AFTER SIGNING THE CONTRACT in Scotland I immediately knew where I was going to live. It simply had to be Newton Mearns, the posh village in the hills of East Renfrewshire, a ten-minute drive from the throbbing heart of Glasgow. It wasn’t just where all the Celtic and Rangers players lived, it had the best and biggest houses too. It was like driving into an American movie set. Huge houses with enormous gardens and impressive driveways. I felt like I was in Dynasty.
It didn’t take me long to make my choice. It was love at first sight with this monumental, two-storey villa. Even the price tag of £500,000 couldn’t dampen my enthusiasm. Who cared about the money? I certainly didn’t. I was about to make a fortune at Rangers. The future was blue – in more ways than one!
Besides, the house had four large bedrooms. Not two, not three, four! Not that I really needed them – with Graciela’s regular visits to Holland I would be the only occupant for most of the time – but it was, well, just a nice idea, four bedrooms. On top of that, the building was round the corner from my teammates Ronald de Boer and Michael Mols.
This love for my new neighbourhood wasn’t mutual. They hated me, the snobbish snakes who crawled on the well-tended lawns of Newton Mearns. The guy who lived behind me, was the worst of the lot. On the night of 23 November 2002 he suddenly appeared on my doorstep – and not to invite me to a neighbourhood barbecue!
He was fuming. ‘I’m gonna destroy you!’ he hissed.
Welcome to Newton Mearns!
Well, he had a point, to be honest. I kinda knew why he was about to explode, here, in the middle of the night.
It must have been the fireworks. Big, flashy rockets that I’d ignited a few minutes earlier.
‘You can’t do this!’ he growled, pointing at the sky where the remains of my premature New Year’s Eve celebrations were still visible, like the steam coming out of his ears.
‘You’ve woken up all the kids in the neighbourhood!’ he yelled, thus waking up the last few who had slept through my little bit of late-night noisy naughtiness.
He didn’t impress me though. C’mon guy, give me a break! Yeah, I know it’s one in the morning, but, hey, it’s Saturday! No school on Sunday, mate. The kids can sleep in, remember? And, besides, I’d launched the rockets from my own friggin’ garden! And in my garden I make the rules!
For Christ’s sake, it had been a marvellous spectacle! Hadn’t he noticed? These were beautiful fireworks, not some cheap shit! Lots of neighbours had enjoyed the show. I’d heard one ‘Oooh!’ after the other. It was like a bunch of Chinese gunpowder merchants had come to Newton Mearns to demonstrate the latest developments in the fireworks industry. Although, in reality it was just Fernando Ricksen from the Netherlands – who loved all the nocturnal attention and was growing a few inches on this particular night.
Standing there, downing a few bottles of beer, I fully understood the appreciation most fellow Newtonians had for the show I put up. For these were real rockets. Not kids’ stuff. Not with Fernando, guys! These fireworks were like the ones the Swiss use to create avalanches, in between melting cheese. And the noise they made! My fireworks must have woken up the Loch Ness Monster, such was the impact of the explosions. So, yes, I could understand the situation with poor old him and the children. Not that I had any remorse at the time.
When I was a kid myself, I’d never had any fascination for fireworks. Okay, I launched the occasional end-of-year party cracker, but that was about it. The biggest difference with the situation in Newton Mearns was the added liquid that was flowing through my veins. Back then it was soft drinks and milk; now it was booze. And a Fernando Ricksen on the piss gets cocky.
That night was no exception. ‘Bring on the second box!’ I could hear myself shouting. (The boxes were two metres square, just to give you an idea of the firepower.)
As the Dutch guys who were staying with me that weekend climbed up the stairs to get yet more ammunition, I hopped towards the fridge to get a fresh beer, already anticipating Armageddon Part 2.
My neighbour, however, didn’t like the idea one bit. He kept yelling at me, in an attempt to make me stop the show.
Not a wise thing to do to me, I told him. Being aggressive to me may lead to trouble. Avoid trouble and shut up: that was what I tried to make clear.
But he didn’t get the message. He kept screaming at me and, even worse, let his hands do some of the talking.
And with that he crossed the line.
‘Keep your dirty hands off me!’ I spat at him. In my rage I started pushing him. Pulled his shirt too. I was angry, you know. But despite shaking him like a rattle on the Ibrox terraces, he didn’t back off. On the contrary. With all the weight he was carrying around he tried to prevent me from launching another squadron of missiles. When he didn’t succeed he exploded – just like the rockets.
