Always Managing: My Autobiography

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One, The Trial

  Chapter Two, Three Lions

  Chapter Three, Bobby (and George)

  Chapter Four, The Making of a Footballer

  Chapter Five, Beside the Seaside

  Chapter Six, Up the Hammers

  Chapter Seven, Billy and the Kids

  Chapter Eight, Foreign Affairs

  Chapter Nine, Big Mouth Strikes Again

  Chapter Ten, Going Up

  Chapter Eleven, Going Down

  Chapter Twelve, The Man Who Understood the Diamond Formation

  Chapter Thirteen, The Rise

  Chapter Fourteen, And Fall

  Chapter Fifteen, Pick Yourself Up, Dust Yourself Down

  Chapter Sixteen, Always Managing

  Picture Section

  Index

  Picture Credits

  Copyright

  About the Book

  ‘From kicking a ball as a kid under the street lamps of Poplar and standing on Highbury’s North Bank with my dad, to my first game at West Ham, I was born head over heels in love with football. It saved me, and 50 years on that hasn’t changed one bit – I’d be lost without it . . .’

  Harry is the manager who has seen it all – from a dismal 70s Portakabin at Oxford City and training pitches with trees in the middle to the unbeatable highs of the Premiership, lifting the FA Cup and taking on Real Madrid in the Champions League. With his much loved, no-nonsense delivery, Harry brings us a story filled with passion and humour that takes you right inside every drama of his career.

  Harry finally tells the full story of all the controversial ups and downs – the pain and heartache of his court case, the England job, his love for Bobby Moore, his adventures at Portsmouth with Milan Mandaric, the Southampton debacle, Tottenham and West Ham or the challenges at his current club QPR.

  It’s the epic journey of one of the great managers and, along the way, the story of the British game itself over the last five decades. In an era now dominated by foreign coaches Harry is the last of an old-fashioned breed of English football man – one who has managed to move with the times and always come out fighting.

  About the Author

  Harry Redknapp was born in 1947 in Poplar, East London. After starting out as a trainee at Tottenham, he signed for West Ham and played for them between 1965 and 1972. He also played for Bournemouth and the Seattle Sounders before injury took him into management and coaching. He has managed at Bournemouth, West Ham, Portsmouth (twice), Southampton, Tottenham Hotspur and currently QPR. He won the FA Cup with Portsmouth in 2008 and took Spurs into the Champions League in 2010. He is married to Sandra and has two sons, Mark and Jamie (who played for Liverpool, Tottenham and England). He is also uncle to Frank Lampard. He has two bulldogs called Rosie and Buster.

  For Sandra,

  while I’ve been managing all these years,

  she’s the one who’s managed me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE TRIAL

  A feeling of sheer relief. But not like I had ever experienced before. Not the relief of the final whistle on a Saturday afternoon, holding on for three points at Old Trafford. Not the relief of a big Cup win, a title won, or of staying up against the odds. Football’s highs and lows were suddenly insignificant. This was a completely different strength of emotion, one I had not felt in all my professional career. I can see her now, the foreman of the jury. Slim girl, nice-looking. Used to come in every day with a newspaper under her arm. I think it was the Times. ‘Not guilty,’ she said, to each charge, very quietly. And this feeling of release swept over me.

  The trial lasted fifteen days, but the ordeal overtook five years of my life. That is a lot of thinking time. Many long hours to consider your days as they might be spent. Without Sandra, the love of my life, without my sons Jamie and Mark, without my grandchildren, without my friends, without football. Shut up in prison with … who? Some maniac? I didn’t know. Each day in court, I’d look at the twelve people that held my future in their hands. There was a chap wearing a bright white jacket in the middle of January. Another had clothes that were covered in stains. These were the people that would decide my fate? They would never smile; they showed no friendliness at all. Just a blank. What were they thinking? Why did a cheap jacket or a coffee stain even matter to me? Why were the details so important? Some strange thoughts went through my head. What if they were all Arsenal fans? What if they all hated Tottenham Hotspur? You know what some people are like. ‘Harry Redknapp? Don’t like him, never liked him.’ Suppose I got one like that. Each night sleepless, fighting with the pillow. Each morning exhausted, waiting for the taxi to Southwark Crown Court.

