and such luminaries as Rick Parry of Liverpool, Peter Kenyon of Chelsea, David Gill of Manchester United and my old Geordie mate Freddy Shepherd the Newcastle chairman.

In the first meeting the newly promoted clubs, West Brom, Norwich and ourselves, were officially welcomed to the Premier League. Then there was a series of discussions surrounding developments with overseas rights and my particular favourite, rule changes!

All this was followed by a particular set of affairs I suspect explained Scudamore’s attempt to muzzle me prior to the AGM.

Part of Scudamore’s annual pay package included a ridiculous bonus for negotiating a new TV deal, which was surely a significant reason for him being there in the first place.

After he was asked to leave the room, David Gill, the chief executive of Manchester United and head of the Premier League’s remuneration committee, announced that Scudamore should receive a £1 million bonus, which actually is peanuts compared to the £3 million bonuses he gets now.

I raised my hand and was given the floor. ‘How bloody much?’

There was an audible intake of breath. David Gill gathered himself together and then said, ‘Firstly, welcome to the Premier League, Simon, and secondly: nicely phrased first question.’

He went on to explain that Scudamore had negotiated the biggest Sky deal in Premier League history and considered this bonus appropriate.

I was forced to accept this, despite adding for the record that I considered achieving such things was what he was paid for and my grandmother could have negotiated a good deal with Sky in light of how desperate they were to retain the rights. I was promptly kicked under the table by Freddy Shepherd to pipe down, which I did muttering and grumbling under my breath a bit like Dick Dastardly’s sidekick Muttley.

As the meeting wound down I decided that I wanted to get back into London. I departed, neglecting to appear in the annual photograph. I left Phil Alexander, who loved being in front of the camera, to sit in for me.

Soon after the Premier League meeting, with Dowie number one basking in Dubai and earning money for coaching rather than selecting players and Dowie number two trying to identify transfer targets, I decided to take a break from this febrile activity.

I flew home to Spain taking a group of close friends to my house for some rest and recreation and also to go to Portugal to watch England v France in Euro 2004. Amongst my group was Ray Winstone the actor. He had starred in a film, Sexy Beast, where in one scene he jumps onto a lilo and stays on it. This feat eluded the rest of the gang and we spent days wagering who could land and stay on a lilo in the pool, so Raymond, who conveniently neglected to tell everyone about his prior skills, unsurprisingly cleaned up.

When we tired of lazing by the pool and raucous nights in Puerto Banus, we took a private Learjet to Lisbon. When we landed my phone rang and it was my old pal Ian Wright, who we promptly arranged to meet. Upon arriving in the town centre we embarked on a drinking spree with England fans.

Mixing with fans from all over the country and drinking with them was not something Premier League chairmen did, but I was at heart a football supporter and that resonated with them. The fans loved Ray Winstone, who got very merry and rather raucous as well as ‘rabidly patriotic’; ironic given Raymond was to be a ‘goodwill ambassador’ for England during the 2006 World Cup.

The game resulted in the French getting a lucky win and after a hot day and a disappointing result we wanted to get out of Lisbon as quickly as possible. As we departed the stadium we bumped into the Bolton chairman Phil Gartside and his manager Sam Allardyce.

I always liked Phil and Big Sam. But Gartside couldn’t resist having a dig. ‘Bottling it are we, Jordan? Want to get out before you play with the big boys?’

It was in reference to the article Smithy had written after we secured promotion and where I had admitted I was contemplating selling the club. (Coincidentally on that subject I did receive an approach from Colonel Gaddafi and his son, one I didn’t particularly take too seriously, just as well, I suppose!)

My response to Gartside was: ‘Piss off Phil. When you have put as much money as I have in a football club you can speak and by the way who in their right mind considers Bolton big boys?’

It was playful banter with an edge, which I took in good heart, but Ray took exception on my behalf and was all for ‘beating up’ Gartside, which wouldn’t have stood me in good stead at the next Premier League meeting!

As we raced to the airport to get out of Lisbon we were advised there were four- to five-hour delays as all private jets wanted to leave at the same time. But my clever little secretary Lisa had changed planes and we were flying back in a turboprop aircraft, which looked like something out of Indiana Jones but was not subject to the same air traffic control. So we walked straight into a hangar, jumped on a plane and took off, waving at people like Noel Gallagher who were sat in the lounge and facing enormous delays. Within an hour we were back in Spain drinking at the bar in Puerto Banus.

Back at Crystal Palace we set about the serious business of establishing the exact financial landscape of the Premier League and buying players.

Putting aside all the media hype about how much promotion is worth, the main beneficiaries of this significant increase in money are very rarely the owners.

It’s not a complaint; it’s a statement of fact.

There is a huge misconception about the benefit that money from promotion brings.

The total amount of nigh on guaranteed money for promotion to the Premier League at the time was circa £19.5 million. Of course this dwarfed the money in the Football League but then so did the costs you were about to incur.

The guaranteed money you received was broken down like this: in August you received your first instalment of £10.1 million, which was then followed by nine monthly payments of around £500,000, and two TV-related payments for featured games, one for £2.6 million in January and one for £2.1 million in June. Additionally you received £500K for each league place that you achieved at the end of the season, i.e. £500K for twentieth, £10 million for top, so what we had guaranteed was £20 million if we finished bottom and hopefully upwards of £21.5 million if we finished outside of the bottom three and avoided relegation, which of course was our devout intention!

