Saint & Grievancy
By Mel Wood
Issue 72, Spring 2006
You know how it is. Christmas morning arrives, and with it a sack of books heavy enough to send Santa hobbling to the slipped-disc-jockey.
Of course, at that time of year, everybody from world leaders to reality TV nobodies are ‘writing’ their life story, though in practice this probably entails devoting marginally less time to even reading the ghost-written account than to perusing, and counting the noughts on, their publisher’s cheque. Still, I’m a sucker for a tale or two, especially from the Anfield pantheon of greats and a cracking fantasy squad of former reds could be built from the biogs on my groaning shelves.
This year, among the many I received, I had actively sought out and then dropped hints which secured the arrival of Ian St John’s most recent volume of memoirs, although I must confess I approached the read with mixed feelings.
It often seems to be the case that celebrities’ ghost-writers accentuate the dramatic in order to boost sales and secure serialisations, often with little regard for the facts of the matter described. Having already witnessed the envenomed nature of St John’s Houllier-heckling on the radio, TV and in printed media, the thought of reading an amplified version held little appeal - hence the pre-read trepidation. However, it appears that in recording and ordering the Saint’s thoughts James Lawton’s writing may have, if not diluted the vitriol that St John unabashedly directs at Rafa’s predecessor, he has certainly minimised the emphasis on those views somewhat and, I believe, it’s a far better read for his having done so.
So to his story. Surely there are few men in football who have enjoyed a career of such longevity in their chosen field. Fewer still can have reached, arguably, the pinnacle of the game and tasted success in as many areas of the game as has St John, in a sport and media career that spans nearly half a century.
Personally I was drawn to reading his life story for more than just the usual reasons one might buy a sports autobiography. From my childhood, Ian St John represented several things to me. Not only was he the revered Red striker from the 60’s of whom my father, family and friends spoke. Not only was he the jovial chap who presented ‘On The Ball’ – one of the most popular football shows of the day - but he was also, to this young lad, ‘that bloke that lives up the road’.
He was, naturally, a well known figure in the area and could often be seen in tracksuit or shirt and slacks, tending the immaculate raised lawn that fronted his quite grand home. From memory, my attempts to make chit-chat with the man were usually greeted with a taciturn, possibly even brusque, response but then I can understand with hindsight that the persistent repartee of a young footy-mad lad would have held little appeal for him after a while!
I was one of many local lads to attend one of his annual soccer training camps, too, and all these factors pretty much made him the indisputable ‘Mr Football’ round our way.
One day in late 1979 he was to go even further and become a bit of a legend to my family and me. Having entered a competition on his ‘On The Ball’ TV show, I was notified by telegram that I’d been selected for a televised morning’s coaching with Ray Clemence, and the chance to mingle with the rest of the squad at Liverpool’s training ground.
Of course to any Reds-mad young lad at that time the excitement and happy memories that came of such a day could barely be matched, short of being chauffeur-driven in the Batmobile to meet The Fonz at a bouncy-castle convention. I can only speculate as to whether I was picked at random or if, as a near neighbour, The Saint had had a hand in my selection - but the day spent at that sacred ground, and filming with him at close quarters only elevated his standing in my eyes.
But I digress. Although his details are familiar to many, surely his was a great story to tell to those of a younger generation.
From honest, hardworking beginnings, his story explodes the day Bill Shankly persuaded the LFC board to smash the club’s transfer fee record and make arguably their first ‘superstar’ signing of the modern era. It must previously have been unimaginable to find himself travelling south in a Rolls-Royce to join his new club - for the boy whose childhood aspiration to wealth and status (reasonably) extended no further than to become a tram driver. The importance of Shankly’s acquisition of the young Scot in 1961 should not be underestimated. The board had previously failed to give its financially support to sign the free-scoring Brian Clough and had they not acquiesced to the signing of St John, the perceived lack of ambition might have cost the club the services of their manager.
Commencing your Anfield career with a debut hat-trick against Everton is a pretty good way to begin, but better days were to follow. Lauded by the Kop, he was the first in a prestigious line of players to be heralded with the now-famous clap to the tune of The Routers ‘Let’s Go!’ in the early sixties. As we now know, he was alongside Roger Hunt the stalwart of the strike force for a decade, key to the Shanks’ ‘bastion of invincibility’ and the template for a glorious dynasty. After a 2nd Division title, two league titles, the F.A. Cup and a Cup Winners Cup runners-up medal, the day came when he was dropped from the first team.
