LET’S RECAP: THE MAIN reason to swap Alkmaar for Glasgow was to win prizes. Big prizes.
I think I did quite well when it comes to that. Two titles, two Scottish FA Cups, three Scottish League Cups. And on top of that I was voted Footballer of the Year. Once again, not bad.
It’s just that I wanted to conquer Europe with the Gers. I played quite a few Champions League matches – around 30 in total – but reaching the final would have topped it off. Well, at least I can say I’ve faced Manchester United. Now that was a memorable clash!
By that time, I was an experienced international footballer. I’d played against the likes of Internazionale, FC Porto, CSKA Moscow and VfB Stuttgart. Still, the Red Devils were in another league – a totally different ballgame. All of a sudden I found myself on the same piece of grass as Ryan Giggs, Paul Scholes, Roy Keane, Rio Ferdinand and Ruud van Nistelrooy. We lost, albeit just 0–1, but it was a magnificent experience. The atmosphere at our place was incredible that night. And I wasn’t doing too bad myself either. Didn’t screw it up at all. It wasn’t the easiest of games, especially after Phil Neville opened the scoring in the fifth minute, but I had a pretty good evening. Giggsy was my man for the night and he didn’t have a chance against me. He must have hated me at certain moments, as I didn’t leave him alone for one second. Well, that’s the way to do it with big stars. Don’t be overwhelmed by their status, just don’t let them touch the ball. It’s as simple as that.
Two weeks later, at Old Trafford, we were beaten 3–0, with two goals from Ruud van Nistelrooy. I wasn’t there that night – probably to the delight of that curly-haired boy from Wales!
Still, Giggs isn’t the best player I’ve ever had the pleasure to deal with. On 5 August 2003 we had a friendly against Arsenal, at Ibrox, and on that occasion I had to face Patrick Vieira. It turned out to be the most difficult evening in my career. I mean, this guy was in-cre-di-ble ... So good, so fast, so strong. Hardly managed to take the ball off him. And the very few times I did, he had it back within the wink of an eye. I still dream about it, I can tell you!
We lost the game, 0–3, and from that moment on it dawned on me that in order to achieve international success we had to be focused 100 per cent, each and every second. There was no time for amateurism any more. No muddling like on that fateful night in Istanbul, August 2001, when we played Fenerbahçe. It was a Champions League duel which we lost 2–1, thanks to – sorry to say it! – two enormous blunders from Amoruso. He faced Haim Revivo and Serhat Akin with the attitude of a Sunday-morning park player. Both guys could simply walk past him and score.
I was going out of my mind with rage. And I gave him a personal review of his lousy performance. He didn’t want any of it, so we ended up having an argument, hotter than the spiciest shish kebab.
There had already been a bit of tension between us at half-time, as Lorenzo was blaming everybody but himself. It made me stand up and walk towards him. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Just use your head, that thing where that big mouth of yours is situated, to get rid of the ball! I’ll clear things after that. Just give me a nice header or two, understand? Get the ball outta there!’
He didn’t. The Italian prima donna simply dived under the ball, thereby giving his direct opponent a free journey ticket towards our goal. This, and this alone, was the reason I attacked him afterwards like a raging bull. I was sick of his attitude. It wasn’t personal – I was one of the few players who got along with him quite well – it was just about the lack of fighting spirit he had shown. You are a professional, for God’s sake, don’t act like an amateur! You can’t do that to all those people who buy tickets to see you perform, people who don’t earn a tenth of what you get, so roll up those sleeves and go for it!
A day later, at Murray Park, we shook hands. That’s also part of being a professional.
I hate to lose. The fans noticed that – that’s probably why they loved me so much and looked upon me as their favourite Ranger for a while. I never gave up. I was always ready to battle. If others didn’t want to share that attitude I got angry. And in a situation like that, bad things can happen. Like when we played Paris Saint-Germain in the UEFA Cup, three months after Fenerbahçe. At one stage I got so frustrated I decked Gabriel Heinze, the Argentinian, with my elbow. Second yellow card, so off to the tie and jacket ten minutes before full-time. Stupid, I know. Let’s call it the burden of a Fighting Spirit.