I had already accounted for the first £7 million. This included bonuses and contractually obligated pay rises, new management contracts and payments to other clubs from whom we had signed players that had promotion bonuses written into their contracts.

I then sanctioned the recommended strengthening of the squad by Bob and Iain Dowie. We brought in twelve new players leading up to the start of our Premier League campaign as well as retaining 95 per cent of the existing playing squad and in doing so spent £6 million on transfer fees and increased the wages by a further £7.2 million.

So all in all with the original £7 million it added up to £20.2 million plus the best part of £500K in agent fees, which thus accounted for all the Sky monies and more. That was before the dramatically increased costs you encountered including the five-star hotels the team had to stay in and travelling by air.

See what I mean about little benefit for the owner? But of course I did have the ‘priceless’ kudos of owning a Premier League club.

The players we bought were from far and wide, from Budapest and Quito in Ecuador to as near as Southampton. The list of clubs we purchased players from had some exotic-sounding names: Inter Milan, Hertha Berlin, AEK Athens, Borusia Monchengladbach and Colchester United!

I gave Iain and Bob a free hand in decision-making, merely becoming involved in the financials. The only exception was the Inter Milan deal, which was set up by myself, via Phil Smith the agent and Roberto Bettega from Milan. Bob went out and completed the deal and we signed two highly rated players, Gonzalo Sorondo, a Uruguayan international, and the previously proclaimed Italian wonder kid Nicola Ventola, who had recovered from a serious injury and was now fully fit and raring to go – or so we thought!

The only deal I had serious concerns about was the Ecuadorian captain Ivan Kaviedes, who had been sent over on spec by an agent. It is universally accepted that you don’t buy players from watching a DVD as you are hardly sent a video of bad performances and watching them in training is no substitute for watching them in competitive action. Despite my concerns Iain and Bob pressured me to pay a £600,000 fee for this player and I acquiesced.

Now I realise in Ecuador they were used to coups, but very quickly it was established this was not one for Crystal Palace. Within four months Iain had decided Kaviedes was not good enough and wanted to release him. I had to pay up a significant proportion of his contract and waste the £600,000 we had paid for him. Given he was so bad it was surprising to see him turn up as one of the star players of the 2006 World Cup, playing against none other than England’s Golden Generation.

One player that we desperately tried to sign was Tim Cahill from Millwall. I knew the player well from watching him frequently and had agreed a fee with the club of £1.5 million, and offered the player three times what he was currently earning. Cahill came to the training ground to meet Iain, while I had the dubious pleasure of engaging with his agent Paul Martin from SFX.

Martin was an argumentative, cocky, flash agent, all Burberry and man bags, and the type I really loved! He told me exactly what he would accept for his client, which bore little resemblance to my offer. Despite an hour trying to find a middle ground I agreed to his terms.

Then came the ludicrous demand for an agent’s fee of £150,000 for an hour’s worth of arguments. He expected me to pay for a deal that was considerably more expensive than I had wanted and hadn’t given me a single concession. What I really wanted to give him was a punch on the nose, not a bag of money.

The deal stalled and the atmosphere became very testy. Martin suggested I ask Theo Paphitis, the Milwall chairman, to pick up some of his fee. I phoned Theo in amusement, already knowing the likely outcome, and held the phone from my ear as he screamed obscenities down it, questioning the parentage of this agent.

The deal fell through against a backdrop of recriminations in the press led by my outrage at agents and their demands. Everton had been looking at Cahill for some time and stepped in and bought him. In my view I think we were being used to flush out Everton and Cahill was destined to go there anyway.

To add to my feeling of indignation I had two internal matters to deal with.

I had enjoyed a good relationship with Julian Gray, the first player I had bought back in 2000 from Arsenal. However, in the middle of 2003 he told me he was signing with the agent Paul Stretford, and since then had become truculent and difficult to deal with. We shipped him out on loan to Cardiff at the beginning of the promotion season. Kit Symons had brought him back in his stint as caretaker manager and Julian had been an integral part of the promoted team. But he had developed a disrespectful attitude towards the club. When his contract had expired he refused – or more to the point his agent did – all our offers.

Rules for players’ contracts established under the Bosman ruling meant any player aged twenty-four or under at the end of their contract couldn’t just walk out as a free agent. Clubs retained compensation rights. We ended up in a tribunal which would evaluate his worth to us if he joined another club.

It was a terse affair. Gray was petulant and rude and did the Clinton Morrison trick of kissing his teeth, which didn’t go down well with me. The tribunal did not fail to disappoint me setting a ridiculously low fee. We had acquired Julian for £500,000 four years earlier and he had been a first-team regular with 125 games, part of a promotion side and highly rated.

The tribunal awarded us £300,000 and where did he go? Birmingham City.

The other matter was our young starlet Wayne Routledge, who had one year left on his contract. We offered him a new one, fearing we were very likely to suffer another ludicrous tribunal decision but primarily because we rated him highly. Our reward for my care and development of this player and his family was to be told he would not be signing anything by none other than my favourite agent Paul Stretford.

Worse than that, at 7 p.m. on transfer deadline day Tottenham chairman Daniel Levy offered the paltry sum of £1 million to buy this England under-21 star. An emphatic no was my response but this dragged on through the night with Levy offering ridiculously small increases, spending more money on his phone bill than he was upping his offer for Routledge.

