Bobby’s last senior game for West Ham was in January 1974, when he twisted his knee ligaments during an FA Cup game against Hereford United. He was carried off and out for eight weeks and his replacement, Mick McGiven, did well enough in the celebrated Number 6 shirt to help lift West Ham away from relegation trouble. Bobby had his ticket out.
Ron Greenwood called him into his office. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can go. But we want £25,000 for you.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Bobby. ‘You agreed at the start of the season that I could leave on a free at the end.’
‘The board are insisting on a fee,’ said Ron.
Bobby couldn’t believe it. ‘West Ham signed me for nothing as an apprentice,’ he said to me. ‘They’ve had sixteen years of service out of me. I should be being let go for nothing so I can get the best possible contract for myself at a new club. Instead of that, I’m being used to balance the club books.’
Even so, £25,000 was a bargain price for an England captain. Bobby also knew he only had one or two seasons of high earning left in league football, so he played hard to get. Two First Division clubs, Stoke and Leicester, were interested. So were Norwich, at the time still in the First Division but doomed to relegation at the end of the 1973-74 season.
Going to Norwich would have reunited Bobby with John Bond, now the manager of the East Anglian club. Muffin was so keen to have him that he said Bobby could stay in London, train with West Ham and commute on match days. But Bobby didn’t think retaining the link with West Ham was a good idea. ‘I want to go somewhere new,’ he said. ‘I want a change of atmosphere, so I can make a complete break with the past.’
That didn’t extend to rubbing West Ham out of his life altogether. Malcolm Allison, his first mentor at West Ham, was now managing Crystal Palace and Bobby hoped an offer would come in from Selhurst Park. But with 14 March, the deadline day for Football League transfers, looming, Big Mal was uncharacteristically silent. Instead, on 13 March, Bobby received an approach from Alec Stock at Fulham.
Alec was a soft-spoken West Countryman with the knack of getting the best out of smaller clubs. Bobby had always liked him. Ron Greenwood was a football perfectionist but you couldn’t touch the soul of the man, whereas Alec was a kindly man, easy-going and approachable. That was the difference. Although he wasn’t a bit like Malcolm Allison in other ways, he had the gregariousness that Bobby was drawn to. That was why he admired and respected Brian Clough - the man had such enthusiasm. It was a dimension that Ron lacked.
Even so, Bobby was still determined to take it to the wire. ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ he told Alec.
For Alec it was time to put Plan B into action. One of Fulham’s players was Bobby’s former England team-mate, Alan Mullery. Bobby had a great liking for Alan, who after a successful spell at Spurs had come back to Fulham, the club of his early years, to see out his playing days.
The next day, Bobby emerged from an early morning training session at Upton Park to find Alan waiting with a handful of paperwork. ‘Morning, Bob,’ said Alan. ‘Glad you’re coming to Fulham. You’ll love it, it’s different class. Just sign here.’
Alec had despatched him and Graham Hortop, the Fulham secretary, to West Ham with the instructions not to leave until Bobby’s signature was on the transfer documents.
Bobby’s final game for West Ham was in the reserves, but hundreds of supporters gathered to say goodbye to the man whose career at Upton Park had started with the West Ham Colts on 6 October 1956. His first team debut was on 8 September 1958, against Manchester United, and he captained West Ham in their FA Cup victory over Preston in 1964 and in their European Cup winners Cup win against TSV Munich 1860 in 1965. On 17 February 1973 he exceeded the record 509 appearances made for West Ham by Jimmy Ruffell. As England captain he had brought lustre to the club.
Sadly, Ron Greenwood’s farewell was grudging.
‘Are you sorry Bobby’s leaving?’ a TV reporter asked him.
Ron stuck out his chin. ‘I’m sorry when any player leaves,’ he said.
In 1974, long before the era of Mohammed al Fayed, Craven Cottage was a cosy place. One of its distinguishing features was a balcony complete with wrought iron balustrade where you could take tea like Edwardian ladies and gentlemen. The club had known better times but it boasted some famous Old Boys. Bobby’s boyhood hero, Johnny Haynes - the Maestro - spent his entire first class career there between 1952 and 1970. George Cohen, Bobby’s World Cup-winning team-mate, played alongside Johnny in the Sixties and, like Alan Mullery, Rodney Marsh had started his playing career there. For a long time its chairman had been Tommy Trinder, an amiable stand-up comedian of his day. His act featured a lot of self-deprecating Fulham jokes.