Rewind. Back to that evening in Istanbul. You may think I can only kick opponents, but it isn’t true. I can kick a ball too. And that night against Fenerbahçe I even kicked it between the goal posts. Okay, it wasn’t enough for victory, but at least with that goal I would be in the Champions League history book forever.
Still, I know I am more famous for the times that I scored off the pitch. And that reached its climax when I laid my hands – and more! – on the biggest prize I’d ever won. The jackpot.
It was Saturday morning, 11 October 2003, when I turned up at Murray Park. As I stepped out of my car I could see them already, my fellow teammates, all standing next to each other in a row, as if they were expecting the Queen. I turned around but couldn’t see Elizabeth, nor Philip. It was just me. Hey, were they about to salute me?
The moment I entered the hall, the boys started to applaud. They were cheering too, and yelling. The next thing I saw was the front page of the papers they were waving. Papers with me on the front page. And although the publication had nothing to do with football, my buddies were as proud as hell. Even Alex McLeish took a bow. ‘No idea how you did it,’ he said, ‘but this is an absolute brilliant result. I truly salute you!’
Nevertheless, the club did fine me, as McLeish had previously warned me to stay away from the front pages. The total bill for this bit of unintended media exposure was £25,000, which I had to pay almost on the spot. ‘Sorry, pal,’ McLeish said, ‘but these are the rules.’ After which he added, ‘But in itself you achieved the near impossible. So well done, mate!’ And he shook my hand, as if I had just been rewarded with a cup of some sort.
Well, in fact I had won a cup. A huge one. This time, pun intended!
A day earlier, I didn’t know who she was. Mind you, thanks to my satellite dish I only watched Dutch television – and she was never on it. British papers, well, you know the story ... So I had never seen her, er, face before.
I must have been the only person in the whole of Great Britain.
Katie Price, better known as Jordan, was a big shot. Still is. A glamour model with giant bazookas, well, you know who she is. Model, presenter, singer, actress, fashion designer and writer even, she was highly successful in every single discipline and therefore – I have to use the word, sorry – totally loaded. Hats off to her, especially because she can’t sing, or write, or act! Katie and her hot pink Jeep were as much a part of daily British life as tea with milk. She was a woman who never failed to make headlines. The moment she wants some media attention she simply steps out of a cab without wearing any knickers. There’ll always be a photographer waiting to catch a glimpse of her tattooed vagina.
As you read this – I’m guessing, as things move fast in her life! – she’s happily married to Kieran Hayler, an English stripper, with whom she has a child. It’s Katie’s third marriage, after being the wife of Australian singer Peter Andre and English cage fighter Alex Reid. Earlier on, she’d been in relationships with my dear colleagues Teddy Sheringham and Dwight Yorke, with whom she has a son. No, never a dull moment with Katie!
So we’re talking A-list celeb here – although I didn’t have a clue on that beautiful Friday evening in October 2003. Just like the Rangers squad she had been invited to the Hottest Night of the Year charity event, organised by curry tycoon Charan Gill. McLeish had taken us aside for a little speech. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m only going to say this once. Behave – every single one of you! He who doesn’t will get fined – enormously!’
The crowd started grinning like adolescents going on a school trip. It was obvious that they were looking forward to the event at the Scottish Exhibition Conference Centre, where Katie Price had the honourable task of cutting a ribbon. The guys were like dogs, wiggling their tails in anticipation. They were about to see Katie Price in the flesh! Jordan, the ultimate Page Three Girl!
I didn’t pay much attention to McLeish’s warning. As I said, I didn’t know the woman. So I wasn’t going after her either. And to top it off I had the intention of not sipping a single drop of alcohol that night. So McLeish wouldn’t have to worry about Ricksen making a fool out of himself – not this time.
I wasn’t exactly in a party mood, to tell you the truth. Hours earlier I had received a £7,000 fine for the fireworks incident in Newton Mearns, so I was a bit fed up with everything and everybody. It was just that I didn’t want to let Bobby Singh down. He was more or less involved in the organisation of the evening, so in order not to disappoint him I decided to go. ‘Just a few glasses of Coke and I’m off,’ I said to everybody. ‘Gonna watch telly at home.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the others said. ‘You’re gonna miss out on a top evening.’