At 11 p.m. and after the fiftieth time of saying no to Levy’s insulting offers he moved the fee to the princely sum of £1.25 million. I then said that even if I wanted to do this deal, which I didn’t, it could not be done as I didn’t know where the player was, and terms to be agreed with the player and medicals would never get done in time.

I need not have worried on Spurs account as my loyal, respectful player and his delightful agent were in a hotel 500 yards around the corner from White Hart Lane. I was given the distinct impression everything had already been done so with that new and treacherous information to hand, I concluded my conversation, told Levy where to go and asked Bob Dowie to advise Wayne Routledge to be in training the following morning.

The first game of the season was upon us. We were playing away to Norwich City, a team that had been promoted with us from the First Division. There was a feeling of anticipation as we expected to secure all three points on our first outing. I was also looking forward to seeing how the newly assembled group of players would acquit themselves.

Arriving at the home of Norwich City I encountered a new Carrow Road, one that had Premier League gold dust sprinkled all over it. The place was alive: a sea of yellow Norwich shirts with a splattering of the new white away kit of my team in amongst them. You could feel the buzz of expectation in and around the ground.

I went into the boardroom to see my dear friend Delia Smith, the owner of Norwich. I was taken aback by the crowd in there, not to mention the large number of good-looking women, which was a vast departure from the boardrooms I had visited in the previous four years, which had often been like working men’s clubs with Bernard Manning more likely to be in there than Linda Evangelista. Suffice it to say this ensured my attendance in boardrooms going forward was likely to be much more regular!

The atmosphere in the ground was electric, the game moderately exciting and it ended in a 1–1 draw to ensure we registered our first Premier League point. Andrew Johnson resumed where he had left off last season with our goal and of course a goal bonus, and I certainly liked the look of our new £1 million Hungarian national striker Sandor Torghelle, although I was to be in the minority on that one as this ‘must have’ player was soon deemed not good enough, and Dowie had no qualms about throwing away the £1 million I had spent on him!

Prior to the season I had a number of discussions with Iain Dowie about how we would approach the campaign. The idea being we would have a go from the first whistle and show no fear. Unfortunately in the five games that followed the exact opposite applied.

Our first home game at a packed, very excited Selhurst Park was against Everton. On a beautiful August day with the stadium swathed in glorious summer sun, the only thing hotter than the weather was the temperature of the fans’ enthusiasm. We opened the scoring through Mark Hudson and AJ should have increased the lead but was denied by the thickness of the post. It proved to be a costly miss as Everton went on to equalise in the first half and scored two further goals in the second to beat us 3–1.

Three days later we faced our second successive home game, against the mighty Chelsea managed by the much-lauded José Mourinho in only his second game in English football and attended by Sven-Göran Eriksson, fresh from being outed in the press for having talks with Chelsea about their manager’s job, and their multi-billionaire Russian owner Roman Abramovich and his heavyweight security guards.

A huge myth existed around Abramovich’s apparent lack of understanding of English. And that was absolute rubbish. Before getting promoted I had gone to St James’ Park to watch Newcastle play a Chelsea side at the time managed by Claudio Ranieri. After the game I went into the boardroom and chatted with Sir John Hall, Freddy Shepherd and Douglas Hall.

In the corner about five feet away, was Roman Abramovich talking to his American chairman Bruce Buck in English. This fact eluded Freddy and Douglas as they proceeded to insult Abramovich with their opinions of everything from his dress sense to their perception of his ‘Russian potato-peeling origins’.

I stood there with this almighty grin across my face. When they had run out of insults I delighted in informing them that Abramovich understood and spoke English. Most people with a modicum of decorum would have just shut their traps!

Not my Geordie pals, who carried on amusing themselves with another set of derogatory comments.

That said I had tried to engage Bruce Buck in conversation prior to the north-east abuse of Abramovich. Buck just answered everything I said with monosyllabic disdain, so I stopped in mid-sentence, looked him straight in the face and remarked, ‘You’re a pleasant fellow aren’t you!’ and turned on my heel and walked away from him.

Thus I was more than happy to condone Freddy and Douglas when they got bored with abusing Abramovich and started on Buck.

And people wondered why Freddy and Douglas frequently got into trouble!

Back to Selhurst Park. Abramovich spent most of the evening chatting to Eriksson – in English of course! Two gorillas that looked like they were going to shoot anyone who even dared to look in his direction flanked him.

Talking of murder, that’s exactly what Chelsea did to Palace on the pitch. Despite only being beaten 2–0, we were never really in the game and Chelsea barely got out of second gear. What disappointed me was we were now in the Premier League and I for one was not overawed in any way so I didn’t expect my manager or players to be, which appeared the case.

Our bad run continued, losing to both Middlesbrough and Portsmouth. We contributed to our downfall in each game by gifting an own goal to the opposition, as well as particularly inept performances by our new goalkeeper Julian Speroni.

The Portsmouth game resulted in a harsh assessment of Palace by the pundit Alan Hansen on Match of the Day. Not content with nicknaming our goalkeeper Speroni, ‘Spilloni’, the former Liverpool defender claimed that Palace were the worst side to ever grace the Premier League and had absolutely no chance of survival. His commentary was a bit over the top – had he not watched Mick McCarthy’s Sunderland side of 2003 get nineteen points, the lowest ever!