And then came the threats, which I decided not to tolerate. ‘What do you want?’ I yelled at him. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
There was a little bout of fisticuffs too. And no real answer on his behalf. Well, whatever he wanted was irrelevant by now. All colours of the rainbow were already gathering above the roofs of good old Newton Mearns, and the noise was simply deafening.
Off he went. Good night, neighbour, no need to wake up the kids now! I was even waving at him as he left. Very, very childish, I know, but so much fun.
By that time, the beer had taken its toll. I was, I admit, completely rat-arsed. And I was still plastered when the cops arrived at about five in the morning.
Why were they there? Because of the fireworks? No way. In Scotland such a thing is anything but illegal. That’s exactly what I mumbled to them, as they questioned me on my doorstep. August, June, March: there isn’t one month in which you’re not allowed to light a firecracker. Especially when you’re on your own property.
Nevertheless, it was the rockets, they told me. More precisely, the complaints about them. So they gave me a warning: don’t try this at home any more, kid.
As the officers made their way out, I took a radical decision. I decided not to open the third box of fireworks. As a wise man once said: enough is enough.
Unfortunately, this is not where the story ends, as I did get a fine. In October 2003 Paisley Sheriff Court ordered me to part with a hard-earned £7,000 after being charged with ‘assault and breach of the peace’. In other words, for causing a bit of commotion and redoing my neighbour’s shirt. No word about the fireworks.
Since then, they have changed the law, and now the people of Scotland are no longer allowed to set off firecrackers, other than in the period around New Year’s Eve. I’m not proud of it, but it’s kinda funny to think that one noisy night in my garden has changed life in Scotland for ever. They could’ve called it Fernando’s Law, for that matter.
Enough of Newton Mearns – a bunch of filthy rich people who can’t take a joke. Because that’s what it was, a joke. The work of a rascal, and childish more than criminal. Anyway, I swapped the place for an apartment in the heart of Glasgow. Right across from the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre, on one of the banks of the mighty Clyde, I found a two-storey penthouse with a view to die for. Half a million pounds it was. I paid with a smile. No need to wrap it up, sir.
You see, I’m a city guy at heart. Always been. It’s the buzz that I need. The idea of always being close to where the action is and having the city on your doorstep – literally. Pubs so close you could crawl home after last orders. And, most important of all, there was Mr Singh’s Indian restaurant on Elderslie Street, owned by Bobby Singh. The curry was so good, you could eat there on a daily basis. Which is exactly what I ended up doing. No time to cook, most of the time, and no desire. So it was down to Bobby’s for a nice chicken tikka. And a pint of Kingfisher.
I was so fond of Bobby’s cooking that I didn’t hesitate to call him when I was stretching my legs in Southern General Hospital, in September 2003. I had ended up there after an unfortunate encounter with my Norwegian teammate Henning Berg during a Champions League match against VfB Stuttgart. A collision of skulls, you might say, and not recommended, dear reader. I’d been unconscious for a few minutes, hence my transportation to the hospital. Which, obviously, isn’t a restaurant. Indeed, the hospital food was so bad that I simply had to call Bobby. And within half an hour he arrived with a plastic bag full of the tastiest tandoori treats this side of the border. Needless to say the doctors and nurses were not amused. Try getting rid of the smell of a spicy chicken tikka masala in a hospital ward!
But the food wasn’t the only reason for frequenting Mr Singh’s. Apart from the nutrition, it was the safe environment that appealed to me. At Bobby’s place I could eat and drink without being ambushed by fans or scrutinised by members of the local press. Okay, I had to sit behind a curtain, but I didn’t care. It was worth it. No offence to the supporters, but a moment of giving an autograph is a moment of not eating a tikka. And as I never refuse anyone an autograph, that would mean no food for Fernando. Or at least no hot food.
After eating I often went upstairs for a game of pool. Bobby didn’t have a traditional billiards table, like my granddad in Heerlen, but pool was a good alternative. I must have spent hours and hours in that room, shooting one ball after the other into a pocket. It became like my second home. Sometimes it felt more like a members’ club, as the place became quite popular among footballers, both Celtic and Rangers. However, I didn’t feel the need to mingle.
Apart from being my private chef, Bobby Singh became my buddy, my drinking pal, as unlike my other Glaswegian friend, Victor Morgan, Bobby liked to party. Backstreet boy Victor was much more serious than Bobby. Thanks to that, he was capable of helping me when I was in trouble. Which happened quite often, I confess. I even let him sell my house in Newton Mearns. I trusted him more than I trusted myself.
