Chapter Five

THE GOLDEN YEARS

Out with the old, in with the new. Howard Kendall to Everton and Bob Saxton – or ‘Sacko’ as he was universally known – to Rovers.

It is the summer of 1981. I am 22 years old, happily married, now the owner of a black, three-litre Capri, and about to start my assault on the property ladder. I am the proud father of Max, the long-haired Alsatian. We are very happy – the perfect family unit. I am now a battle-hardened veteran of 80 or 90 league games. Even the Iraq-Iran war with its implications for world peace or the Toxteth street riots can’t diminish my contentment.

All those terrible memories of Birmingham City and the genuine unhappiness I felt there are fading slowly but surely. The lessons of my boozy period with Russ are well learned and will not be repeated. I am proud to be able to call myself a professional footballer at last. Giving value for money, playing well, week in week out and, amazingly, enjoying it.

The next six or seven years under Sacko would be my truly golden period, the time when I finally became the player I should have been at Birmingham City. Playing with a great bunch of lads in a good, strong solid team that did the club proud year in year out under a very good manager.

However, while I was set to enter my finest era as a player, conversely football as a game and a spectator sport was about to go through a very difficult period. This next decade would be scarred by the tragedies at Heysel, Bradford and Hillsborough. On the pitch, defensive, unexciting football predominated, driving the fans away from the decaying old stadiums. Thankfully, by the end of the decade, the Taylor Report had helped to drag the game kicking and screaming into the modern era; all-seater grounds, catering and caring for the safety and comfort of the paying supporters, allied to some subtle rule changes, would eventually breathe fresh life into the declining industry and, gradually, the fans would start to drift back.

While English football in general suffered, Lancashire football, in particular, was the hardest hit. Preston, Burnley, and Bolton (all founder members of the Football League) started to decline. With dwindling crowds, decrepit stadia and failure on the pitch, one by one, they sank to the lowest tier of the professional game. Former greats of those clubs – Tom Finney, Jimmy McIlroy and Nat Lofthouse – witnessed the gradual decline of these once legendary football institutions. It is to the undying credit of their supporters and directors, who so loyally stuck with these fallen giants during that lean period, that today they have all sprung back with new or improved stadia and restored pride and status.

Blackburn Rovers, alone, of those historic Lancashire clubs maintained its standing, and my team-mates and I who played our hearts out at a difficult time for English football should take special credit for the part we played.

Incredibly, during the reign of ‘King Sacko’, we kept virtually the same team and I believe in particular the defence – TG (Terry Genoe), Bran (Jim Brannigan), Keels (Glen Keeley), Faz (Derek Fazackerley) and I – held some kind of record for playing so many consecutive games together.

In that difficult period we held our own – and then some – against the likes of Leeds, Chelsea, West Ham, Sunderland and Newcastle. Bill Fox, who replaced David Brown as chairman, frequently reminded us of our responsibilities. “This club cannot afford to be relegated. It will go out of business if it is relegated,” he told us regularly – and we responded to a man.

With our tiny squad of 15 or 16 players, probably on the lowest wages in the division, we stood firm as friends, fellow professionals and Rovers players, proud to pull on and fight for that famous shirt. The team spirit we developed, I would dare to suggest, had never been seen before and never will be seen again – at Blackburn Rovers or any other club.

I remember on Sacko’s first day at the club he called Noel ‘Stan’ Brotherston (sadly now deceased – a marvellous talent but, more importantly, a marvellous man) and me together before training. I was left back and Stan was left wing. In a strange parody of Jesus’s sermon on the mount, he sat us down on the warm, dry grass and preached the sermon according to St Sacko. He instructed us: “Be good friends, care for each other, go out and socialise with your wives together. You will find you become so close on a Saturday that you will have formed a bond so strong that you will ensure you give everything for each other and the rest of the team. If one of you is struggling, then the other one will go that extra yard to help him, and vice versa.”

Talk about Mourinho. This was Sacko back in the early ’80s – a man ahead of his time.

That esprit de corps ran through the whole team, and the whole club and those years, somewhat belatedly, finally made a man out of me.