As Shankly dismantled the old guard, eventually replacing the 60’s forward line with Toshack and Keegan, it became clear that his time at the club was nearing its end. After a surprisingly acrimonious departure from Anfield in 1971 and a bitter row with the boss, St John experienced both the adventure of playing in South Africa and also, briefly, in the more homely surroundings of Coventry and Tranmere. He returned to his footballing alma mater, Motherwell, to begin a managerial and coaching career that led him back to Coventry, then to Portsmouth and Sheffield Wednesday, and eventually to a lengthy spell in broadcasting.
His memoirs, authored ‘with’ The Independent’s Lawton, read well and describe his tough upbringing in the tenements of Lanarkshire in great detail. His story opens with the shocking death of his father at the age of 36, and unsurprisingly this had a deep impact on the young son. He suggests the image of the paramedics’ deep red blanket as his father was stretchered from their home played an unconscious part in his suggestion to Shanks that red socks be added to give scarlet uniformity to the Liverpool home kit. Reading his description of the privations of his humble upbringing it is tempting to compare it to Monty Python’s ‘Yorkshiremen’ sketch. However, that tough upbringing with worn shoes, cold housing and an eked-out existence was doubtless a contributory factor to the fighting spirit which drove him on in the field of amateur boxing and later, football.
Having been an amateur boxer in his youth, the theme of St John becoming embroiled in ‘full and frank exchanges of views - that subsequently break out into fisticuffs’ is a recurring one. Both team-mates and opponents seem to have been on the wrong end of right-handers at startlingly regular intervals throughout the book. A brief sample of such incidents also involved (with Ron Yeats) the waiters at a Milanese eatery following the Reds’ elimination from the European Cup in 1965, and an unheeding member of his playing staff who also learned the hard way not to ignore his manager’s instructions.
Other areas covered include epic skiving at t’mill, evasion of National Service and the approach made to Motherwell players to throw a game for a lucrative betting coup and the scandal that surrounded it. Also covered is the hat-trick he compiled in just 150 seconds, and the tragic story of club secretary Jimmy McInnes, the story of that fiddled European Cup semi against Inter Milan in 1965, arguably one of the most pivotal goals in the club’s history and the outspoken comments that cut off his international career in its prime. As can be expected from most football biographies, there are also many entertaining tales of dressing-room characters, and laddish pranks and antics.
Like most reds, I love reading Shankly stories to the extent that I feel I’d still enjoy one if my hair was on fire. Naturally enough in a work such as this, they abound and to read of the great man, in his final years, taking a penalty that almost decapitated a nine-year-old fair brings a tear to the eye. In the 60’s Shanks’ disciplinarian aura was apparently such that when delayed on the East Lancs before a game, Tommy Lawrence and Roger Hunt separately jumped out of their cars and ran several miles (cheered on, ‘Rocky’ style!) to the ground to avoid risking his wrath. They finally arrived for the game at 10 to 3 and blowing for tugs and possibly as a result of his additional workout, Hunt only managed to score one that day.
The humorously catastrophic story of Paisley’s attempts to treat Melia with a German electrical physiotherapy machine is a highlight, as was his method of providing mitigating evidence for the media to assist with St John’s disciplinary case following a sending off. A swift retaliatory uppercut had, perhaps not unsurprisingly, followed an opponent’s sneaky trick of tightly grasping St Johns wedding tackle during a game and after St John’s sending off, Shanks and Paisley had hatched a plan. In his role as physio, Paisley ordered ISJ to strip and lie on the Anfield treatment room table, and before the arrival of the invited press (although presumably no photos were to be offered!) the scene that is conjured of Bob Paisley applying iodine and boot polish to his striker’s knackers as cosmetic ‘bruising’ is, as Ron Manager would no doubt have it, an enduring image.
His relationship with Shankly is covered in some detail. His disappointment at being dropped from the first team, without prior warning, after ten years, 118 goals and 426 games in the front line (and later redeployed to inside-left) was clearly a source of distress for St John. I suppose it’s not hard to imagine that being dropped at the age of thirty-one, in the days of small squads and single substitutions, was an altogether more ominous scenario than it would be in today’s game of multiple subs, squad rotation and greater financial security for players.
However, despite the acrimonious nature of his departure, his overall respect for the man shines through and far outweighs any resentment. Maybe his pain was magnified by the nature of the relationship that preceded it - it often seems to cause most anguish when hurt by someone you had considered to be your close ally. It also seems apparent that his bitterness over that decision and eventual departure mellowed somewhat with time. Having managed for several years with various clubs, he had had to drop players for similar reasons and could perhaps then find it easier to empathise with his former manager.