However, as they say, nothing ever goes the way it’s planned. There I was, sitting at a table, knife in one hand, fork in the other, ready to munch on a portion of my beloved chicken tikka, as I felt a pat on my right shoulder. I looked behind me and stared into this beautiful pair of eyes, each one made even prettier with the aid of an enormous amount of eyeliner. I saw a pair of huge boobs too. And hair, long blonde hair, with extensions, like so many British girls sport.
Okay, yes, er, I sort of recognised her. This was the girl who, earlier on, had opened the event for which she scooped the sum of £2,000. Yes, this was Katie Price, aka Jordan, the same babe I’d played ‘hard to get’ with, when she came up to me (for what could have been a snog) about 90 minutes ago in the VIP room. I didn’t know her then, and I wanted to keep it that way. Let’s not get into trouble, I’d told myself.
But, hell, that must have been what triggered her! Finally, a man who wasn’t after her. On the contrary! That must have made me an interesting prey.
So, there she was, all of a sudden, behind me and my beloved chicken tikka.
‘Can I join you this time? Or?’
I looked around, poker-faced. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a spare seat, baby,’ I said, cooler than the ice cubes in my Coke. ‘So that’s gonna be a bit of a problem.’
‘Oh no,’ she sort of groaned.
The next moment I saw Jordan’s perfectly shaped leg flying through the air and before I could say ‘chicken tikka’ she was sitting on my lap. Facing me, cowgirl-style. The UK’s most wanted woman.
The white mini-skirt, the tight leather belt, the e-nor-mous jugs ... Yes, my teammates had been right. She was simply delicious – hors catégorie.
I saw someone watching us from the corner of my eye. McLeish. He was moving his index finger from side to side, and I could see his lips moving. Don’t! Do! It!
Sorry, coach, trapped! I stuck out my arms and waved, like a person who is drowning, but thank God nobody came to save me.
More and more teammates were joining our table. They sensed history was in the making here. At the same time, it was an enormous opportunity to see Jordan close up. The entire evening she had been sending drooling men away. But here she was, at my table, on my lap, on her own initiative, so it was unlikely she’d do the same now. Besides, why should she? She was having a ball! And so was I. In fact, it was so pleasant that I thought, I’m staying! And out went the Coke.
‘Waitress! A pint of lager, please! Oh, and another one!’
Within half an hour I’d downed about a gallon of the yellow stuff.
Jordan didn’t exactly act like a nun herself, as she deep-throated one alcoholic beverage after the other. And then, all of a sudden, she spoke those immortal words. ‘Why don’t we just leave the place? Just you and me on our own?’
It was more an invitation than an actual statement. However ...
‘I can’t,’ I told Jordan, who by now was galloping on my lap. ‘If my trainer sees the two of us leaving together, he’ll explode.’
‘So,’ she whispered, looking me straight into the eyes, ‘in that case we leave the place separately and we’ll meet somewhere else later on.’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I mumbled, my head now spinning from the amount of beer I’d had. Consequences? What consequences? I told her we could meet at a nightclub. She didn’t like the idea. Not enough privacy.
‘How about a lap-dancing bar? Do you know any good ones?’
Yes, you read it. Katie Price wanted to take me to a strip joint!
Needless to say, I knew a few – if not all of them. I more or less lived in the bloody places! My suggestion was Seventh Heaven, a place covered in Bobby’s footsteps and mine.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Meet you there.’
But we didn’t. Because all of a sudden she had a much better idea: her own four-wheel drive, a Land Rover parked very discreetly at the back of the venue.
‘Just jump into it. Nobody will notice. Not even your coach.’
So there I was, swaggering towards the toilet to get rid of a fair amount of the beer – at least that’s what I wanted everybody to think – but in reality I was sneaking out to Jordan’s car. A few seconds later we were speeding away A-Team style.
I was thrilled, to put it mildly. It was not the first time that I’d run away with a girl, oh no, but this was ... different. Of course it was different. I was with Katie friggin’ Price!
As we drove through the Glaswegian night I had another good look at her. What! A! Top! Bird!
Funny too, and friendly. No, I’m not bullshitting here, she really is! Not at all the bitch that you might think she is. She’s just built this wall around her, because everybody and his dog wants something from her. It’s self-protection. Cristiano Ronaldo and David Beckham have done exactly the same.