If I close my eyes now, I can still see all the lads’ faces and smell the liniment, the Vicks Vapour Rub, the boot polish and, of course, those Hollands Pies. We trained in the big country park, whatever the weather, and met up every Wednesday night, whatever the weather, at the Hare and Hounds or The Knowles.

At the risk of sounding simplistic and making the nutritionists choke on their energy bars, a few pints never hurt anybody. The benefits of socialising and bonding over a pint and the camaraderie it produces are worth a million times more than the sterile and almost impersonal atmospheres that pervade some modern clubs. You can’t even get a pint in the players’ bars any more. Before all the killjoys start digging out the research to try and prove that alcohol is the great Satan and should be completely avoided, they should first consider this: football is about people performing in the entertainment industry. Footballers are human beings, not lab rats. Getting all the players together on a Wednesday night for a couple of pints and a sing-song or a game of darts will not affect your result on a Saturday. Sorry, I am wrong. It may affect your results; it will make them better.

I played nearly 300 games for Rovers. We won some, lost some and drew some but, generally, for the size of the club and the assets we had at our disposal, we enjoyed great success and continually punched above our weight with several top-six finishes and some good cup runs.

The preparation for matches in those days was totally different to the modern game. For home games, I used to wake up fairly late. My wife brought toast, a cup of tea and the newspaper up to the bedroom. I would be nervous. Not scared any more – just nervous. I didn’t really enjoy being nervous (who does?) but I knew myself by now and I realised this feeling was the norm on the morning of the game. To clarify, this was nothing like how I had felt when I woke up on the morning of Birmingham games – that was fucking terror. I also knew by now that when I got to Ewood Park the simple act of removing my tie would make all those nerves magically disappear.

After breakfast in bed I would get up and take Max to the park (I don’t think he ever got nervous). When I got back, I would put on my suit and eat the biggest omelette you have ever seen (it would have made a great episode of the reality TV series, Man v Food). I used to consume this monster meal at noon, three hours prior to kick-off.

Now before the nutritionists gnash their teeth in disapproval, it was OK, no problem. I felt great. I felt great in the warm-up, great in the game. You can say whatever you like about nutrition, digestion and preparation, but I ain’t listening because I felt great (and I’d had a few cans of lager the night before).

I would then drive the three miles to Ewood Park. In those days we all lived locally – probably because we couldn’t afford to live anywhere more salubrious. That was another big reason why you felt a great affinity to the club you played for, and why you felt so close to the club and responsible to the town for the fate of that club.

My wife would come to every home game. She always told me I was man of the match, even when I knew I wasn’t. We would park on the lunar landscape that was the ‘Little Wembley’ car park. Cries of “Go on Baz” as we walked the hundred yards to the players’ entrance pursued by a couple of fans with autograph books. You could feel the atmosphere starting to build. This was my most nervous moment – that initial entering of the ground. Greetings from the doorman and the inevitable asking of the time-honoured question: “Are we gonna win today, Baz?” God knows. I hope so, otherwise the weekend will be a write-off, and I need the bonus.

Push open the home team dressing room door and the magic would begin – oh those smells. Those marvellous life-defining smells: the liniment, always the liniment mixed with leather and boot polish, Vicks Vapour Rub and Deep Heat. The lads all assembled, laughing, joking, shaking hands, keyed up with common purpose.

And then, there it was, looming ahead. The Holy Grail.

What is the Holy Grail? What does it signify? Some say it is the cup Christ drank from, some argue it is merely a metaphor that can mean different things to different people which doesn’t need to be something tangible but more a focus of something special, even spiritual, in one’s life.

In that case, I was now looking up at my Holy Grail – hung up, washed and ironed with its back to me. The Blackburn Rovers No. 3 shirt – correction, my Blackburn Rovers No. 3 shirt. As far as I was concerned, nobody else should be allowed to wear that shirt and, for the best part of eight years – injuries notwithstanding – nobody did.

The simple act of just taking the shirt from the hanger and putting it on was deeply symbolic to me. I had been through so much, so many bad times, that just to have that blue-and-white-halved shirt in my hands meant more than words could ever say.