With Bobby I went on the piss, whether he wanted to or not. I sometimes had to convince him, but for some reason I always managed to talk him into it – and out of the house.
Graciela didn’t like Bobby very much. According to her, he was a bad influence on me. I thought it was the biggest rubbish I’d ever heard. In my eyes Bobby was a top guy. Pure class. In Glasgow he knew everyone and their dog, and it was always heaps of fun when he was around. I liked him from the moment I met him. Lovely bloke and loyal as hell. The times he’s been approached by journos to dig up some dirt about me, and he never gave them what they wanted. Paparazzi, who circled around my house like flies on shit, always got a bit suspicious when they hadn’t seen me for days. On those occasions, they always called Bobby to find out what had happened to that guy Ricksen. But Bobby always said he didn’t know – even when I was sitting next to him. I couldn’t help laughing my head off, every time he did that. At the same time I knew: this is a proper friend, someone I can trust.
Bobby didn’t even help Alex McLeish. When, in the autumn of 2003, the coach asked him to talk to me about my behaviour – more to the point, my misbehaviour – demonic laughter filled the space around them.
‘Do you know how old Fernando is?’ Bobby said.
‘Yes,’ McLeish answered. ‘He’s 27, almost 28.’
‘Exactly,’ Bobby said. And then he explained to him that a person of 27, almost 28, is an adult. ‘And you don’t tell an adult what to do and what not to do. That’s the kind of thing you say to a child. Your own child.’
McLeish fully understood what Bobby meant, but didn’t want to give up. Yet. So he kept asking Bobby to talk to me. But Bobby kept refusing. ‘It’s Fernando’s own responsibility,’ he said over and over again. ‘And apart from that, I’m not a traitor.’
And Bobby was right. There was no need to discuss my deeds. Not as long as I performed well on the pitch, which I did. Okay, I had a so-called ‘flamboyant lifestyle’, but none of my antics ever influenced my achievements on the pitch or the training field. Because I had this unique skill: I could drink myself silly overnight and still train like a maniac, the next morning. Even without sleep.
Actually, I gave 200 per cent during training, just to hide the fact that I’d been on the piss all night. I never let McLeish down. Never! And he knew it. Still, on more than one occasion Bobby must have thought I was a complete nutcase. Like, for instance, the day I shot him.
Yes, shot him.
All right, it was only an air pistol, but still ... those tiny little pellets hurt, you know!
Normally a vase would be the target, or a pot from the kitchen. But, see, I get bored easily, so I decided to go for livestock instead. Great fun! For me, that was; not so much for poor old Bobby. He didn’t quite appreciate the fact that I shot him in the neck. He had to walk around with a red spot in his collar for weeks, poor bastard.
By the way, it was quite unusual that the two of us were at home together, that day. Normally we were painting the town red, instead of his neck! Bobby knew every single tile in Glasgow and, more important, the pubs and clubs they led to. We ended up in the weirdest places, the last one always being Seventh Heaven, a strip joint on Elmbank Crescent, around the corner from Charing Cross. It was as if we owned the place.
I could always lean on Bobby – literally! Every time I was smashed he would drag me home. Well, he had a key to my apartment anyway, so why not let him use it? Friends for life, me and Bobby, and not to forget, his charming brother Satty.
Bobby was a massive football fan. Always in the stadium, long before I arrived in Glasgow. He never asked me for a ticket though – Mr Singh had his own Skybox at Ibrox.
And not just at Ibrox ... Believe it or not, the guy even had a Skybox at Celtic Park! Just to watch the Old Firm. Bobby wasn’t too keen on the Celts, so he wouldn’t be there on regular match days. When the striped ones were playing Hearts or Aberdeen, Bobby’s Skybox would be filled with some of his best customers.
Wherever Rangers went, Bobby went. He even flew on the same plane as the team! And that included away games in the Champions League. Nobody objected, as everyone loved Bobby, especially my fellow countrymen Arthur Numan, Ronald Waterreus and Giovanni van Bronckhorst.
Anyway, Bobby and the Dutch got along very well. He even shook hands with Pierre van Hooijdonk, Regi Blinker, Bobby Petta and Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink who were Celtic players. They ate at Mr Singh’s on a regular basis. And why not? At Singh’s everyone was at ease. Just ask Sean Connery ...
After leaving Scotland, I more or less lost contact with Bobby, which was a real shame. However, recently we got in touch again, and I was happy to find out the old bugger was still alive, especially after he told me he’d almost died after a very complicated kidney operation.
