Hammered - I Played Football for West Ham, Man City and Everton… Then the Police Came Calling and My Life Fell Apart. Mark Ward
County in January 1984, I had a ready-made mucker. Mick was from the tough district of Liverpool called Cantril Farm – or ‘Cannibal Farm’, as this ’70s council estate is also known.
Every week Mick, Joe McBride, an ex-Everton youngster who joined us from Rotherham United, and I would share the driving duties from Liverpool to Oldham and back. Joe had a brand new Volkswagen Golf convertible, Mickey had a big, white Ford Granada and I had … ‘The Pram’. It was Mick who christened my Ford Escort Mk II – a real dog of a car, it has to be said – The Pram because we were always having to push it after it had broken down.
I thrived on training and loved every minute of it, even Tuesdays – running day. As we usually had Wednesdays off, Joe Royle and Billy Urmson, the first team coach, would make sure they got their pound of sweat from us all, sending us on a long-distance run up the hill in Oldham, followed by endless sprints. At first I really struggled and would spew up my breakfast every Tuesday after pushing myself to the limit. Joe would stand over me and say: ‘What have you had for breakfast this morning, son? Come on, let’s see it …’
My travel arrangements to Oldham soon put a strain on my relationship with Jane. By getting a lift with either Joe McBride or Mickey Quinn, it meant I was at the mercy of them and their social itinerary. If they fancied a pint in Oldham after training, then I had to go with them or get the train home.
A few of the players would nearly always meet at the top of Boundary Park Road for an excellent pub lunch in the White Hart. We were a right little firm of drinkers – Mickey, Joe, Andy Goram, Darron McDonough and myself. We all liked a bet too, especially Mick and Andy.
It’s well documented that gambling is an inherent footballer’s disease. It comes with the territory. We’d study the Sporting Life as soon as we met up in the dressing room each morning before training began and decide our selections over steak and kidney pie and chips in The White Hart afterwards. Perhaps it was no surprise when, years later, Mickey – who later enjoyed cult hero status as one of Newcastle United’s famous Number Nines – appeared on TV’s Celebrity Fit Club and wrote a book titled Who Ate All The Pies!
We’d bet in the region of £20-£40 a day. This was the time when I believe gambling took a hold on Andy Goram, who, even so, still went on to have a brilliant career with Rangers and Scotland.
As honest as he is, it was well known that Andy was a big punter. On the other hand, after his long and distinguished playing career ended, Mickey used his brain and extensive knowledge of racehorses to forge a second career. He became a successful horse racing trainer, producing more than 40 winners from his stables at Newmarket, as well as being a respected horse and football radio pundit for TalkSPORT. Like me, Mickey has done time in jail but I really admire this great character for what he has achieved.
Looking back, though, at the way we put away unhealthy food, drank pints of lager and gambled on the horses each day, such an undisciplined lifestyle would never be tolerated by any football club today. But in those days, none of us stopped to think that the way we conducted ourselves was wrong or damaging to our careers. And the clubs themselves did little or nothing to discourage players from indulging in their various vices.
Whenever we played away, the fridge on board the Oldham team bus was fully stocked with beer. If we’d been playing a match in, say, London or the south, by the time we got off the bus back at Boundary Park later that evening, I would hardly be able to stand up. How the three of us then managed to drive back home to Liverpool on a regular basis, I’ll never know. But this carefree routine became the norm.
Not that Jane would ever get used to it. She wasn’t happy about me coming home late and stinking of beer. My lame excuse, that I had no choice because I was a passenger in one of the other lad’s cars, didn’t wash with her.
Darron McDonough would often try and keep us out in Oldham. A local lad made good, he knew all the best drinking haunts in town. But Darron was forever getting into scraps. It was a regular occurrence for him to come in for training on Monday morning sporting a black eye. Joe Royle would say to him: ‘Lost one again?’ But Darron could handle himself in a scrap, and he’d quickly answer the manager back: ‘You should see the state of the other fella!’
There was a violent 80s cult movie out on video at the time that we played regularly on the coach to away games. It was called Class of 1984, about a punk gang inflicting terror on the teachers and pupils of a lawless inner-city high school in America. After watching it, Joe Royle started calling our little group ‘The Class of 84’.
Much of my time at Oldham was spent in the company of fellow Scouser Mickey Quinn. We hit it off straight away and he had a wicked sense of humour. Mick’s dad, ‘Old Mick’ as we knew him, had a pub in Cannibal Farm called the Tithe Barn. I would regularly visit there with Mick to see his father. On Mondays – or ‘Mad Monday’ as it was known – the place was packed full. Many of the customers were there to spend a large chunk of their giro, while those who were lucky enough to have a job would be off work that day to recover from their weekend binge.
Many a time Mickey and I would turn up intending to have just one or two quiet shandies. But once we stepped foot inside the Tithe Barn, we invariably stayed until the early hours of the next morning. With its karaoke and disco, Old Mick ran a great pub and his lager was always spot on. We called the Tithe Barn the ‘Bermuda Triangle’. Once inside the place, you went missing for hours.
These days Mick runs the popular Black Angus pub in Cannibal Farm. I took former Everton favourite Duncan Ferguson there one night in the mid-90s to introduce him to Old Mick and Mickey’s brother, Mark Quinn. I was player/coach at Birmingham City at the time and I realised the big fella needed some good people around him. They looked after Big Duncan and I’m pleased to say that he remains a good friend of the Quinns to this day.
We did get into some scrapes at Oldham, though. One night after a game, Mick and I were in the local Brannigans nightclub with Darron McDonough. I ended up on Mickey’s shoulders, being carted around the dance floor. Suddenly he slipped and I landed on top of him. He said instantly: ‘My ankle’s f****d’.
I even had to drive him home in his big, white Granada, which I called ‘The Ambulance’. I dropped him off and he was s******g himself because he knew he wouldn’t be fit for Oldham’s game on the following Tuesday night. Mick was our star striker and banging in the goals for fun. How was he going to explain his injury to Joe Royle? He couldn’t very well tell him the truth: ‘Wardy was on my shoulders in Brannigans and I slipped’.
The best excuse he could come up with was that he was out walking the dog and slipped off the kerb.
Mick and I were both very competitive and it came to a head one day in training. A young apprentice gave me a right kicking down the shin and Mick started laughing. I got my revenge as usual. I went in hard on the youngster and kicked both the ball and him into the air.
Mick thought I was out of order and we squared up to each other. Before we knew it, we were both rolling around in the mud. It’s surprising how your emotions can sometimes boil over in a practice game and lead you to scrap with your best mate at the club. Mickey was a big, powerful man and under normal circumstances I’d be a fool to take him on, but thankfully our little skirmish was broken up before any blood was spilt.
Trudging dejectedly back to the dressing room after it had all cooled down, I suddenly remembered that I’d travelled into training that morning in The Ambulance. I showered and heard all the lads stirring it up in the dressing room. Darron offered to drop me off at the train station, while Andy Goram said he’d bring in some boxing gloves so that we could have the second round of our bout the following day. The train looked like my best option but, just as I grabbed my bag and thought about heading for the station, Mick tapped me on the shoulder, stuck out his hand and said: ‘Let’s go for a pint, Wardy.’
We left the ground and got p****d, never mentioning our silly little fracas again.
I’ve always said that players don’t make friends in football because of the nature of the business. Acquaintances, yes – and many of them, because you go from club to club. But I can honestly say that Mickey Quinn