Was this the same Alan Hansen who claimed you don’t win silverware with kids? Not eight months after he regaled the world with that particular nugget Manchester United proceeded to do just that. Short of taking it personally and hoping Dowie was pinning up the reports in the dressing room for the players to see, we got on with the business of trying to win games and in the process making this ex-Scottish international, who knew a fair bit, in that respect, about playing in the worst teams, eat his words.

But still we continued to lose. AJ scored his third goal in six matches, but two strikes from Nicolas Anelka for Man City left us waiting to pick up our first points at home and rooted to the bottom of the Premier League.

The bad run came to an end with a 1–1 draw away to Aston Villa, one which we should have really won. At last we were off and running, following that draw with a 2–0 victory at home over Fulham. After the win Dowie dampened my spirits by publicly airing his views on me, saying that the club, i.e. me, hadn’t supported him in the transfer market. He had waited for a win so he didn’t look as if he was whining and normal service resumed between us with Bob in the middle.

We were back to our losing ways in the next game away, to Bolton, where I popped in to see my old mate Phil Gartside the Bolton chairman to let him know that in fact I hadn’t ‘bottled it’ and we were here for three points. Of course the fact that we lost gave Gartside the opportunity to tell me perhaps I should have done!

The disappointment of losing to Bolton was made up for by trouncing fellow promoted West Brom 3–0 at home, with yet again AJ scoring, this time twice. At half-time I spoke to Jeremy Peace the West Brom chairman, who was having well-publicised difficulties with his manager Gary Megson. I remarked to Peace, ‘How lucky we are to work for Megson and Dowie.’ That sarcasm brought a smile to his face.

On 27 October, after ten league games and now out of the bottom three, we took on local rivals Charlton Athletic in the Carling Cup. This game was to be the start of some significant hostilities, which rumbled through this season and into the future. There was of course bad blood between the supporters as it was a London derby and also, when Charlton had fallen on hard times, they had been tenants at Selhurst Park and the Palace fans had never let them forget it.

I was told that Charlton had aspirations to win this particular cup tournament, so it was no surprise to me when they put out a full-strength side. What was a surprise was that we put out a virtual second-string side, making eight changes from the team that beat West Bromwich a few days earlier. Even so, we completely outplayed Charlton and won the game.

Before the game an incident had occurred that I was unaware of as I was late. When the teams were read out over the tannoy the announcer called us Crystal PalARSE, childish really, but my ever-busy chief executive Phil Alexander made an unnecessary complaint.

I walked out at Millwall every time we played there to the Smokie song ‘Livin’ next door to Alice’, which the Millwall fans in unison had adapted to ‘Livin’ next door to Palace, Palace who the fuck are Palace’. I found this amusing, so I would have hardly been bothered by a silly announcement. But Alexander had complained and the silly sod announcer got fired and guess who got the blame for it!

I hadn’t seen a great deal of my mates at Birmingham since their promotion in 2001, but I was seeing them at St Andrews the following Saturday.

During the week I was interviewed by Ian Payne of Sky. We spoke about the game and he tried to get some derogatory comments from me, given our past, but I abstained. Even when he quoted some slightly caustic comments about me by David Gold, the joint Birmingham chairman, I just countered with ‘Empty vessels make the most noise.’

Upon arriving at Birmingham it was like the three years had never elapsed and I was greeted with a deluge of abuse from their fans/morons. By now the relationship with Steve Bruce had improved, and on walking into the stadium, despite the insults being hurled at me left and right, I received a big hug from Janet Bruce, Steve’s wife, and a big sloppy kiss from Karren Brady. I was not sure what was worse: the kiss or the abuse from the Birmingham fans.

Birmingham’s co-owner David Sullivan, resplendent in his trademark Cossack outfit but looking like a little Russian doll, greeted me. He remarked on the fact that Andrew Johnson was gaining a reputation for getting penalties, as he had been awarded four so far this season. Sullivan said, ‘I know what you boys are like. I hope we are not going to have any dodgy decisions today with all those bloody penalties you get.’

My mouth got the better of me. ‘Have you seen yourself, David? The only dodgy decision here today is the one you made, putting on that get-up. Are you doing the half-time entertainment, and is Karren the dancing bear?’

We won, my honour was upheld. Andrew Johnson scored and no, it was not a penalty! I still had to listen to the endless chants from the poet laureate-like Birmingham supporters of ‘Simon Jordan is a wanker, is a wanker,’ but this time I got to do it with a big grin on my face – no need to go in their boardroom this time!

This win was made more pleasing as I had bumped into Dwight Yorke in the Sanderson Bar in London the previous night, who by now was plying his trade on the bench at Birmingham. I had a £2,000 bet with Yorke that we would win.

The fact that a player was in a London hotel bar the night before a game probably explains where Yorke’s career was at that time. Anyway, returning from the Midlands that night I went again to the Sanderson bar for a drink with friends and in strolled Yorke. I reminded him that he had a bet to pay, which he proceeded to welch on, saying he would send me a Dwight Yorke cheque that I could pin on my wall as some kind of souvenir! I suggested he kept it and invested it in his wardrobe; judging by what he was wearing, he was the footballer that fashion forgot.

After the delight of finally getting one over Birmingham our next four games were relatively easy encounters – Arsenal at home, Manchester United in the Carling Cup, then Liverpool away and finally Newcastle at home. Judging by some of our recent performances I considered we had two hopes of getting nine points out of the three league games: Bob Hope and No Hope, and unfortunately for us Bob was dead!