Anyway, back to my transfer from Newton Mearns to Glasgow City. That was one joyous moment for my neighbour, I guess, and Celtic’s Alan Thompson probably cheered too when he saw the back of me. Nah, we never had any real problems being neighbours. I went for his throat once, during an Old Firm game, but that was only because both of us wanted to win. Call it good sportsmanship.
Once in a while – well, more than once, to be honest – Thompson missed a penalty. Like at the end of the 2002/03 season against Kilmarnock, ten minutes before the final whistle. Because he failed from the spot, Celtic missed the title. The new Scottish champs, with 95 goals to the Celts’ 94, were that little old team called Rangers. Thanks, neighbour!
As I mostly lived on my own during that period, my home became a watering hole for my teammates. Not too sure what Graciela thought about that, but she wasn’t around much anyway. Some players just crashed out on the spot, which wasn’t a problem, as the house was huge. As a service to my beloved guests, there was always plenty of booze around. They loved it – especially the Scots.
The Dutch were a bit more – how should I say this? – reserved, which was quite understandable, as they were living there with their families. De Boer and Mols lived round the corner from me, so those two always left the party before it really started.
Mols wasn’t in a party mood anyway. After bumping into German goalkeeper Oliver Kahn during a Champions League match in 1999, his knee was fucked. For Michael, it was the beginning of the end. After months and months of rehabilitation he finally got back into the squad, but during his remaining three seasons at Rangers he never became the player he was before the injury. It was very sad, as the old Michael Mols was one of the best players we had, scoring the most fantastic goals. And it wasn’t just quality, it was quantity too. In his first months in Glasgow, he had a 100 per cent score rate. Amazing footballer.
Back to May 2003, and the celebrations after winning the title, or to be more precise, the celebrations after the celebrations. We didn’t stop once the official part of the programme was over. Oh no, it was: hail a few taxis for an after-party chez Fernando!
So off we went to Newton Mearns, but not via the usual route.
‘Please turn off here,’ I told the cab driver, as soon as we entered the estate.
Eyes like saucers in the back seat. ‘But, Fernando,’ one of my teammates said, ‘this isn’t your house!’
‘I know,’ I grinned, ‘but I think we’re obliged to say thank you to a very special person.’ And with those words I left the taxi and walked up to Alan Thompson’s front door with my fellow Gers close behind.
I told the guys to stand in front of his window, and then I bent down and opened Thompson’s letterbox. I took a deep breath and then started to shout: ‘Thompson! You’re a loser! You can’t take a penalty kick! Loser! Loser!’
And the boys started singing – completely out of tune, as you would expect, in fact you could hardly call it singing – but it was heard all over Newton Mearns. Especially because it was one in the morning.
And Thompson? Great sportsmanship, once again. He waved at me and even had a little smile on his face. Respect! I don’t think I would have reacted in the same way if a thing like that had happened to me.
Over the years I’d come to the conclusion that Scottish football humour differs from the Dutch version. Scots are a lot, well, more sensible than us cloggies. Nevertheless I decided to keep joking the way I was brought up, Dutch style. And, boy, did I do some silly things! I loved to provoke McLeish by setting off his car alarm. He’d go berserk every time he heard his vehicle bleeping. And I used to nick car keys, so that I could change the parking spot. That caused me some bellyache, I can tell you. The sight of one of my teammates desperately looking for his car was always hilarious!
Most of the time, our Spanish forward Nacho Novo, Michael Mols’ successor in 2004, was the victim of my pranks. I can still see him wandering around the parking lot, hands up in the air. Priceless! But, being the good bloke I am, I always appeared after a while to tell them where I had parked their property. And, most of the time, they thought it’d been a good prank. They never did anything to my car, by the way, but every now and then I would find my boots glued to the ceiling. Well, that’s football humour for you. Take it or shake it. And in team building, this kind of entertainment is the cement.
That’s why I’m so glad to have come across someone like Arthur Numan. Top defender, world-class, but also a master when a laugh is much needed. Like a leech, he could ‘suck the blood from under your nails’, as we say in Holland, but it was always done in good spirit.
Especially when we went out for dinner, when we would see the prankster he was. As we thought it was too much hassle to split bills every bloody time, we got the idea of playing cards with our flexible friends. We’d throw our credit cards on the table, and then Arthur would mix them up and pick out one, with his eyes firmly closed. The player whose credit card was chosen would be that evening’s sugar daddy.
