LIVERPOOL NIGHTS OUT
Liverpool would always let us have nights out, with the highlight being the fancy dress Christmas party. Not many managers would go out with their players but Kenny did. One year he turned up dressed as a judge. This was just after Jan Molby had made a few appearances in court and been locked up. John Barnes memorably wore a Ku Klux Klan costume too, nothing was really off limits and the media never picked up that story. I wasn’t quite so controversial when I went as Cooperman, a Russ Abbot character based on Superman. By the end of the night I was in a right state and went in search of a taxi home. It was the usual situation where you can’t get a cab at Christmas because everyone is out celebrating. Finally I managed to flag one down and said: “Woolton please.” The driver looked me up and down and said: “I’m not going anywhere. If you’re Cooperman you can fly home.” And off he drove. I’m sure he was an Evertonian. I had to ring my missus for a lift instead.
Even now the Liverpool lads still get dressed up for the Christmas night out. Steven Gerrard’s disguise as an old man in a mobility scooter a few years ago was brilliant. When they had one of the get-togethers in my bar in town I went along, although Robbie Fowler probably wished I hadn’t. There was karaoke and quite a few drinks, and at the end of the evening the lads had agreed to draw out a name to decide who would pay the bar bill. They asked me to do the honours and it was Robbie’s name I pulled from the tombola. He was absolutely gutted and really annoyed with me. The bill would have been a few grand. “You own streets in Manchester, you can afford it” I joked and we all had a laugh about it.
Even when it wasn’t the festive season we were always up for a few pints at Anfield. Usually we’d head straight to the players’ lounge after a game. Some of the lads who had been around for a while even had their own spots at the bar, such as Alan Hansen. I didn’t know that and neither did my dad when he came to watch one of my first games for the club. I’d arranged to meet him in the lounge afterwards and when I got there he was standing in Jockey’s spot. “You’re in my place,” Alan told him. “It’s not your place now,” my old man responded as he refused to move. Usually Steve Nicol and I would rush to the bar at Anfield, all the ale was free so it was great. Then we’d make our way into town. There was always a group of us. Lads like Ray Houghton and Steve McMahon would be there sometimes, and Gary Ablett too, on the days he was allowed to go out. Gary Gillespie, or me if I’m honest, were probably the worst when it came to getting a round in. In town we had a few regular haunts, such as Tommy Smith’s bar. That was the venue where Mike Hooper went for a new personal record. Mike’s a big lad and he could put a fair bit away. He lined up eight pints and one of his mates readied the stopwatch. Mike sunk all the pints in about 35 seconds. I’ve never seen anything like it.
If we’d played on a Saturday I’d go to Garston the following afternoon. There I’d have a pint with my dad until 3pm, then go home for my Sunday dinner and a sleep before heading back out again that night. Monday morning meant we’d usually train and work off the alcohol from the weekend. That was difficult some days. But it never affected anyone’s game because we were professionals. If we were playing on a Tuesday night we wouldn’t go out the Sunday before, we’d never be that stupid. Drinking so close to a game was never something I did too often, even if a few pints the night before a match once helped me score a hat-trick for Oxford. I’d unexpectedly ended up going out with my dad and drank a few beers. The next day I scored three in a 4-2 win over Luton. Despite that success it wasn’t something I practiced. It would have led to far too much trouble.
The only time I remember anyone complaining about nights out at Liverpool was when Kenny called in Ray Houghton and I after training one day and said we’d been drinking too much. On the other side of Stanley Park Everton also adopted the same approach. If they’d lost they would go out on a Wednesday and have a few beers. At first it worked, the results always came good again after a get together. Then suddenly they suffered a defeat after a day out together and Howard Kendall had a rethink. He came in the next day and said: “Right lads, we’re not going out on a Wednesday anymore. We’ll be going out on a Tuesday instead.”
Drinking took place throughout the year, but we’d really go for it when there was no serious football to be played. Post-season tours were a great excuse for a few beers. In 1987 we travelled to the Middle East for a friendly with Israel. Despite arriving there early in the morning we didn’t go to bed. Instead beer and breakfast was on the menu, followed by a day out. Eventually we, wearily, made our way to the hotel quite a few hours later. A training session the next day wasn’t what any of us required, especially Steve McMahon, who left the contents of his stomach on the team bus afterwards. At the end of the same summer we were on it again during our pre-season tour. Barry Venison ended up having to foot the bill for £170 worth of champagne. Thankfully none of us had to look after the tab when we went to the PFA Awards in London because the price was ridiculous. Despite five of us being on the team of the season they positioned us near the door. Rightly, we felt we should have been on a better table and were thinking about leaving. The PFA Chief Gordon Taylor knew we were unhappy and tried to solve the problem. He did, by offering for the FA to cover the cost of our drinks. I’m sure he regretted it afterwards as we consumed a load of Bollinger champagne.
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