Arsenal arrived at Selhurst Park two weeks after their incredible forty-nine-match unbeaten run came to an end at Manchester United.

David Dein, the Arsenal vice-chairman, came into the boardroom and reminded me in his inimitable way of what a fantastic favour he’d done me in selling me Julian Gray and how he had played an integral part in getting the club promoted the previous season.

Dein remarked: ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Julian play tonight and to see how he has progressed since leaving Arsenal.’

I replied: ‘If that’s the case why aren’t you at the Liverpool game tonight, David?’

Dein looked at me somewhat perplexed until I informed him that Gray had walked out on Palace, joined Birmingham and left us at the mercy of a rotten tribunal.

Arsenal out-strengthened us in every department, but on a heady late afternoon in November and after a difficult first half, despite falling behind we battered Arsenal and soon equalised. We should have won the match in the last minute when the Greek international winger Vassilis Lakis missed an absolute sitter!

Dowie captured the imagination of all and sundry including the press, Soccer AM and Alan Hansen, with his infamous ‘bouncebackability’ line.

Talking of Hansen, he now had a sea change of view, claiming Palace were now worthy of their place in the Premier League and would more than likely stay up.

Thankfully for Hansen he is not on a prediction-related bonus for the BBC.

Next up was Manchester United in the Carling Cup at Old Trafford.

Naturally I looked forward to the game but I wasn’t overawed or impressed by the opposition. It was just another game I wanted my team to win.

I wish I could say the same for everyone else at Palace. When I arrived at United it was as if someone had picked up our entire boardroom and dropped it in the VIP area. To a certain extent I could understand why everyone wanted to go but it didn’t reflect my outlook and I was slightly embarrassed.

I had a similar attitude whenever Palace scored. My celebrations were very tempered and never over-elaborate: I always assumed we would score and felt over-celebrating was a sign of weakness. In the battle of the directors’ box, over-elaborate celebrations merely made your opponents feel more important than they actually were.

After I politely declined an invitation into United’s boardroom from Sir Bobby Charlton, Phil Alexander didn’t need to be asked twice to take my place and predictably swooned over it like he stumbled across Aladdin’s Cave.

Needless to say on a scale of one to ten the result wasn’t important. We lost 2–0 but league points were far more important than historic scalps in the Carling Cup.

Around this time I had started to date Alex, George Best’s ex-wife, and we both promptly turned up at Liverpool for our next league game.

It was bedlam. Having avoided entering Liverpool’s unfriendly boardroom, we took to our seats and were confronted by a mass of photographers, snapping pictures of myself and Alex.

At the start of the season I had taken on Max Clifford to handle my PR and one of the objectives was to protect me against press intrusion in my private life. The reason for employing Max seemed logical. I felt there would be significant interest in my professional and private life especially as I was young and outspoken. As a single man in London I felt it was appropriate for someone to manage that.

Max had immense power in the tabloid market, so in a way it was like taking out an insurance policy. I was to use it on a number of occasions on behalf of some of my errant employees who got themselves in various scrapes with the media and needed my help and that of Max to spare their blushes.

Around this time an article was written by one of the tabloid newspapers which showed the irresponsible and potentially damaging effects of bad and inaccurate journalism. This particular article was about the rifeness of cocaine, raucous behaviour and sexual impropriety by Premier League players. Some of it was true, but they illustrated the article with a picture of Andrew Johnson falling out of a taxi.

This young man was the most committed footballer I had ever met. He barely drank, certainly did not do drugs, was in a good relationship and was now an England player. The picture was taken as he was chased down the road by paparazzi and he fell into a cab not out of one. Andrew was horrified and so was I; there was no mention of him in their article except this bloody picture which made him guilty by association. I sued them on Andrew’s behalf. We got a retraction and an apology, also a significant amount for damages, which Andrew and myself gave to a children’s hospice that Max Clifford had introduced me to. So at least some good came out of it.

The following home game against Newcastle was a real eye opener for me. It wasn’t so much the 2–0 defeat that concerned me but the manner in which we lost the game that set alarm bells ringing. The scoreline flattered us. A team with no real expectations of accomplishing anything significant had comprehensively outplayed us. It was embarrassing and it dawned on me that we had a real fight on our hands to survive at this level.

Worse was to follow when Max Clifford set up an interview for me with the Sunday Times. It proved to be the most controversial I had done to date and would be published the day of the London derby against Charlton.

I was asked very leading questions and gave strident views in response. When I read the article that Sunday morning I regretted the way my views had been crafted into what was an explosive article. I appeared to be disparaging about major clubs, aspects of football and other chairmen, when in fact I had been extreme in my views, but had balanced them out. The balancing parts were conveniently left out and the acticle didn’t reflect the true nature of what I said.

I was asked whether I had a reputation for not getting on with other chairmen and my throwaway response was: ‘It’s fair to say I think a lot of football club chairmen are tossers but I suspect they may well think the same thing about me.’

Of course the piece only reported the controversial first half of my answer and not the balance in the second. And perhaps I should have used a better word than ‘tossers’.

Given my attitude of not feeling privileged to be in the Premier League I was asked a pointed question. Was I an admirer and respecter of the traditions and achievements of the leading clubs?

My response was that I was not a great respecter of traditions and values and felt there was a lot of bullshit in football. And a lot of bullshit in and around clubs like Manchester United and Arsenal.