I’ve no idea how, but for some reason it often turned out to be Ronald Waterreus’s plastic. And he absolutely hated it, being the stingy git that he was. You know what I mean, the type of guy that uses toilet paper on both sides and barks in his own garden to save the expense of a dog. There was only one person who had to pay more often than our curly-haired goalkeeper, and that person was me. I didn’t have a clue how. Fifteen cards on the table, and eight times out of ten mine was the chosen one. It must have been some kind of magician’s trick, no doubt about it, but I never found out how it happened. I never complained though, as I had plenty of cash at the time.
By the way, there was another reason why I never had to search for my car in the Rangers’ car park. There simply wasn’t one there, as I had lost my driving licence. It was 2003, and I was directed to the passenger’s seat for twelve months, having whacked a lamppost while being intoxicated. (Well, that’s what the judge said.) Okay, I did drive my Jeep into one of those iron things, and even worse, I almost parked it inside Craig Moore’s living room! But I wasn’t drunk that Crimbo Eve: two glasses of wine, your honour, no more. Graciela can testify.
It had simply been a case of extremely childish behaviour. It was snowing that night, like on an old-fashioned Christmas card, and I decided to see what the possibilities were with my new car on the white stuff. You know, doing the Top Gear thing, going from one side of the road to the other, pulling the steering wheel, pretending to be in the Paris–Dakar race ... until the car went into a skid. I remember looking at Graciela as we did a Torvill and Dean on wheels, shortly before finding a parking spot in Moore’s garden. And after the kür it was not us taking a bow, but the lantern.
Surprisingly enough, the car wasn’t a total write-off. Neither were we. So I managed to drive home, very carefully, and poured myself and Graciela a large Bacardi. After that I went to bed with her – and the bottle.
One hour later, the doorbell rang. I had no idea who it could be. Moore? No way! He would know that I was more than willing to pay for all the damage done. Besides, I was tired, so I tried to go back to sleep. But the person on the doorstep kept ringing and ringing the doorbell. In the end, Graciela decided to take a look.
Two guys in uniform. ‘Good evening, ma’am, Strathclyde Police.’
They wanted to know where I was. Graciela wanted to know why they wanted to know. They didn’t want to answer that question. Instead, they started yelling at her.
Dragged from my cosy visit to Dreamland, I stormed down the stairs, only to find out that I was to be arrested. Why? Apparently I had called them ‘fucking bastards’.
Policemen don’t like that.
Dressed in nothing more than a T-shirt, shorts and a pair of handcuffs I was taken to the police station. Merry Christmas, Mr Ricksen!
Just half an hour after hitting the lamppost and redecorating Moore’s garden with the wheels of my car, I was locked up in one of those cells I’d only seen in bad TV crime series. It even had one of those old grey shitters.
They wanted me to hand over my shoelaces. ‘Why?’ I asked with a smirk. ‘Do you really think I’m gonna kill myself? Just let me go, guys. I’m fuckin’ innocent!’
They were, unsurprisingly, not impressed. They kept me inside and woke me up every two hours for some good old questioning. As if I had just murdered someone. And, Christ, all I had drunk that night was two bloody glasses of wine! Okay, followed by six Bacardi and Cokes, but that had happened under my own roof and I’d been at home for over an hour before the cops arrived! Needless to say they refused to believe me. In their opinion, only drunks fold lampposts.
That was why I refused initially to let them breathalyse me. But, in the end, I gave in and had both my breath and blood checked. Did I feel cheated though! Not just by the policemen, but also by some members of the community otherwise known as ‘neighbours’, who had called the police after my Jeep kissed that lamppost. Not that it had been difficult to find out who had done it. All they had to do was follow the traces in the snow that led straight to Maison Ricksen.
So, it was a night to remember – but for all the wrong reasons. Eventually they released me, but I wasn’t too impressed at being kicked out in nothing but my T-shirt and shorts, never mind the fact that it was snowing. But, hey, I shouldn’t complain too much. They’d thrown me behind bars at Govan Police Station in Helen Street, which was facing my beloved Ibrox. So all I had to do was cross the street, pass the petrol station, and turn right into Edmiston Drive.
There are times in life when you don’t know what to say. This particular Christmas morning wasn’t one of them. I knew exactly what to say, as I wandered into the stadium.
‘Can anybody please drive me home?’
The guard who was on duty looked as if he had seen a ghost. His mouth was so wide open I could have scored a goal in it. Thirty hours before the game against Saint Johnstone, on the morning of 25 December, one of the Rangers squad, half naked, was walking around the ground desperately looking for a ride home.