Bobby signed for Fulham on a Friday and played his first game for them on the following Tuesday, 19 March 1974. His debut attracted three times the normal crowd. Unfortunately, Fulham’s opponents that night were Middlesbrough, Second Division leaders by a gulf as wide as Mexico’s. By the time they won the Second Division title two months later, they were 15 points ahead of the rest - at a time when two points, not three were awarded for a victory. Bobby’s new club helped them generously on their way. Fulham were 4-0 down after twenty minutes.
‘I think I might have made a mistake coming here,’ murmured Bobby to Alan Mullery as they trudged away from the goalmouth for the fourth time.
But Bobby’s first full season there, the 1974-75 one, was magical. His presence seemed to inspire the other players and the side lifted their game. In May they found themselves travelling to Wembley for the FA Cup Final. Almost predictably, a twist of fate made sure their opponents were West Ham. Roberta, Dean and I dressed up in Fulham colours for the day and if Fulham’s Cup run had been a movie, it would have ended with Bobby lifting the trophy. Real life never was like that, and West Ham won 2-0.
But Fulham had booked the Dorchester, win or lose, for a party that night. It was so good that even some of the West Ham players, who had been celebrating nearby at the Grosvenor in Park Lane, turned up. James Mason, who was staying at the Dorchester, talked his way into the banquet and asked if he could join us. I thought that was incredible. A film star had asked if he could join Bobby, not the other way round.
One of the great things about football in the mid-Seventies was the way the game was developing in the US. For players like Bobby, that meant a hugely enjoyable way to extend their playing days because the North American Soccer League relied heavily on big name talent from all over the world to draw in the crowds.
Bobby had just finished his second season with Fulham when we went out to spend the summer of 1976 with San Antonio Thunder in Texas. Bobby had been asked to guest there as player and coach and didn’t need any prompting to say yes. He and I both loved the States. We thought New York was the best place we’d ever been.
The first time we went there was with West Ham, who were playing in a cup competition and had given the players the choice of extra pay or taking their wives on the trip. I was about to turn 21 when that happened. Visiting New York was my biggest ambition. We flew BOAC from London via Prestwick and Bangor, Maine - it took twelve hours. In those days you got dressed up to fly and I had my photo taken at Heathrow, wearing dark glasses and a white suit. When I saw it later in the paper I thought how starry and mysterious I looked.
That first trip had its awkward moments. The girls were very young and many of them had no experience of long distance travel. Some of them fell out with each other or went around in floods of tears because they were homesick. Others managed to get as far as visiting the Empire State Building but they didn’t go up - they just stood outside and looked! For Bobby and me, though, it was love at first sight. We were knocked out by everything, from the enormous portions of strawberry shortcake to swimming at Coney Island to the musical toilet seat covers. We travelled on the subway, where I was mesmerized by a giant nun who suddenly started spitting. I looked more closely and noticed that the ‘nun’ was wearing great big men’s boots. That was definitely an encounter I would never have had in Ilford.
My mother had given Bobby enough money to organize a 21st birthday treat for me. It took place at the Latin Quarter, where Al Martino was in cabaret. He was a huge star in the early Sixties and all of us girls were big fans. It was the highlight of the evening when Al strolled around the tables, singing.
He seemed to stop an unusually long time at our table and a little while after that, a waiter approached me with a message. ‘Mr Martino would like to take you out to dinner,’ he said.
I was unbelievably flattered and it was with the greatest regret that I told him, ‘Sorry, but I’m with my husband.’
But the next night, there came a knock on my bedroom door. I opened it to see a waiter carrying a tray on which there was a bottle of champagne and a note. It read:
’Mr Martino will be pleased to drink this with you after tonight’s show.’
I gasped. I was absolutely flummoxed. ‘But - but - ,’ I stammered.
It was only when I peered more closely at the waiter that I recognized Alan Sealey. It was a tease.