Then off came the tie and I would be transformed, energised, slightly hyper, and ready to go. Everything else was out of my mind. I’d get changed and feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck as I slipped the shirt over my head – my shirt. Finally, I knew why John Roberts had spat on the team sheet at Birmingham, now I understood.

Quick team meeting – basic, short and to the point. Not too much information – let’s face it, most of the lads had failed their 11-plus. Quick cup of tea, lots of sugar – the nutritionists are beside themselves by this point – I still felt great.

In came the referee to check the studs. Then the bell sounded. The bell that previously would have sucked the last vestiges of power from my legs now produced a rush of adrenalin-fuelled energy that could have powered the floodlights. Shouting and encouraging each other, Sacko’s last words and then the final ritual – the team spirit was handed out. Keels was responsible for getting the bottle of whisky out of the physio’s bag before screaming, “All the best” and having a good swig before passing it to the next man. To TG, then Faz, Bran and me (I only pretended to drink it as I never got over that attempt on my life in Holland), then one by one all the rest of the boys.

Out we rushed, the roar of the crowd, the adrenalin surging through my muscles. Exhilaration, warriors, them or us. The whistle to release us from any final knots of tension. Running, heading, tackling, overlapping, noise, ebb and flow, cut and thrust, the fans right behind us. Shouts of “Go on Baz” as I raced forward, deafening noise, fans chanting the players’ names, then my name. For me, they used to chant, “Hello, hello, Rambo Rathbone, Rambo Rathbone, hello, hello” in tribute to my fearless buccaneering style (I hope).

Trevor Francis, Sir Alf Ramsey, Bald Eagle, Maggie Thatcher, Winston Churchill, Horatio Nelson, are you watching? Watch me go.

Then that winning goal, and when the final whistle sounded and you’d played well and won, believe me when I tell you that nothing in the world compares to that feeling – nothing. People may say, “Oh come on, it’s only a game. What about the birth of your kids? What about other important moments in your private life? Other success? No, sorry (Charlotte, Lucy and Oliver), there was nothing like that final whistle after a famous victory.

Did I still carry the scars of that experience at Birmingham to the extent that every subsequent success became part of an ongoing cathartic experience? Who knows?

Cheered off. Back to the dressing room, laughing, shouting, screaming, hugging, genuine affection for each other and a job well done. We’d grab a can on our way into the big bath and all sing our victory chant in the manner of Sid Waddell, the famous darts commentator. “One hundreeeeed annnnd eeeeeeighty” – to signify the bonus we had just won. And then sink back into the warm soapy water and become intoxicated on those smells – those smells of victory: shampoo and sandwiches and pies and beer.

In those days, the win bonus could double your wages. You couldn’t afford to get injured and miss a game because the basic wages were so poor. Apart from one season I missed with a broken leg (I could have done with that at Birmingham), I did not allow myself to get injured. I once played 100 straight games. That was my shirt and nobody else was allowed to wear it.

The broken leg was a test of my new resolve. I underwent all the usual doubts about whether I would recover, be the same player again, be afraid to tackle etc. I spent a lot of time on my own, thinking negative thoughts, constantly touching and testing the fracture site. I felt isolated from my team-mates, denied the intimacy and camaraderie I had enjoyed before the injury. Yes, people felt sorry for me, but not as sorry as I felt for myself.

If there was ever an example of how much I had changed, how far I had come, how desperately I just wanted to play football again, then this was it. I did recover, I did fight back, I did play again and I did get that can of beer and jump in the bath again. Another battle fought – and another battle won.

It also stood me in good stead for when I became a physiotherapist – how to empathise, how to motivate, how to encourage. Those seven months on the sidelines taught me more about sports injuries than a four-year physiotherapy degree ever could.

I suffered another injury which was not so serious, just very painful and very embarrassing. On the weekend before my wife and I got married, I broke a rib playing down at Watford. However, I managed to train every day the following week and was able to play the next Saturday, which was the day before our wedding.

We only booked a two-day honeymoon in the Lake District because of the time of the year (November). In training, the day after I returned, somebody blasted a ball which hit me in the back and must have opened up the original fracture site. The pain was unbearable and I missed six weeks.

