Always Managing: My Autobiography (46 page)

Not physically, but mentally. He still played, but his head was gone. He had a really poor game against Fulham and it seemed to affect him. He was at fault for two early goals and seemed so desperate to make amends that by the end of the game he had disobeyed all our instructions, and was playing as a centre-forward, looking for an equaliser. It was as if he had a brainstorm and he just lost his way after that. He wasn’t as mentally strong as he appeared on the pitch. When I saw this big, imposing figure, I couldn’t imagine that he would be mentally fragile – but he crumbled beneath the pressure of our fight against relegation. He didn’t start in our final four games of the season and nobody could work out what was wrong with him. He went back to Anzhi Makhachkala at the end of the season, for the same money we paid. We might as well have got him on loan, after all.

We did some good business with Tottenham for loan signings, though, and Andros Townsend was excellent for us, but, overall,
the team was short and we just didn’t have the ability to stay up. As is usual with relegated clubs, goals were the main problem. The team had lost its two main goalscorers, Andy Johnson and Bobby Zamora, through injury, and never really caught up. The numbers say it all: Rémy was our top scorer with six goals: Aston Villa, who stayed up, got nineteen from Christian Benteke, nine from Gabriel Agbonlahor and seven from Andreas Weimann. Big difference.

On the football pitch, we were always finding ways to lose. It became our specialty. We went 1–0 ahead against Aston Villa away, and lost 3–2; we lost 3–2 against Fulham, when Rémy missed a penalty; we gave away a stupid free-kick in injury time against Wigan Athletic and Shaun Maloney scored to make it 1–1. Any way we could find to mess up, we would.

Indiscipline was also a huge frustration. Stéphane Mbia got booked every week, it seemed, so much so that I actually left him out against Everton, because I knew he would get a yellow card up against Marouane Fellaini and miss a game at home to Stoke City that was absolutely vital. It had been like that all season, even before I arrived. I saw Rangers play Arsenal on 27 October, they were doing really well, and then with eleven minutes to go Mbia made a stupid tackle, got sent off, and five minutes later Arsenal scored. It was as if there was a disease being spread – even affecting the reliable ones. I always found Bobby Zamora to be a sensible boy, the sort of lad you could talk to every day and he would always have an intelligent contribution. I liked him as a player, too. He was a good trainer, one of the few who wanted to play on even with injury, and when he was fit he was a handful. I can remember the night Fulham knocked Juventus out of the Europa League. He was terrific. Held the ball up, brought the other forwards into the play,
he absolutely murdered Fabio Cannavaro. It was one of the best performances from a striker that I have ever seen. So what was he thinking when he got sent off against Wigan after 21 minutes, for a chest-high, studs-up tackle, defending a throw-in? It was madness, and so out of character. How many times did I have to impress on the group that season that we were going to need eleven on the pitch to stand a chance of winning?

As the weeks went by, the harsh reality was plain. Looking at the mentality of the players, the lack of goals and the general weakness of the squad I had inherited, we were going down. I don’t think anyone could have kept them up, in all honesty. I don’t think Mark Hughes would have turned it around had he stayed, I don’t think José Mourinho would have made a difference had he come in – there was too much wrong and I had overestimated my ability to affect that. I can’t have been much fun to live with over those months, either. A lot of managers say they are lousy to be with on a Saturday if they have lost, but I cannot imagine too many would be worse than me. It’s sad. Pathetic, really. The day we lost at Everton, I couldn’t even speak to Sandra when I got home. A couple of days later, when I can look back at it all rationally, I do think there is something wrong with me. Why am I like that? I get so low it is frightening.

Losing produces a weird reaction in me, no doubt about that. I surrender all sense of perspective. I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want to go out; I don’t want to mix, I can’t bring myself to socialise. I just want to go home, and sit, and stew. It’s just a horrible feeling. I know it’s terrible, I know it’s wrong, but I feel as if something really bad has happened in my life, as if someone has died. I know it is not like that, nothing is, but my emotions are
just raw. I don’t sleep all night: I lay in bed, with my head playing everything over again and again. It’s ridiculous, really. All this over a football match.