That was a fantastic introduction to the States, and Bobby and I dreamed we’d go back for longer some day. Bobby’s spell with San Antonio gave us the chance. That summer of 1976 was one of the happiest times we’d ever had. Far away from England and the financial problems left by Woolston Hall, he was a different person, carefree and full of fun.
I had to wait for the start of the school holidays before I joined him there with Roberta and Dean and the moment he saw me, he said, ‘My Princess has arrived.’ It was wonderful to meet up with him there. Our living accommodation was a cathedral-style house with high, lofted ceilings. I was surprised by how homely and welcoming Bobby had made it look. He had filled it with flowers. They weren’t just thrown into vases, either. I had recently done a flower arranging course and multi-talented Bobby had clearly picked up some hints.
My first sight of him on Texan soil was with a voluptuous strawberry blonde clinging to his arm. She had the face of a naughty angel and the body of Dolly Parton. Bobby introduced her as Annie Semple, wife of the Rangers goalie, Billy. Like Bobby, Billy was a big name veteran spending the summer with San Antonio Thunder. The evening had just started and Annie, who spoke in a broad Scots accent, was on her best behaviour. She ordered ‘a wee sherry’, which she drank with her little finger crooked. Inevitably, one wee sherry was followed by another, until by the end of the evening she was on her hands and knees by the coffee table, checking that the sambuccas were level. Then she chased a woman out of the room who had come up to ask Bobby for his autograph. She was madly in love with Bobby and still is to this day. We had such fun hanging out with her and Billy.
That San Antonio trip was idyllic. They were lovely, chilled out times. No one knew us so we could go out as a normal family. We could spend hours on the beach at Corpus Christi with no one to pester Bobby by asking where he’d hidden the bracelet.
There was one very tiny fly in the ointment. The club owner was the boss of Braniff Airlines and when the players ran out onto the pitch to the tune of ‘The Yellow Rose Of Texas’, they had to wear stetsons and carry yellow roses. You can imagine how much the stylish, immaculate Bobby enjoyed that. On the credit side, we were deluged with free tickets and passes for places like Taco Bell. Dean picked up fifty-four. Off he went to the restaurant to claim his free tacos, all fifty-four of them. That must have been some sort of record.
While Bobby was out training, I’d go to the gym with the Southern belles. Our babysitter was a long-haired, guitar-playing hippie called Zak and the summer days just slid dreamily into each other . . . trying to catch fireflies, Bobby and Dean playing golf, Roberta going to school wearing a long dress. Annie Semple gave Roberta her first babysitting job, looking after little Scott and Lee. Roberta was terribly excited - twelve years old and convinced she was babysitter extraordinaire. We made lifelong friends and it was bliss. There was even a possibility of Bobby going on to join a club in Hawaii as head coach.
Bliss was short-lived. We had to cut the trip short because Bobby’s father, Big Bob, had been rushed into hospital with a stroke. It was difficult getting flights out with the children at short notice. We’d had such a marvellous time and it was such a sad reason to be leaving. Once again we left the US, telling ourselves we’d go back.
Back in England, the 1976-77 season was just starting and there was a new face at Fulham. With that dark, curly hair and those sparkling blue, almond-shaped eyes, Georgie Best really was Gorgeous George. He was quiet and skinny but cheeky and flirty with it. He had charisma and a fabulous dress sense, and you could tell he loved the women. It dripped from every pore. All the girls who met him fell a little bit in love with him. He was a delight, but what really gave him his appeal was his air of vulnerability. He was a little boy lost.
Bobby and I used to bump into him at Tramp, where he’d have the Miss World du saison in tow. The first time I met him, I said, ‘Oh, Georgie, I hear you go after all the girls.’
‘If you were on your own, I’d be after you,’ he said.
‘Watch it, Georgie,’ said Bobby, but he was laughing.
Bobby really liked Georgie. They were a little bit alike in that they both had that mysterious X-factor. You can’t define it except to say that it bestows star quality and Bobby and Georgie identified it in each other. Whenever they were together, it was like a meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society.
One of the funniest encounters with George was when Bobby and I went to dinner at Ned Sherrin’s. Ned was the producer of Till Death Us Do Part, and among the guests was Johnny Speight, creator, as the show’s scriptwriter, of the legendary Alf Garnett. We got to know him when Bobby appeared as himself in one of the episodes.