My wife never lived it down as everyone was telling her it must have been one hell of a honeymoon for me to come back with a crushed rib.

Stories like that were all part of the banter we’d have at the club, be it during training, in the dressing room or in the bath after a game. After the bath, we’d get changed and Bill Fox would come in. “Well done, the sponsor’s man of the match is Baz.”

It did not get any better than that, take it from me.

Go and collect the sponsor’s trophy or, better still, a tray of beer or bottle of wine. Into the ‘100 Club’ bar to meet the fans. Everybody loves you. All the players and wives together – that was the key, together. Five or six pints in there. Garns and I and our wives out for the night. Big piss-up, home, bed.

The best day ever.

Of course, we didn’t always win and I didn’t always win man of the match, but we always went into the 100 Club to mix with the fans, whatever the result. We won together as a playing staff, backroom staff, set of fans and town, and we lost together. That was special – those days have gone forever.

Away games were just as fun, and a different kind of adventure. One highlight was each season’s clash with Portsmouth, our big rivals at the time, at Fratton Park. There was lots of edge to this game due to the nature of previous encounters, our rivalry in the promotion race and plenty of bad feeling.

We used to depart for the south coast on a Friday afternoon. The trays of beers went on first, then the wine, then the ‘team spirit’ and finally the kit. There was much less traffic in those days, so the journey was comfortable.

Into the hotel, up to the room, raiding the minibar for snacks. I always roomed with my best mate, Garns. The hotels usually had a carvery restaurant and Garns and I used to have a competition to see who could eat the most (yes, we’d still feel great the next day). Then we’d head back to the room for the opening of the ‘goodie bag’ – crisps, chocolates and, last but not least, four cans of McEwan’s Lager. Down the hatch. Garns finished off proceedings by chain-smoking 20 fags, while I passively chain-smoked 20 fags. Then Garns, with his now distended belly hanging over the top of his boxer shorts, would start to doze off – fag in hand. I always waited until he went to sleep before I put his fag out. There was no way I could ever go to sleep before him just in case he burnt the fucking place down.

We’d wake up the next morning, still feeling great, and get up for breakfast – let the eating competition commence. A full fry-up, then the pre-match meal – the ten-egg omelette (still felt great).

Then it was game time – always tough, had to battle, dig out a result, no faint hearts. Those games at Fratton Park got very personal. Portsmouth were the team with all the money (how times have changed) and paid big wages. Rumour had it that some of their players were on £800 per week, an extraordinary sum of money for that time and way beyond our comprehension.

They had a midfield player called Mick Kennedy. To be fair, he was a very good player but very, very combative and aggressive, and he used to get involved verbally with our players during the match. He would run around the pitch shouting, “Fucking £250 a week players, that’s all you fuckers are, £250 a week players.” Well, Mick, I have got news for you: I was only on £220 but we did get a nice win bonus that day.

It’s a shame that kind of stuff prevailed (and still does). It’s a cheap shot really when somebody who is earning a great deal more than another fellow professional starts all that “What are you on? I can buy and sell you,” nonsense.

In my first season at Blackburn we played, and beat, Coventry City in the FA Cup. They were in the top division at the time and I was up against their famous Scottish international Tommy Hutchison, one of the best left wingers around. He would probably agree he could be somewhat arrogant on the pitch. Anyway, I tackled Tommy very hard – but fairly. He got up and, with a look of absolute and utter contempt on his face, pushed me and said: “Hey son, I give my fucking kids more pocket money than you are on a week.”

I was so taken aback and genuinely offended that I asked if he would be at all interested in adopting me.

That cruel exchange always stuck in my mind. I hope you are OK, Tommy, you probably don’t even remember the incident but I never forgot it. Maybe you could join Leighton James and me for that pint and chat.

The old Mick Rathbone would have folded, but not any more. Those days had gone, all that shit was behind me now and would never return. We dug deep and got the result. It was another great win, another great day, another great experience.

When the away games ended, it was back into the dressing room. If we had won, it was time to bring out the old Sid Waddell banter again. A quick change and then we prepared ourselves for the biggest piss-up in the history of big piss-ups.