We came back from Everton on the train and I found it hard to communicate with anyone at all. Normally, I might have tried to throw my thoughts forward, bounce fresh ideas off the other coaches, but I just felt so depressed. I was the same after the draw at home to Wigan. I’m not the sort of manager to throw plates of sandwiches around the dressing room in frustration, but that day I walked in my little office and I booted anything kickable up the air. I wrecked it. All the food that was laid out, the lot. It all went. There was no one in there but me and suddenly all my frustration came out. My head was exploding. I knew if I went in and started shouting at the players I might say something I would regret. When I had calmed down, I told them, ‘Lads, you’ve got to learn how to win games. We can’t give free-kicks away like that in the last minute. With a chance to keep the ball in the corner, we failed, and allowed them to score.’ I stayed very calm, walked back to my room and felt the urge to start booting everything around again – unfortunately, there was nothing left that I hadn’t already had a go at. Managing is hard when you feel that way. If I didn’t care, I could go home and think, ‘Well, I’ve got my wages, I’m not bothered.’ A friend will say, ‘Just keep taking the money,’ but that’s not what it’s about. I didn’t come back in just for the money. I could have got more money coaching Ukraine. In fact, the way my settlement with Tottenham worked, I wasn’t earning much more at QPR than I was just sitting at home. And I would have given the lot back, my whole year’s salary, to have kept them up. If I could have made a deal – work for nothing, but QPR survive –
I’d have taken it. Your pride wants to stay up, your pride demands that you are successful. There is nothing worse than being down there at the bottom; there is nothing worse than the crap feeling of being beaten. It’s murder.

You would think, after all these years, I would have been able to adopt a more philosophical approach to it, but no. I remember, many years ago, meeting Ron Atkinson when he was manager of Sheffield Wednesday. He was working on television at one of the matches and his team had lost in the last minute the day before, maybe even against Manchester United. ‘I bet you had a good night last night,’ I said, sarcastically, thinking he was the same as me. I imagined him getting home with the raving hump, taking it out on the rest of the world, stomping off to bed, not saying a word. ‘Yeah, we had a great night,’ Ron said, all smiles. ‘We got a karaoke in, had a Chinese, Gordon Strachan came over …’ and he continued telling me about this fantastic little party that he’d had, finishing up at about five in the morning. I thought then, ‘I must be doing something wrong.’ It must be lovely to be like that as a manager. I wish it could be me. I don’t blame Ron. He had done his best at the match that day. His team had got beat. What can he do about that five hours after the final whistle? I’m the stupid one, not him.

If we have had a bad result, Jamie is about the only one who can get a civil word out of me once the game is over. After the draw with Wigan, he stayed up in town with me and insisted we went out to an Italian restaurant. I think he sees things right and is very supportive. I can talk to him; but even then it is hard when you are kicking every ball hours after the match has finished. I remember one crazy game when I was Portsmouth manager, in the 2007–08
season. Portsmouth 7–4 Reading – the highest scoring match in the history of the Premier League. It was incredible: 1–0, 2–0, 2–1, 2–2, 3–2, 4–2, 5–2, 5–3, 6–3, 7–3, 7–4. At one stage in the second half, Reading got a throw-in that had clearly come off one of their players. It happened right in front of us. I was giving the linesman plenty. Finally, I turned to Wally Downes, Reading’s coach. ‘Wally, you saw it,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t that our throw in?’ ‘Harry,’ he began patiently, ‘I can’t even remember what the fucking score is!’

But that’s the way I am. I can feel that pressure mounting, usually in the second half, when the crucial part of the game is being played. That is when so many matches are won and lost and, because you know this, it becomes very hard to control your emotions.

I do worry about the effect it has on my health. I remember in the aftermath of the Everton game, I hadn’t slept and I looked at myself in the mirror and I didn’t look right, I didn’t feel right. I was getting funny feelings, my body ached and my chest felt tight. I was really worried that I was going to give myself a heart attack, or a stroke. The stress levels that I must have put myself through that day were surely dangerous, and I have already had one heart scare. ‘How much longer can I keep going on like this?’ I thought. ‘How much longer can I do this to myself?’ I did worry that something serious was about to happen. My blood pressure must have been through the roof.

