To Cap It All. Kenny Sansom
salt of the earth with not a pretentious bone in their bodies. In lots of ways we were very childlike – kids playing a game of ‘being big boys’. There was a kind of innocence and purity about us. I know that might sound a bit soft, but that’s the truth of it.
We were a football family, and that suited me right down to the ground. What a great bunch of lads I was blessed to be among!
How could I exclude the names of the Palace team of the eighties from my book? The boys who played in the years when Allison handed over to Terry Venables, who then ignited us and spurred us on to great things and great times? Not a chance.
First there was George ‘Mr Smoothie’ Graham, whom I was to be managed by later at Arsenal. Then there was Nick Chatterton – Nicky, who was so quick in the shower that he was in and out and off on his way home to Eastbourne before the rest of us were even wet.
Rachid Harkouk was a larger-than-life character. I remember once when we were all on a jolly boys outing to Jersey, some idiot in Bonapartes nightclub spilled a drink all down him and didn’t apologise. Rachid was fuming, so a few of us went down to the underground car park and all I can say is that, if Ernie Walley (our first-team coach under Venables and a tough old Welshman who stood no nonsense) hadn’t intervened, there would have been a nasty scene. Rachid hadn’t realised just how big the other bloke was. Later he said, ‘Thank fuck Ernie showed up – that bloke never stopped coming out of his jacket.’
Vince Hillarie was the worst dresser ever. He wore brown socks with black shoes. His excuse was that he got dressed in the dark, but over the years this wore thin.
John Burridge was highly professional and believed firmly in good preparation. He used to take sleeping pills on a Friday night so he’d be nice and fresh in the morning. One of our centre-forwards, Mike Elwiss, used to room with him and once, as a joke, he swapped the sleeping pill for a paracetamol. After about 20 minutes John was saying, ‘Oh yes, the pill’s working now. Yes, they’re definitely kicking in’ and began to slur. Then the phone rang and he sparked into life. Mike was laughing so hard when he was telling us the story later. ‘You should have seen him. He was all dozy one minute and full of life the next.’
David Kemp, who is now the number two at Stoke, struck lucky when he went to Champneys for a weekend and was mistaken for the EastEnders actor Ross Kemp and given a luxury suite of rooms.
Then there was Phil Holder, who was canny enough to put money on Burnley to beat us in our promotion game so that he’d get the bonus from the club if we won the match and the League title, or a payout from the bookies if we lost.
The stories could go on and on for ever: these Eagles were the salt of the earth. Other squad members were Martin Hinshelwood, Neil Smillie, Tony Burn, Ian Walsh, Ian Evans, Peter Caswell, Steve Perrin, Peter Nicholas, Jerry Murphy, Billy Gilbert, Dave Swindlehurst (who used to room with me and colluded with Peter Taylor to frighten the life out of me on the night before my Palace debut) and Paul Hinshelwood. Apart from me, Jim Cannon was the best player, and as for Peter Taylor – well, I’ll tell you all about him in a minute.
I’m inclined to say you don’t get this kind of family atmosphere in big clubs today, but I could be wrong. I think Ryan Giggs, the Neville brothers, David Beckham and some of the other Manchester United players were a similar outfit. But, unfortunately, the general attitude of scouts versus agents has taken this young ‘family’ focus away – maybe for good. This is a travesty.
We had great team spirit and shared each other’s secrets. I remember Phil Holder, who was small and stocky, going for his weekly weigh-in and putting his own weight down as 11 stone 2 pounds, and our trainer, Charlie Simpson, believing him.
Then the astute Terry Venables sauntered into the room wearing a slightly crooked smile. He took a quick look at the recorded weights and turned to Charlie, saying, ‘Did you see Phil on the scales?’
Well, Charlie couldn’t lie. ‘No, not exactly.’
‘Get your kit off, Holder,’ he yelled.
Poor old Phil had to strip to his bare essentials and step on the scales for the gaffer in front of the rest of us – who were sniggering of course.
‘You weigh five pounds more than you’ve put down here. What’s the point in trying to cheat? You’re only cheating yourself.’ He said more, but I don’t intend to repeat the finer details now, as it was embarrassing enough for Phil at the time, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want it dredged up now.
The weigh-ins were farcical. We were healthy young lads with appetites to match and enjoyed our grub to the full – especially the bacon rolls John and Babs dished up at Selhurst Park – and we just couldn’t stop munching.
It was like being at the tuck shop at school and was all part of the Palace experience.
We were weighed on a Friday, so to keep our weight down we might not eat on the Thursday. All sorts of tricks were used to reduce our weight before we stepped on the scales. Our super-goalie Pat Jennings was very conscientious about keeping his weight at acceptable levels and would often sweat it out in a hot bath to achieve the required results.
You would have thought that my terrible diet would do me no favours and that I’d get teenage spots and become very fat. But this was far from the truth. My body remained lean, fit and strong and my hair and skin shiny and healthy. I was a hunk whom the Sun newspaper dubbed, ‘Handsome Sansom’. And this fact led me into a sticky scenario with one of my teammates – one Peter Taylor. <a> Peter Taylor loves me Winger Peter John Taylor (not to be mistaken for Brian Clough’s managerial partner at Derby and Nottingham Forest) had a 3-year spell at Palace in the seventies. He tried to throw a spell over me, too – and terrified the life out of me. I’m not talking about on the pitch, either. This was much more of a personal matter.
I knew him to be a bit of a joker, as he was always impersonating Norman Wisdom. In fact it was Peter who taught me to do the impersonations I have since become famous for with some of the England fans.
He seemed harmless enough. In fact at first I thought he was shy – but I underestimated how far he would go on a wind up.
Peter was 3 years older than I was, which, as you know, when you’re a teenager seems like a wide gap. An established player with kudos, he too was at the front of the queue when good looks were dished out, and although a bit reserved when he first meets you he soon shows his confident side. I don’t mind saying that I was slightly in awe of his achievements. He had been voted Crystal Palace Player of the Year in 1974 and was to repeat this feat in 1976.
As I said, I’m a home boy at heart and whenever I used to play away (and I mean at football!) my mum and wife would always be at my side. That was, until the day arrived when I had to go on away with my teammates minus my chaperones.
It was my Crystal Palace debut and little did I know that 16-year-old Kenny Sansom was in danger of being initiated into much more than a football match. I was on my own – a fact that wasn’t lost on the astute Peter Taylor.
While my mum was worrying about my table manners and my long-established penchant for eating with my fingers, Peter seemed interested in my eating something else – him.
We were on the train to play Tranmere Rovers when I realised I was the focus of his attention. There were several of us travelling. David Kemp was there, as was Alan ‘White Rat’ Whittle. They all seemed to be oblivious of Peter’s apparent affections towards me, which I found a bit weird. I thought his attentions were blatantly clear.
The first time he mouthed, ‘I love you’, I didn’t quite know where to put my face, so I suddenly found the view out of the window very interesting – I never realised tenement blocks could be so fascinating. But when we were in a dark tunnel I could see his face reflected clearly in the window – and he hadn’t gone away. Instead, he was still mouthing terms of endearment.
In panic I threw a glance in the direction of the other lads desperately hoping for I don’t know what. Help? But they seemed to be engrossed in their own business of card playing