We’d head into the players’ bar for a few pints just to loosen up for the long journey home (let’s call it an old-fashioned cooldown). Onto the bus and into the cans, singing and dancing for the duration of the trip home before staggering off the coach at Ewood Park in the early hours of the morning. Well and truly cooled down.

I suppose in hindsight that behaviour – let’s use modern-day sports science speak and refer to it as our ‘refuelling strategy’ – was a little extreme and probably not great for professional sportsmen. But so what? Those trips back were some of the most memorable experiences of my life. And guess what? On Monday morning I still felt great.

Although, like most players I assume, I preferred home games, I enjoyed those away days, in particular visiting the bigger clubs like Chelsea, Leeds, Manchester City and West Ham, who all had spells in the second tier in the early ’80s. The bigger and noisier the crowd, the better. So different to my Birmingham City days when the prospect of a visit to Old Trafford or Anfield would fill me with dread.

Blackburn had a very good, loyal fan base and we always had fantastic away support. To run out at such far-flung places as Roker Park, Home Park and Carrow Road, and see your fans cheering for you, was heart-warming and, believe me, all of us were grateful to our travelling supporters. As we were living in the same world as our fans, we could more readily understand the cost and effort it took those guys to support us and, when we did lose, our first thoughts were always for the fans. That might sound like a load of bullshit, but I can assure you it wasn’t – Sacko would always be the first to point it out.

After an away defeat, the journey home would be quiet and subdued – well, at least the first bit was. It hurt us to lose. We needed the fucking bonus, for a start. We also needed the points, needed our next contract and needed the fans to keep following us.

We would sit quietly on the bus, the 12 trays of Long Life beer sitting unmolested on the back seat, and the steam still coming out of Sacko’s ears at the front. Then, after an hour or so, one of the directors would sidle up to Sacko with a can and a few words of encouragement. “Chin up” etc. Sacko would grunt, get up from his seat and walk to the back of the bus where we sat like scolded schoolchildren, before signalling the official mourning period was over with the same words: “Fuck it, another game next week. We’ll fucking well beat the fuckers!” (He swore a lot.)

He’d then pass out the beers and sit among us and, together, we would all start the healing process. Just a few beers later and out would come the playing cards and the banter, and all would be forgiven. A family again.

I feel sorry for today’s multi-millionaire players who disappear as soon as possible after that final whistle has gone, scribbling a couple of autographs, often with indecent haste, while some flunkey fetches their car. They don’t know what they’re missing.

Nothing lasts forever and that team grew old and faded. If you stand still, you go backwards. Rovers didn’t have the finances to do anything other than stand still and, accordingly, after four or five good years a couple of lean ones followed. Sacko lived up to his name and got the sack. It wasn’t his fault – for the money he had spent and the resources he had at his disposal he did a fantastic job. Those of us who played for him certainly felt we had been part of something special.

Big deal, you could argue, you won nothing. Average players, average team, average results. Yes, but certainly not average times. Great times, great experiences, a sense of purpose and belonging. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, for me, it was a truly beautiful period of my life.

I might be looking back through rose-tinted glasses because, to be frank, the wages were terrible and the facilities bordered on the non-existent. Every year we got a £20 per week pay rise – if we were lucky – and every day we got changed at Ewood Park before getting back into our cars and driving to the nearby ‘training ground’, otherwise known as ‘dog shit’ park. I couldn’t really complain too much, though, as Max, who always came with me to training, had contributed his fair share.

But the team spirit and camaraderie shone through all of it – we were just happy, and maybe somewhat lucky, to be there. Although we certainly weren’t rewarded financially, we felt valued, wanted and appreciated by the club and any students of psychology who have studied Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs theory will tell you it is this which is more satisfying and long-lasting.

So many good things happened to me during that period which shaped me as a man – memories that remain pin-sharp to this day. If Jim Smith hadn’t been so considerate, I shudder to think what I might have ended up doing. I thank Jim every time I see him. I like to think, as a decent, hard-working guy, I would have been successful at anything I turned my hand to, but I certainly wouldn’t have the memories of my time at Ewood Park. Even though I ended up with about £10 saved in my bank account, my soul and spirit were enriched beyond mere financial measure.