Later in life I asked myself the question why it had been me, of all people, she’d patted on the shoulder that night. After all, the place had been packed with good-looking blokes! I concluded it was my good manners. No, don’t laugh! It’s a well-known fact that some Scottish men are not exactly gentlemanlike towards women. They hardly pay compliments, even though they’re free. Most of the time the members of the Tartan Army are, well, a bit impolite.
I am different.
Anyway, on a night out, believe me, Jordan is the best company a man can have. However, a relationship with this woman is something completely different. I don’t think I could handle it. Not that that was the purpose of our being together. That was impossible anyway, as I was still married to Graciela: Graciela, who was in the Netherlands that night and would come back, oh God, the following day.
Not that I was thinking a lot about my marital status that night. Especially not when the two of us sat down on a comfortable sofa at Seventh Heaven, which was a very appropriate name at the time. We kissed as if it was our last day on earth.
Then, all of a sudden, Jordan had an idea. ‘Let’s go to the back.’ No objection from me! ‘But not just the two of us.’ And before I could produce a question mark she waved at two Hungarian girls who, just a few minutes earlier, had been hanging upside down on a pole.
The two dancers followed us immediately.
Now, there are times in life when you wish you could freeze time – a perfect moment that should last for ever and ever. This was such a moment.
The four of us walked into a private room. The Hungarian chicks dropped their sexy, blood-red lingerie and grabbed Jordan, who was butt-naked already. The girls started kissing each other. And I was ... well, in Seventh Heaven, as I already said.
The three naked girls put on a show for me that was beyond imagination. And all of the time I was expecting some bloke to jump in from behind the curtains screaming, ‘You’ve been punk’d!’ As it had to be a prank with a candid camera! This couldn’t be reality.
Or was it? It was.
The chicks kept kissing and licking each other, and not a single nosy parker appeared to spoil it for me. Maybe that was because they all seemed to have an appointment the morning after, right in front of the posh Moat House Hotel on the Clyde, where Jordan was staying. And where I had to do the walk of shame, in front of ten, twenty, thirty or even more hungry photographers.
As I walked out of the hotel, unshaven and with my shirt hanging out of my trousers, I did my best to keep my cool. But it was useless. The flashlights came from everywhere – it was like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. At a certain point, I couldn’t see anything at all any more, as a tsunami of artificial light was thrown upon me.
So this is how Brad Pitt must feel, I thought to myself.
The next moment I was in a taxi, rushing away from the location of one of my most memorable nights ever.
Staying inside the hotel hadn’t been an option. I had to go to the training ground, as it was 8.45 already. Jordan, in the meantime, was still in bed – completely exhausted. The bed, an enormous queen-size, was situated in the £450-a-night Anchorage Suite, which had the proportions of a decent ballroom. She was sleeping off a night of wild and passionate lust, despite the fact that we both had been rat-arsed.
Nevertheless, I still remember what happened once we reached the room. Within a minute we were naked, and a few seconds later we had taken over the bed. And there we finished it off.
Sorry, guys, no footage of the action! Didn’t fancy the idea of having our romp filmed. Somebody had told me she’d done a thing like that before, so once again that night I was aware of the possible presence of a candid camera.
Apart from a healthy appetite for sex, we both share a love for tattoos, Jordan and me. Nowadays it’s a common thing among footballers, but back in the day I was one of the first to have himself inked. So far, there are some nice illustrations on my chest, belly, arms, hands and legs, but my back is still empty. Gotta do something about that soon.
Katie – as I should call her from now on – already had something drawn on her back: a butterfly. Beautifully done. As if he’s just sneaking out of her panties, the cheeky insect. Just as nice, tattoo-wise, is the red and black heart on her, how shall we call it, ‘front bottom’. Quite spectacular.
But Katie’s tattoos were not what I was thinking about as I raced away in that taxi. No, the one thing on my mind was: how on earth will I get away with this?