Which I got. Thanks, guys!
The game against Saint Johnstone turned out to be a great one, in which I scored my very first Rangers goal. You could say that I was, well, motivated.
Still, two and a half years later I got the aforementioned driving ban. Not that it was proven that I had been driving with six glasses of Bacardi and Coke in my stomach. The judge simply suspected it. And that’s how I lost my licence for a year and had to pay a £500 fine.
Not that mine was a unique situation. Craig Moore and Barry Ferguson had been banned from driving already, and on the same day I received my marching orders, Michael Ball was sentenced to be a pedestrian too.
I’d like to explain something here: I fully understand drinking and driving is a bad combination. What if you hit a child? You could ruin so many lives if things go wrong. But, for the last time, I swear that before jumping in the car I’d only had two glasses of wine. Anyway, even my lawyer Jim Peacock couldn’t help me. ‘That’s Scotland for you,’ he said. I just had to accept the punishment.
Now the Dutch word for ‘lawyer’ is ‘advocaat’, and while Jim couldn’t help me, Dick Advocaat wouldn’t. He was furious, as I had breached one of the most important rules at Rangers: no drinking within 48 hours before a match.
‘This has been the last time, Ricksen!’ he yelled at me as I entered the stadium for the game against Saint Johnstone. ‘Next time, you’re out. For good!’ As if this wasn’t clear enough, I also received a reversed Christmas bonus of £30,000. The money went to charity, so at least one good thing came out of the whole affair. Well, that and my first goal for Rangers.
Still, I was glad Dick Advocaat was my manager. By then, anybody else would have kicked me out. Not Dick. And guess what? Since then, I have never driven with the slightest amount of alcohol inside my body. Not a single drop!
Because of the driving ban, I had to be picked up by Ronald de Boer or Michael Mols, who both lived nearby. And sometimes Bobby acted as my personal cab driver. Except for the one day I didn’t arrive by car. Everyone at Rangers still talks about the special vehicle in which I showed up at the training ground that morning ...
I think I owe you a little explanation here, don’t I? Shortly before I hit that streetlight and demolished Craig Moore’s garden, I had ordered a brand-new car, a BMW M3. Top stuff! There was just a little problem: because of my suspension I couldn’t drive my dream car, which I had shipped from IJmuiden to Newcastle and then up to Scotland. I simply couldn’t take the risk of being busted – again. So Colin McRae, the famous rally champion who happened to be my pal in those days, arranged to pick me up and take me to the club. Little did I know that he wasn’t coming by car, but by, er, helicopter ...
Needless to say I was quite excited as I jumped into his Eurocopter AS350. Shortly before take-off, I called McLeish. I told him I was in England and on my way to training. There was a sound of relief on the other end of the line. But before I hung up I wanted to know one thing: where to land?
McLeish didn’t get it. ‘Where to what? Ricksen, what the hell do you mean?’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I’m coming by helicopter, you see.’
‘Helicopter? Are you out of your mind?’
No, I wasn’t. I was totally sane. Well, Colin was, more to the point. And because McLeish couldn’t provide us with a decent answer, Colin decided to simply descend onto the training pitch.
I told McLeish what we planned to do.
He went mental. ‘Don’t even think ...’
The longer the phone call lasted, the angrier he got. But my only concern was to be on time for training. I didn’t want to risk a fine!
Fast-forward half an hour. I saw Murray Park below me, getting bigger and bigger. As did the eyes of the youngsters who were on the pitch. There was no real alternative, so we simply had to do it there and then.
I jumped out and ran from the youth players’ pitch to the one where my teammates were about to start practising. I’d made it!
The players loved it. McLeish, however, was not that amused. He fined me on the spot.
But it was an emergency, boss!
Later, after my driving licence had been returned, I started to do some flying myself. Not in a helicopter, but in a bright red Ferrari 550 Maranello, which Colin had sold to me for two grand. Beautiful car, I was so damn proud of it. So you can imagine how I reacted after the phone call in which Graciela told me she had transformed it into an accordion. Total write-off, just outside the lovely Spanish city of Valencia. Luckily I still had my BMW M3.
Colin, on the other hand, was less fortunate. On 15 September 2007 his helicopter crashed in Lanark, just two kilometres from his home in South Lanarkshire. It was a tragic accident, in which he, his friend Graeme Duncan, his five-year-old son Johnny and the six-year-old Ben Porcelli, a pal of Johnny’s, lost their lives. I was heartbroken when I heard the news.