What I also went on to say, which again didn’t appear in the article, was that the achievements of these clubs were to be respected but they included certain factions that were full of self-serving bullshit.

The fallout, aside from unwanted back-page headlines, criticism on TV and radio stations, was that I got a phone call from Freddy Shepherd at Newcastle to say ‘Hello, just one of the tossers here.’ I acknowledged the fact I had earned that jibe.

It’s one thing being strident but another thing allowing yourself stupidly to be taken out of context.

In the article I had launched an extreme tirade against agents, which was the only part of the piece I had no regrets about!

I had done many articles prior to this where I had been strident in my views but in this case my views had been taken out of context and they had crossed the line. I felt I had to get in front of this, so driving towards the ground I called Sky and asked them to allow me time to address the issues in the article, which they agreed to begrudgingly, given that I had hardly given them any time in the last twelve months.

After the damage limitation with Sky I went up to the boardroom and bumped into Richard Murray, the chairman of Charlton, and assured him that in no way the comments I had reportedly made were directed at him.

Murray smiled and said: ‘I understand, we all get misquoted.’

It’s funny how that attitude changed some five months later.

Anyway, to top off an unproductive day, we lost against Charlton, conceding a last-minute goal, which was becoming a regular feature of our season.

No sooner had the repercussions from the article died down than I had to travel to Manchester United, where I faced some disapproving looks and a few disparaging comments from certain directors of theirs.

I’d done the article and addressed it so if people wanted to go on about it I didn’t really care. It was done and I’d drawn a line under it. I was far more concerned about the team’s slide down into the relegation zone than the opinions of the Manchester United officials. I suppose the fact we got thrashed 5–2 would have been viewed as retribution.

Between the Manchester United game and the opening of the transfer window we dipped in and out of the bottom three with ever helpful reminders from the press that any team in the bottom three at Christmas always got relegated.

Around this time my old school Purley Boys had asked me to come and address the pupils as they considered me to be one of – if not the most – successful ex-pupils.

Ironic, seeing they had expelled me!

Initially I said I was reluctant to do it, so jokingly they blackmailed me and threatened to release my old school report to the press. That was it: I had no choice, I had to do it.

I took along Andy Johnson for the star factor as he was now an England player. I gave a speech to the young students, who were sitting where I had sat twenty years earlier. Afterwards I got to listen to some of my old teachers who were still at the school and some who had loathed me claimed that they always knew I would be a success. Oh, really?!

On the field, results were poor and following the 1–0 home defeat against Portsmouth on Boxing Day we dropped into the bottom three. A credible point at Spurs briefly took us out on goal difference but on the opening day of 2005 we lost 3–1 at Fulham and slipped straight back into the relegation zone.

The opening of the transfer window was a timely reminder of what managers seek to excel at: trying to spend your money.

I made significant funds available to Iain Dowie, who identified two targets, Michael Carrick at West Ham, and Dean Ashton at Crewe. West Ham accepted my offer of £3.5 million for Carrick, but he refused to even speak to Dowie and ignored his calls.

We offered Crewe £2.75 million for Dean Ashton. Norwich were also in the market for the striker so I called them and said, ‘Let’s agree the same fee to prevent a Dutch auction and let the player decide between us.’ So what do they do? Offer £3 million and promptly sign him. Was I naïve? Perhaps. I was later to find out that Dario Gradi, the Crewe manager, had a dislike of me and was probably instrumental in the player not coming to Palace.

As the Dowie brothers had identified no other targets, the window closed without any new additions to the squad. For my trouble I got to read in the papers another public broadside from Dowie, claiming I hadn’t supported him financially in the transfer market. He conveniently forgot a private discussion we had when he admitted his brother Bob had failed to do his homework in the market. Or that we had done our best to get the only two players he wanted and he was in fact comfortable going forward and believed, like me, we would stay up regardless.

Irrespective of failing to acquire players, in the last game of January we crushed Tottenham 3–0 at home and were three points clear of the relegation zone.

February brought a further four points and by the close of the month we were four clear of relegation. The Valentine’s Day Massacre at Arsenal, where we lost 5–1, was rather humiliating but my spirits were lifted two days before the end of the month when we got to administer more pain on my mates at Birmingham. Andrew Johnson, who I had taken for nothing and been a makeweight in the Clinton Morrison deal, scored both goals. According to the pundits we were the team most likely to stay up this season.

So as we approached the last quarter of the season in reasonable fettle, it never really occurred to me that we would get relegated. I had fleeting thoughts that we might but I banished them from my head as soon as they popped in. Not from a state of denial but, as Nietzsche said: if you look into the abyss the abyss looks back at you. I wanted to look into the sun and being in the Premier League was Vitamin D in abundance.

My relationship with Dowie remained difficult but despite a few fractious moments where he had spoken out of turn in the media, or just been plain difficult, we had an accord of sorts. Maybe it was due to his brother Bob acting as a conduit between us, maybe it was because I had learned to tolerate Iain, or maybe Iain and I attached so much importance to staying in the Premier League that it overrode our personal differences.

Iain believed we would stay up. He believed in himself and the team. I found his positive outlook and leadership uplifting and appreciated his determination.

In March we only had two games. Relatively ‘easy’ fixtures against Manchester United, who were second, at home and the leaders Chelsea away.