Georgie was also expected at Ned’s, but most of the dinner had been eaten when he arrived - in the state of wear for which he was celebrated. We were drinking sambuccas, complete with floating coffee beans and flaming glasses, by that time and I think that for Georgie they were the straw that broke the camel’s back because he only had one before he fell into a deep sleep.
’Look at George,’ said Johnny. ‘All the world’s greatest players failed to stop him, but sambucca left him for dead.’
‘That’s a marvellous story for my column,’ said Bobby.
Shortly afterwards, Bobby wrote in the Daily Mirror, ‘The only time I’ve ever seen George Best completely beaten was by Sam Booka.’ It created a huge stir among the press, who were all asking who this Sam Booka was and what club he played for.
Another great friend of Bobby’s to join him at Craven Cottage at the start of the 1976-77 season was Rodney Marsh. Rodney was like George Best in some ways. He was lovable while having a bit of devilment about him. He could best be summed up by saying he was naughty in the nicest possible way. He had flair and style and was a bit off the wall, but at the same time he was thoughtful and really kind. Roberta and Dean adored him. They loved it when he came to our house because of those treasure hunts he organized for them. Jean, his wife, was lovely, too.
The presence of Georgie and Bobby at Fulham meant a champagne-fuelled season. But sadly, midway through it, Alec Stock left. There had been changes at boardroom level when the club got into financial difficulties over the building of a new riverside stand. Tommy Trinder lost his fight to keep control of the club and it was taken over by Ernie Clay, a pugnacious Yorkshireman. His arrival was followed soon after by Alec’s departure.
Ernie Clay had been brought to Fulham by another director, Sir Eric Miller, whose purportedly dubious business dealings were later the subject of an investigation by the Fraud Squad. He had always idolized Bobby and when the investigation became public knowledge, he called round to see us at Morlands. It was nine o’clock in the morning. ‘I want you to know that all my dealings with you have been completely honest and above board,’ he said.
He was in such a shaky and agitated state that Bobby really felt for him. ‘Come on in and have a drink,’ he said.
‘No, thank you,’ said Sir Eric. ‘I never touch the stuff until after dark.’
Bobby said to me, ‘Close the curtains, Teen, and pour the man a drink.’
It was two days afterwards that Sir Eric committed suicide. I think he had come round to say goodbye to Bobby.
The 1976-77 season was Bobby’s last in English football and on 4 May he played his final home game for Fulham, against Leyton Orient. It was also his 999th League match. Billy and Annie Semple came to stay for the occasion, with Annie proudly presenting us with a black pudding which had travelled all the way from Scotland with her and which she insisted was a noted Scottish delicacy.
Fulham won 6-1 and after Bobby had done his lap of honour round Craven Cottage, everyone piled into the players’ lounge to make a fuss of him. That felt really good after the low-key way in which he’d left West Ham. The celebrations carried on throughout the weekend. That evening fourteen of us, players and wives, went to Trattoria Terrazza. Bobby decided we had to have a whistling competition (won by Annie Semple) and the next day we held a retirement party at Morlands. Jimmy and Pauline Tarbuck and Kenny Lynch were among the lucky guests who got to sample Annie’s black pudding.
The following week, Bobby couldn’t resist turning out for Fulham’s final game of the season, at Blackburn on 14 May 1977, to make it his 1,000th first class appearance. We took Doss with us and there were tears. It was nostalgic, and Doss’s life wasn’t easy by then. She was nursing Big Bob at home after his stroke.
Big Bob was ill for a long time and the stroke left him with impaired eyesight and very limited speech. In fact, one of the few words he could say was ‘Balls’, which shocked Doss terribly because Big Bob had never sworn before. Doss was so worried about Big Bob letting rip in company that she had started doing all the talking for both of them. Not long before the Blackburn game, I went to visit them with a Dutch friend, Fanny, who was determined to practise her conversational English on my in-laws. Every time Fanny spoke to Big Bob, Doss, on tenterhooks in case the B-word was uttered, answered for him.
Finally we got up to leave. That was when a voice said, ‘Goodbye, Fanny.’
‘My goodness,’ said Fanny. ‘He can speak.’
I looked at Big Bob and saw the old twinkle in his eye.