I’m not one for going to doctor’s, though. I always think, ‘Get a night’s rest and you’ll be fine tomorrow.’ I know that’s not a sensible attitude either. I’ve been due a full medical for two years, but keep putting it off. After my heart operation I was given tablets but, I’ll admit, half the time I forget to take them. I carry them around in the car. Little triangular things – I don’t know what
they are, to be honest. It is always Sandra who will ask whether I’ve taken them, and I’ve usually forgotten, so she pads out to the bathroom, takes three out of the packet and puts them in my mouth with a glass of water. I don’t look after myself properly, considering all the stress. I know that.

So the season with QPR in the Premier League was a real struggle. I improved the results from what they were at the start of the season, but it wasn’t enough. We were doomed from a distance out, and on 28 April, four games before the season ended, we drew 0–0 away at Reading and both clubs went down. It was the direst match, a real stinker, and it wasn’t hard to see why both teams were exiting the division. The headlines the following day were about Bosingwa, who was caught on camera laughing as he came off the pitch. Everyone said he was laughing about relegation. That just wasn’t true. One of the Reading players, Daniel Carriço, is also Portuguese and an old friend of José’s. He came up and made a remark in his native language, they shared a laugh, and put an arm around each other. Nothing wrong with that. There should be camaraderie in football; there should be a sense that it is only a game. We had just got relegated. What more was there to do? I made a joke to Nigel Adkins, the Reading manager, when the final whistle went, too. I had just sat through probably the worst ninety minutes I had seen in my life. I’m sure Nigel felt the same. As I held out my hand, I tried to lighten the moment for both of us. ‘Don’t worry, Nigel,’ I said, ‘it’ll never replace football.’ I didn’t see any harm in that, or what Bosingwa did. He got away with a lot worse at QPR.

The last game of the season was away at Anfield. We lost – no surprise there – but I remember it for quite a different reason. It
was the last time I saw my old mate Lee Topliss, a young jockey who has been riding for Richard Fahey at Musley Bank Stables since 2009. He is regarded as one of the best apprentices in the game. I was introduced to Lee at Les Ambassadeurs casino in London one night during my time as Tottenham manager. He seemed a nice kid. Wasn’t dressed too well, looked like he could do with a few quid, but very open and chatty. We were talking about the season he was having, riding a few winners, regarded as a great prospect. ‘I think I’ll be champion apprentice next year, Harry,’ he said. If you like a bet, he seemed a good man to know. Then the conversation turned to football. ‘I love Tottenham, Harry,’ he said. ‘The only problem is, I can never get a ticket …’ He left the sentence hanging. Muggins here finished it off. ‘I’ll get you a ticket, Lee,’ I told him. ‘Here’s my phone number – just give me a call.’ He took me up on that offer the following week. We were playing Arsenal, our biggest match of the season. He certainly wasn’t shy. I left him a ticket and, as I was coming out of the dressing room after the game, a steward stopped me. ‘There’s a little Irish fella here to see you, Harry. Says his name’s Lee.’ So I sorted him out. Got him a pass to my office, and he was in there having a glass of wine and a sandwich with all the Arsenal staff, speaking to the players as they came out of the dressing room. Very busy. Suddenly, he was at near enough every home game. He’d ring me up, give me a few tips for horses – they usually got beat – and then arrange to come to the match at the weekend. Half the time I’d end up dropping him back to the station afterwards because I felt sorry for him. He looked a poor ha’porth, as we used to say in the East End.

He came everywhere. Directors’ box at Manchester United and Arsenal, in a private box next to Roman Abramovich at Chelsea.
We all went out for dinner after the match that night – myself, Lee, Kevin Bond, Joe Jordan – and I’ve never forgotten the way he tucked into his food. I’ve never seen a jockey eat like it. He even had dessert. ‘Are you sure you should be having all those calories, Lee?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, it’s OK, Harry,’ he assured me. ‘I sweat it all out in the sauna in the morning.’ What do I know? He went through the card and then I gave him £150 for a taxi back up to Newmarket. This went on for years. I have a box at Wembley and he was in there when Tottenham were beaten 5–1 by Chelsea in the FA Cup semi-final in 2012. If we had a big game, he was there. And then one day he said he had an offer to go to Dubai for a few weeks and ride for the Godolphin stable. ‘It’s a great opportunity, Harry,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got to pay my own way and I can’t afford the air fare. I’ll get prize money out there, but I can’t collect it until the end of the month.’ ‘How much do you need, Lee?’ I asked. ‘About five hundred quid should do it,’ he said. So I lent him £500. I never saw that again, prize money or not.