Selhurst Park was buzzing for the visit of Manchester United. It was the first time we had played them at home since April 1998, on the cusp of the doomed Mark Goldberg takeover. That team was managed by Attilio Lombardo and got smashed to pieces 3–0. I watched the game that night from the Holmesdale stand. But this was a different Palace now, a supercharged one led by Iain Dowie that matched Manchester blow for blow and came out with a 0–0 draw against one of the finest teams in the world.

Talking of the finest teams, we played Chelsea next on a bright March afternoon. A group of friends and I walked down the New King’s Road. It never concerned me what rival fans may or may not do. But it was fun, as I think the Chelsea fans were somewhat stunned to see me. We stopped off for a drink in one of the pubs and by that time the Chelsea fans had gained their voice and the abuse followed. It was all in good spirit though, as they knew I was a London lad like them and ‘had done good’. Unfortunately, the result was predictable, a comprehensive defeat, although we did go in at half-time 1–1. We might have stood a better chance if our goalkeeper could have caught more than a cold that afternoon. We ended up losing 4–1 and our defence was as conspicuous in its absence as Roman Abramovich was in the directors’ box.

Around this time something sinister happened in my personal life. As I had given Ms Best a straight red card, I was often out in the high-octane London nightlife. In March 2005 I met a girl with whom I had a brief interlude. She has subsequently stalked me for six years, despite being arrested, put in prison, put on community service and given several restraining orders.

I tried to make light of it, saying what self-respecting single multi-millionaire does not have his own stalker? But having your family threatened, having hundreds of texts and phone calls a day for months on end, having lewd photographs sent to your hotel, stores phoning you up to pay for things she had ordered with your details, as well as strangers calling you up and abusing you whilst drunk with her, was not fun.

Back to football. After a great performance against Manchester United and a good effort at Chelsea, the next four matches were a disappointment as we took only one point in a draw at home to fellow strugglers Norwich.

In the other three games we were abject, losing to Middlesbrough 1–0 at home, failing to turn up at Goodison Park as Everton trounced us 4–0 and then a dire performance against Blackburn away on a cold April night, losing 1–0 when Mikele Leigertwood gave away an unnecessary free kick on the right of our eighteen-yard box, something he was to repeat very soon with devastating consequences.

After losing to Blackburn, I actually felt for the first time that we were going to get relegated. Before these games we were two points clear of the relegation zone and after them we were second to bottom, two points from safety. I saw the bright lights of the Premier League recede into the distance. Yes, I was not grateful to be there, and no, I was no respecter of protocol nor had I been brainwashed by some of the Premier League nonsense but I didn’t want to go back to the Football League.

If you own a football club and if you have any real ambition, the Premier League is the only place to be. If you have been there as a player, manager, supporter and owner you don’t want to be anywhere else.

After Blackburn, it dawned on me that this dream might be coming to an end.

I wasn’t about to display my feelings, but I felt flat. Surprisingly, Iain Dowie picked up on it and lifted my spirits as he was so determined and so resolute.

And lo and behold, after four nondescript performances, at home we beat Liverpool, who were soon to be crowned European champions.

It was an incredible result and reignited my belief that we were going to stay up. We were back out of the relegation zone. During my ownership we played Liverpool seven times, only losing twice – not bad for a ‘smaller’ club!

The season came down to the last three games and it was a straight fight between us, Norwich, Southampton and West Brom, who were bottom and had been completely written off.

We played Newcastle and gained a credible point in a relatively boring 0–0 draw at St James’ Park. I had to physically restrain Bob Dowie during the game because the pressure had clearly got to him. If he wasn’t biting his nails he was up and out of his seat like some jack-in-the-box. As for Newcastle, a team that destroyed us earlier in the season, they were abstract and that’s being kind.

Our final home game was against fellow strugglers Southampton, now managed by Harry Redknapp, who had defected from their fiercest of rivals Portsmouth. Portsmouth, ironically, were to play a pivotal role in our destiny.

The game was a feisty affair. We took the lead, they pegged us back. Two players were sent off, Sorrando for Palace and Peter Crouch for Southampton.

Then at long last we saw Nicola Ventola, our wonder kid. He had been injured all season and like something out of Roy of the Rovers he scored with his first touch to put us 2–1 ahead. The fortune I had paid this kid to never see sight of him till that moment was finally worth every penny.

Then, as was our way that season, disaster conspired to bring us down to earth with an almighty bump.

Amidst deafening whistles from the Palace supporters, desperate to see the game come to an end which would have sparked wild celebrations and was likely to have secured our place in the Premier League, we conceded a goal in the third minute of stoppage time.

Unfortunately it was the fault of young Ventola, who went from hero to zero, failing to control a ball thrown to him by our keeper, who should actually have booted it out of the ground himself. The ball came straight back into our box and Danny Higginbotham scored to hand Southampton a Premier League lifeline.

We now had one game left to save ourselves. West Brom were bottom and playing Portsmouth and it only dawned on me later why this game had such a major impact on our future in top-flight football. I had it on very reliable information that with Portsmouth safe, their legion of supporters demanded that they didn’t lift a leg against West Brom to ensure Southampton went down. Unbearable pressure was put on the Portsmouth players and, while this was a major conspiracy theory and can never be substantiated, it was no help to us.

Southampton were home to Manchester United; Norwich, who were a point clear of the relegation zone and favourites to stay up, were away to Fulham, who, judging by recent performances were already on the beach; and we had the small matter of a London derby away to Charlton. As the Sunday approached the tension was building as literally all teams could save themselves, which I suppose made for compelling viewing.