Graciela was due back in Scotland that very day. And Graciela is not stupid. Graciela can read papers. And recognise faces in pictures. To cut a long story short, the moment she walked into International Arrivals, she saw the front page of the Evening News, with an enormous photo of yours truly sneaking out of the hotel. Caption: ‘Fernando looked a million dollars when he arrived with Jordan, but he was like a spent penny when he left.’
‘I confess,’ I said to Graciela. Well, what else could I say? This: ‘If Brad Pitt invited you for a hot night, you would do it too!’
Now that was a dumb thing to say. Graciela screamed that she would never do a thing like that. But I didn’t believe her, so I told her again. ‘Saying no to Brad Pitt would be the stupidest thing to do! All women would fall for it, especially when they’ve been drinking, and you’re no exception!’
Very bad words, in hindsight. They made her angrier and sadder. She grabbed her suitcases, which she hadn’t even opened yet, and went straight back to Glasgow Airport. Back to Alkmaar, the town she’d left just a few hours earlier.
I wouldn’t see her for weeks.
I could’ve whacked myself. You stupid ... But at the same time I didn’t care. After all, it wasn’t our first fight. Besides, with her in Alkmaar, at least I could have some fun in Glasgow again, that night. I was, as you may have noticed by now, only concerned about myself.
I never regretted my rendezvous with Katie Price. It was a real one-off, the chance of a lifetime – unlike an Old Firm match, which you can play more than once each year. Katie Price, the British Pamela Anderson ... Every man dreams about her and only the hypocrites say they don’t.
People loved the fact that I had bagged such a trophy. They congratulated me. Complete strangers would give me the thumbs-up as I walked down the street, as if I had shagged her on their behalf.
And, to be honest, it did feel like winning a major prize. So I didn’t care about the resultant fine and paid the £25,000 with a smile. After all, what’s a little bit of money for a night of nudity with Katie Price?
I was damn proud of myself – it really was one hell of an achievement. That’s why I didn’t object to the penalty. £25,000 is quite a price tag for sex, but at the same time it was an experience I will never forget. Just a pity that I left my gold bracelet at her place ...
For months after that memorable night of pure magic we sent each other text messages on an almost daily basis. And, despite what you guys may think, it wasn’t just filth and sleaze we exchanged. There was a lot of serious stuff too. About her autistic son Harvey, for instance, who suffers from Prader-Willi Syndrome.
Since then, we’ve only met once, at her enormous villa in Essex. It wasn’t really what you’d call a success though. To be honest, at that stage I was pretty much over it with her. Novelty wears off, you know? Soon after that she moved to the Australian jungle for ITV’s I’m A Celebrity ... Get Me Out Of Here! And that was it.
Well, I was too busy anyway, with football and with girls.
Our last contact must have been in September 2005 when she invited me to her wedding with Peter Andre. Would be lovely to see you there, she said. Well, thanks but no thanks! What was I supposed to do there? Watch her tie the knot? Not exactly my idea of a nice day out!
We haven’t talked to each other since.
Who knows how she remembers me, but I think she likes me. No, I know she likes me. And I have proof.
Three years after our romantic collision, Katie was in the Netherlands. She had been invited to a launch party for Life After Football, a glossy ran by former Feyenoord, Sheffield Wednesday and, yes, Celtic ace Regi Blinker. As I was in Russia at the time I couldn’t be there. But in a way I was, as people were talking about me.
Robert Pot, son of my coach Cor Pot, never believed a word of my stories. So, the moment he saw Katie, this was his chance to verify what I’d been telling him all the time. So he went straight up to her, didn’t even introduce himself, I believe.
Next day, he informed me how much respect he had for me, as all my antics had indeed been true. And because Katie was happy to meet ‘a friend of Fernando’ she stayed with him during the entire event. In the end Robert’s arm must have been as blue as a Rangers shirt, as he was constantly pinching himself. According to him, everybody was after her that night but she kept sending guys away, including hot shots like Patrick Kluivert and Ruud Gullit. The only man she was interested in was Fernando Ricksen. Robert had to answer one question after the other about me.
In the end, she gave him her phone number, which, unfortunately for Robert, was to be handed over to me, just in case I wanted to call her. I never did. I was far away from Holland and the UK, in a country where the women were even more beautiful and mysterious than her!
Yes, Katie Price is a gorgeous girl, but in Russia she would be Miss Average.