When forced to retire following an injury at Tranmere, the next chapter of his footballing career began. After a promising start and the disappointment of failing to replace either Shankly at Liverpool or Revie at Leeds, an ill-funded and unsurprisingly disappointing time as manager of Portsmouth followed.
From there, and after having guested as pundit at 3 World Cups, his TV analyst role took off. However, it was nearly over as quickly as it began when he gave a spoof commentary into a ‘broken’ microphone in Argentina, not realising that at any moment the engineers could have completed the repairs and broadcast his ill-judged comments live to the nation. A
National profile and popularity was maintained as anchorman for the football section of World of Sport, before being boosted further with the popular on-screen chemistry he shared with Greaves. This kept St John in the public eye right through to the early 90’s when their show was dropped by TV execs.
On the field it seems clear that he was regarded as an outstanding, unselfish player with sublime skills, a tough character and a steely determination to win. Off it, his persona is a little harder to summarise. The recurring themes of bust-ups, resentment and, recently, outspoken belligerence projects an image of a curmudgeonly sort that harbours bitterness and is not prone to suffering fools gladly. Maybe that was, at least partly, the real ‘Saint’. Maybe this autobiography finds him as he nears his three-score-and-ten and at a point he felt it was time to ‘set the record straight’ on a number of old scores. In doing so, grievances (both old and new) receive another airing but that grumpy mage seems at odds with that of the much loved TV sports presenter of the late 70’s to mid 90’s. When I think back to the days of ‘On The Ball’ and ‘The Saint and Greavesie’ show, I struggle to remember anything other than the image of a relaxed, natural presenter, dispensing pleasant, good-natured banter and almost constantly throwing his head back in uproarious laughter over the deadpan witticisms of the jocular Mr Greaves. Maybe his days of higher-profile media work were the happiest environment he found after his playing days and it reflected in his work at the time.
The funny stories, tales of team camaraderie, glory days of trophies and personal contentment are all here, and so are the personal heartbreaks, not to mention accounts of discord with an array of characters from Shanks to Nick Faldo via Jimmy Melia, Michael Parkinson, Skinner & Baddiel and many more.
The description of his personal relationship with Kenny Dalglish is best described as vague but he does allude to one or two prickly moments between the pair. One such moment occurred when presenting King Kenny with his ‘Manager of the Year’ award at an ITV ceremony. The Saint’s line of ‘I wouldn’t say Kenny’s secretive but he wouldn’t give you the line-up till five past three’ was, according to Saint, intended as an innocuous throwaway line. That some umbrage had been taken was evident from Kenny’s response, being ‘Whenever I picked a side, you wouldn’t be in it’. To which Saint (now in his late forties) replied ‘Well that’s okay, Kenny, my knee’s not so great at the moment’. There is, however, some background given to that particular story and as argy-bargy with managers of the club goes, this was small beer. Still another occasion on which he crossed swords with the club’s management was an unsavoury dispute with Peter Robinson in the immediate aftermath of the Heysel disaster. According to St John’s memoirs, on boarding the team bus to leave the stadium after the final, the chief executive implicitly accused St John of being responsible for the defeat in the final. It seems a preposterous claim for many reasons, not least of which being the irrelevance of the result under the tragic circumstances. The grounds for the suggestion were that St John had leaked the news that Fagan was to step down after the game, which had subsequently undermined team spirit - an accusation St John fiercely denies. Understandably, feelings must have been running high on that terrible night and a certain amount of shock may have played a part in the near-altercation, but evidently it was a comment that soured the relationship between the former player and Robinson for many years.
St John certainly pulls no punches when expressing his disdain at the behaviour of some fellow players, their modern day counterparts and many others with whom he has had contact down the years. He reflects wistfully and with some regret on several occasions about the old-school managers – Shankly included – who he claims conspired to keep players’ financial rewards at minimal levels by today’s standards. Similarly he expresses scorn at the bling-bling culture of today’s player and perhaps that is understandable, having grown up in grinding poverty with cardboard-stuffed shoes and earned a comparatively negligible amount as a player himself.
He clearly feels very strongly that the pundits employed by Sky venture nothing but inoffensive platitudes intended to minimise boat-rocking. In his opinion, Andy Gray wields far too much power in the selection of guest analysts and that consequently almost no-one is prepared to speak out for fear of not being invited back. This self-imposed constraint does not appear to be a trait that St John himself has demonstrated in recent years, and his outspoken and stinging criticism of the Houllier stewardship has seen a certain amount of criticism levelled at him in return by certain sections of the Anfield faithful.