Iain Dowie spoke to Chris Coleman, the Fulham manager, who assured him they would do their job and it was up to us to do ours. As old teammates you would expect nothing less. Iain took the players to Champneys for a day to ease the pressure and I flew up to the north on the Saturday to attend the massive annual charity ball hosted by John Caudwell, the billionaire owner of Phones4u, where I was to spend nearly £100,000 on auction items for a children’s charity. The next day I was to give up a lot more money.

The Sunday morning arrived and with a slight hangover I jumped in my helicopter and flew to London for what was to be an eventful and controversial day. I landed in Battersea and with a friend drove my lucky Aston Martin over to Greenwich, only to get stuck in traffic. I arrived late again, annoying myself intensely as this was the most important game of my ownership to date.

Upon entering the Valley, the home of Charlton, I donned my lucky suit, the one I had worn to death last year, and walked into a boiling cauldron of an atmosphere. It was a full house and despite having nothing to play for both the Charlton fans and their team were massively up for the match, determined to send their fierce rivals down.

The game was played at a frenetic pace. Charlton went ahead and at half-time we were 1–0 down. Norwich were getting beaten 2–0 but still safe and both West Brom and Southampton were drawing. So it was pretty much as you were.

The last forty-five minutes of the 2004–05 season were both controversial and heart-breaking for some of us in Premier League history.

Fifteen minutes into the second half all had changed. Poor Norwich were now losing 3–0 and on the way to an incredible 6–0 defeat, despite being in the box seat at the start of the day. Southampton were losing 2–1 and on their way to relegation. West Brom had scored and incredibly were out of the bottom three.

And what of us?

The atmosphere in the stadium was electric; the intensity of the Charlton fans was incredible. I think both our players and management were surprised at how committed Charlton were to this game.

I remember Andrew Johnson telling me afterwards that at half-time he had spoken to Bryan Hughes, an old teammate of his, and asked why Charlton were playing like their lives depended on it. Apparently the directive from up high was this game had to be won!

Dowie brought on the fans’ hero Dougie Freedman and within a minute he had levelled and it was now game on. Incredibly Dougie did it again and won us a penalty, which Andrew Johnson, against a backdrop of abuse from the Charlton fans, dispatched. With twenty minutes to go we were safe.

It was irrelevant what happened elsewhere and for thirteen minutes we dared to dream. Had Dowie worked the oracle again? Had Dougie Freedman popped up as the hero once more?

In the eighty-third minute, absolute disaster struck. Mikele Leigertwood gave away the same free kick needlessly as we had against Blackburn. Our goalkeeper came out like Superman, or in this case Cooperman, missed the cross and a Charlton player headed the equaliser.

With West Brom winning, the other two losing, incredibly they were staying up. We had seven minutes to try and save ourselves and when Charlton scored every conceivable emotion went through my head. Try as we might we never found that third goal.

The final whistle blew amongst celebrations from the Charlton fans, rejoicing deliriously in our demise as if they had won the Champions League. We had been relegated. Despite beating Liverpool, Spurs and Aston Villa, despite drawing with Manchester and Arsenal, despite doing the double over Birmingham and being unbeaten in our last four games, we were heading straight back to the Football League.

As I went to leave, I walked up the stairs past the jeering Charlton fans and was stopped by their chairman, Richard Murray, with whom I had enjoyed a friendly relationship. ‘Enjoy the Championship, tosser!’ he chortled, a reference to the Sunday Times article earlier that season. That was the start of open hostilities between the two clubs that were to have far-reaching consequences.

I started to walk away, stopped and turned back. I couldn’t believe what he had said to me at a time of such desperate disappointment.

I confronted Murray, asking how he could say such a thing at such a time. Murray just grinned maniacally, and remarked that I had been rude by being late for the game and rude by not attending lunch.

‘What?’ I stammered incredulously.

His reason for being so insulting was I hadn’t attended lunch, which I never did and always had my secretary politely decline.

He went on to mention the Sunday Times article, which I thought we had laid to rest on the day it came out, and then incredibly he asked me if I wanted to have a fight. ‘Fight?’ I said incredulously, ‘I am a chairman of a football club, as are you. Besides, you are an old man.’

I left Murray smirking happy in his nonsense, reminding him: ‘What goes around comes around.’

I went down to the pitch to console the players. One thing Murray’s absurd outburst had done was dispel any feeling I might have about feeling sorry for myself and replace it with a galvanised spirit of ‘We must get back.’

I actually gave Dowie a hug as, despite the fact we had got relegated and done it to ourselves by conceding late goals in the two critical games against Southampton and Charlton, he and the players had given their all.

In a downcast and despondent dressing room I spoke to the players, saying that I was proud of their efforts. We had come up short, but what did not kill us would make us stronger. I asked them if they liked this feeling, which of course they didn’t, and suggested they remember it and take it on to the pitch against the first opposition next season.

And that was that: the lights went down. Or not quite. As I walked out of the stadium, still being jeered by Charlton fans and the disappointment now beginning to resonate, I bumped into Wayne Routledge’s mother, who cheerfully announced I wouldn’t be seeing Wayne next year as he was off. Charming!

One last thing to do. I phoned Jeremy Peace, the West Brom chairman, who was obviously in mid-celebration, and congratulated him. It was a hard phone call to make, but who said I was not magnanimous in defeat?