There are so many tales that illustrate the environment and conditions that ’80s footballers performed in. It was an incredible achievement when we just missed out on promotion to the First Division on goal difference in the 1980/81 season, especially bearing in mind our scant resources. We were all expecting a decent pay rise – well, at least more than the usual paltry £20.

We arranged for a meeting with Bill Fox. Feelings were running high. We demanded he came down to Ewood Park for a con frontation. We all sat nervously in the home team dressing room, but we were united in our quest. This was player power 1980s style. Tick tock, tick tock, all sitting in silence, fidgeting, determined, looking at the door. Finally, it burst open and Blackburn’s formidable chairman was standing there. Mohammed had come to our little mountain.

Bill was a ruddy-faced, gruff-talking man whose favourite phrase was, “I call a spade a fucking shovel.”

“Right lads, job’s fucked,” he said. “There’s no money in the piggy bank but I think I have come up with the perfect compromise.”

He clapped his hands and in came one of his workers carrying several trays of beer. “Right lads, there’s your pay rises, get stuck into those cans.”

Two hours later we sat there pissed. The rebellion was over.

A similar incident happened when one of the players had the temerity to go and see Sacko in person about his contract and complain about his new offer. He told Sacko in no uncertain terms he wasn’t happy and would not be signing under any circumstances. Final word – no argument.

It’s worth noting, however, in this era you couldn’t just leave a club or, equally, the club couldn’t just get rid of you if you had been offered a new contract, so this bravery did contain a certain amount of security.

“Right then, son, there’s the phone. If you can get yourself a club in the next five minutes, you can leave for nothing. If you can find anyone desperate enough to take you, that is.”

This was a great opportunity for the player.

“Right, I fucking well will,” he replied.

The player picked up the phone and dialled a local club who, according to press reports, were interested in signing him.

Player asked to speak to the manager.

Manager came on the line.

Player gave his name and explained the situation.

Manager asked who it was and if he could spell his name.

Player spelt his name.

Manager asked if he was a goalie.

Player slammed down the phone and said to Sacko, “Pass me the fucking pen.”

And that was how it was back then. No agents and the club held all the cards. The upshot was players were paid less than they should have been. To be fair to Rovers, though, they were barely keeping their heads above water as it was and the other local clubs were just as bad. The money just wasn’t there, so the reward packages were based on everybody getting pissed at the expense of the club.

This was the bonus scheme: a top-six finish would almost certainly get you the five-star, all-expenses-paid, piss-up of the century that was Magaluf. Top half, and you could be heading for the all-night cabaret at the Douglas Palace Hotel on the Isle Of Man during pre-season. A disappointing season, and you could look no further than a long weekend in Morecambe, taking in pre-season friendlies in Lancaster and Workington. Drink was the currency of the day.

We probably did drink too much, but I don’t care what anybody says – I know for a fact the players back then were as fit as the players today. Yes, the game is much faster but that is more down to the rule changes than anything else. We had players in that team as fit and as fast as they are today. Fact.

The only caveat to every boozing session was that you had to get up and train hard the next day. Everybody. No excuses. Whatever the hangover. And training back then with Sacko was very hard – particularly pre-season. You ran until you could no longer move your legs. Heart-rate monitors, training zones, recovery, bottled water – forget it; you just kept running. You ran until you dropped. We did half a dozen cross countries through Witton Park, Blackburn’s big country park, as part of pre-season and we dreaded them.

There was none of that, “After you, Claude, let’s all run together in a nice pack” rubbish. No, this was eyeballs out, winner-takes-all stuff. Waiting for nobody. Because we had the same team for so long, the cross countries became a familiar feature of pre-season and some players would spend the close-season break training just for those races.

I still feel ill when I think about it now. We stood by the blue bridge, Sacko’s hand raised in the air, feeling sick with fear knowing how hard it would be. The smells of fresh cut grass and honeysuckle only added to the feelings of nausea. The hand dropped and we were off.