I had hoped that the book would not seem to be one long rant against Houllier but had hoped instead for an insight into the career of a legend from a successful and fascinating era. On reflection I’m relieved to report that that’s largely what I got – with, thankfully, the Houllier critique totalling only a few relatively unobtrusive pages. After talking about Shanks, Paisley, Fagan and Bennett in detail throughout the book, he also gives his verdict on the managers that have followed.
His admiration for Dalglish as a player is noted, particularly with regard to the importance of retaining his own position on the playing staff following his succession of Fagan as manager. In the summarising of other manager’s tenure there is nothing too controversial. In brief, he credits Souness as a magnificent footballer but slams his management era for panic-buying, compounded by the poor quality of signings. He asserts that in changing an ageing, winning formula too quickly the rot began but also that GS’s biggest mistake was losing the fans with the ‘Loverpool’ shame. Evans fares a little better, described as a decent man with far more regard for Liverpool tradition but a sizeable rebuilding job to undertake. St John suggests that too much leeway was given to the Spice Boy protagonists, and nominates the signing of Stan Collymore as his biggest mistake, both for the dressing room disruption and for eventually personifying unfulfilled potential. In almost all of these areas, I found it hard to disagree with his views.
That St John felt and publicly directed hostility towards Gerard Houllier is certainly no secret. His contempt for the French manager was apparent almost from his arrival and during the course of GH’s tenure would degenerate into a lengthy war of words played out mainly through the local media. It has long been my opinion that his immediate antipathy towards Houllier did not emerge slowly from a baseline of neutrality. In actual fact it seems evident to me that from very early on, St John, as someone who had played the game at every level, had little respect for a man he saw as anything but ‘a football person’. In his opinion GH was very much the non-playing schoolmaster who’d made good via the world of football administration.
Sadly, it seemed to me that at times his critical comments had a feel of ‘personal’ attacks rather than an impartial judgement based on the performances of the day. If he took an under-whelmed view of Houllier’s CV - that being the summary of his working history as opposed to his trusty French car - then the verdict on his period of sole control was similarly damning. In his eyes we took the ‘easy’ route of playing sterile, negative football based on a rigid rearguard, bypassing midfield and eschewing the stylish, creative stuff that had for so long been regarded as ‘the Liverpool way’. This was perhaps a harsh accusation to be levelled before and during, for example, the campaign of 2000-01 that yielded 127 goals and three trophies. Those wins, however, are dismissed as ‘lucky’ and of little merit to serious judges of the game.
Now I am not casting myself as a reader of the game of any particular note, whereas St John’s knowledge of the game and access to inside information probably renders any comparison impertinent. However, I would venture that his stingingly critical views during Houllier’s first few seasons in charge were in the minority not only among fans but among other pundits.
Based on past history I can confess that at that time I actually had a positive bias towards ‘The Saint’ as a commentator. I was therefore dismayed that I disagreed more and more frequently with his stance with regard to the club and management as espoused on his Radio City phone-in show. I’m sure the vast majority of the public respected his knowledge of the game and his right to express it, but the manner in which he repeatedly and scornfully disparaged ‘this Frenchman’, and dismissed pro-GH callers with similar disregard was seen by many as the excessive bias of a man with another agenda. Again, this is an accusation that ‘this Scotsman’ hotly denies, insisting that having known the club at the best of times he was merely showing his earnestly-felt dismay at the values it now held and the direction in which it was being taken.
Following the treble-winning season the Saint - for whatever reason - no longer co-hosted the phone-in but his attacks through the media continued. In the seasons 2002-2004, particularly in the light of our worst run of league results in fifty years and some performances to match, I actually came to feel the same way about the side as he apparently always had. With our dire style of play, poor signings, worsening results and low squad morale it seemed that fellow fans, pundits, players and ultimately the board did too. The Saint doubtless felt at that time that his animadversion had been vindicated, but I’d still maintain that while his appraisal had ‘become’ correct, he had heavily overdone the criticism during Houllier’s early years in charge.
Anyway, we come from different times and places and, as I suspected, we have a different view of the early days of one manager’s reign. I was therefore thankful that his views on the matter made up only a tiny proportion of a book with far more within to recommend it. He finishes by expressing his joy at the return to glorious European nights at Anfield and praising the performances and character of Jamie Carragher as harking back to the glory days of skilful and committed local players such as Tommy Smith and Ian Callaghan. So then, his closing words tell of the re-awakening of his love and optimism for the club’s future. They also express his joy at the recent progress made and values instilled at the club under the stewardship of Rafael Benitez, and those feelings are ones with which I’m happy to wholeheartedly concur.
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