I was a good runner and won all the races. There was a park section, a road section and then we went back into the park for the last couple of miles. I liked to get a good lead so I could quickly get Max out of the car at the end. I finished in extreme distress every time, as did the runner-up and third-placed player. But further down the field it was noticeable that the players became less and less distressed until finally Garns strolled in last, fresh as a daisy.

That taught me a lot about fitness, running and, more importantly, the psychology of running and would prove to be an invaluable asset when I became a physiotherapist. I think the greatest asset a physio can have in elite sport is the ability to run with the players, to encourage and inspire them.

If ever you needed an example of how much I changed as a player and as a man at Blackburn, it came against Manchester United in the FA Cup at Ewood Park one Friday night in 1985. The game was live on BBC1, the only time I ever played live on TV. After just a few minutes, I made a terrible mistake. I trod on the ball in our penalty area, which let Gordon Strachan in to score. All fell silent except for the distant rumble of euphoric United fans at the far end of the ground. I had made a shocking error in front of 26,000 fans and countless millions around the world. And do you know what? It never fazed me, never affected me, never touched me. I just kept demanding the ball, running for the ball, enjoying the ball. Now that is progress.

However, my favourite and best memory came a few months earlier. Birmingham had been relegated into the Second Division the previous season (they shouldn’t have sold me, should they?), and the day came to return to my own personal killing field – St Andrew’s. That walk again, those smells again, but not the stuttering footsteps of a shrinking violet again. No, the purposeful striding of a strong, confident man. Waiting patiently and excitedly for that ELO record to start up again. Those familiar opening bars that sucked the final drops of energy from my teenage legs in the past now made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. On we went. A quick superstitious touch of my club badge – the red rose of Lancashire – and into battle.

We won 2-0 and went top of the league. I played out of my skin. The fans shouted ‘reject’ but I just laughed back at them. I showed them all. Afterwards I got out of the shower and some of the Birmingham apprentices asked if they could come in and start cleaning up. History repeating itself. It’s a pity I didn’t have my flip-flops.

Bob Saxton was one of the key reasons why I could move on from my Birmingham nightmare and become a proper player as I showed that day. I am forever indebted to him. Thanks for caring, Bob. Thanks for being a father like figure to us. Thanks for giving us great and long-lasting memories. We loved your no-nonsense, cut-through-the-bullshit ways. It was a simple game, all about the players.

The philosophy was simple too: if the players cared for you and respected you, then they would play for you. And we played for Bob.

One story in particular sums up Sacko’s ‘old school’ approach (I prefer to call it ‘traditional’). We were playing down at Brighton and Sacko rushed into the dressing room as we were about to get changed. “Fuck me, I don’t believe it, I have just seen one of their players turn up with a fucking hairdryer. If we can’t beat these fucking pansies, I will show my fucking arse in Burtons window.”

We won.

Great times, great memories – I still have my blue-and-white-halved No. 3 shirt in my wardrobe. It has magic powers, but everything has a shelf life.

After Sacko left, Don Mackay came in. He was a decent bloke and manager, but he brought in new players, which of course he had to do. Inevitably, though, as he did, the old guard dwindled and gradually died out.

At the end of the 1986/87 season, I decided, after eight years at the club, it was time to move on. Although we had constantly been reminded by Sacko that if any of us decided to leave we would never get another club, I took my chance, turned down the offer of a new contract and was pleased to have my choice of a number of interested clubs.

I chose Preston North End in the Third Division, because they were up and coming, famous founder members of the league, full of proud tradition and, most importantly, just eight miles down the road. New experiences were waiting but, as I found out several times in my career, nothing in football was simple.

This was, of course, the pre-Bosman days, which meant that although my contract was about to expire at Blackburn I couldn’t simply go and sign for another club for free.

Players were restricted in their freedom to move between clubs and make decent money. People frequently ask me if I feel resentful that I missed out on the big money era. No, not when I used to see Tom Finney at Preston, arguably England’s greatest-ever player, who probably never earned more than a tenner a week. If he wasn’t resentful, then how could I be?

So it was a date at the tribunal courts for me that summer and some acrimony between the Blackburn and Preston as a tug of war for my services ensued.