  The night before the verdict I didn’t say goodbye to anybody. No last farewells, just in case it was bad news. My barrister, John Kelsey-Fry QC, always tried to give me confidence. He said the case against me wouldn’t stand, that it was outrageous that it had even been brought. But I pushed him to tell me the dark side, the downside. Wouldn’t you have done the same, in my position? ‘But Kelsey,’ I said, ‘if it doesn’t go right, if they find me guilty, what am I looking at?’ I had heard people speculating I might only receive a fine, but he pulled no punches. ‘You won’t be found guilty,’ he said. ‘It isn’t going to happen. But if it did, it could be two to three years in prison.’ Suddenly, I felt very frightened. That was a long sentence, a proper villain’s sentence. And his words hung over me, every day, as I prepared for court. I kept telling myself that Kelsey, the cleverest man I had ever met, the best in the business I had been told, was convinced I would be all right. ‘This is his job,’ I would reassure myself. ‘He must know what he’s talking about.’ And then my mind would come back to the image of that cell, and my cell-mate for two, maybe three, years. How was I going to live? I wasn’t sure I could handle it. I knew Sandra couldn’t.

  I don’t think I could have lasted the court case itself without my sons. Jamie came to court with me every day, never left my side, and Mark stayed with Sandra. There was no way I was letting her come to my trial. Being in court would have killed her. It nearly killed me. I simply could not face the thought of her sitting there as well, going through all those emotions, stomach churning in turmoil along with mine.

  Life itself was hard enough. I tried to carry on as Tottenham manager, going to our Premier League matches during the case and on one occasion thought it might even be a good distraction to watch our youth team. But those games are smaller, more low key. I couldn’t fade into the background, and as I was walking to the stadium I could sense people looking, staring at me. I became convinced they were all talking about me. What were they saying? It was a horrible feeling. I know Sandra found it difficult just going to the shops where she always went. She thought people were gaping, and whispering, too. It felt degrading. Just getting the shopping became a nightmare. Everyone knew where we lived, too, because they’d seen the front of our house on the television news.

  One day we went to the supermarket in Bournemouth together and Sandra left her purse at the checkout. I said I would pop back and collect it, but I didn’t know the lay-out very well. I saw this door marked ‘Exit’ and went through it, without realising it was only for use in emergencies. The next think I knew, these huge security guards had my arms up my back, frog-marching me through the underground car park. I was in agony. They were shouting at me, I was shouting back at them – shouting with the pain, too. ‘I’m not a thief, I’m the fucking manager of Tottenham,’ I told them. At that point, four workmen who were digging up the tarmac spotted me. They
all began shouting, too. ‘It’s Harry Redknapp! All right, Harry? You OK?’ ‘See?’ I told the guards. ‘They know who I fucking am!’ In the end, we got it resolved, but it only added to fear that I was a marked man. With my name in the papers every week and linked to God knows what, I can imagine what people must have thought when they saw me being led away.

  So the idea of having Sandra in that courtroom? I just couldn’t. It would have slaughtered me, and slaughtered her, too. I think I would have looked over and cried every time our eyes met and she would have done the same. I decided I couldn’t have her anywhere near it. She would be better off out of the way. Her friends were great, Mark was great, the daughter-in-laws were great. They all rallied round and looked after her and she was fine. But the night before the verdict, there was no way I was going to phone up and offer any long goodbyes.

  I was struggling with the thought of the consequences myself, but I didn’t want to put any doubt in her mind. It would have made her ill, really shaken her to hear that I could go away for many years. So it was difficult, spending that last night alone. And it was a long wait to hear those two little words, I can tell you. The jury went out to make the verdict at around midday, and we were sitting there, in this tiny room that felt like a cupboard. There were the lawyers, my co-defendant Milan Mandaric, Jamie, me … all afternoon until five o’clock, just looking at each other and waiting to be called back. I felt like I was in another world. Every now and then the tannoy would go and we would hear, ‘Smith, court number four.’ False alarm, not us. And then back to waiting. By the time it got to late afternoon, we knew we were going to have to return the next day, and that felt even worse.

  I went back to the Grosvenor House hotel in Park Lane, where I stayed throughout the trial, with no chance of getting to sleep. I think Kelsey knew that I was scared out of my wits because he offered to come with Jamie and me. ‘What a night this is going to be, Kelsey,’ I said, because I knew it would be impossible to think of anything but the next morning. When we got there he suggested we go straight to the bar, where he downed a couple of whiskeys then announced we should all go out to dinner. We went up the road, to a steak restaurant called Cuts, owned by Wolfgang Puck, and Kelsey had a few more there as well. I nursed a couple of glasses of red wine in the hope of knocking myself out and getting some rest.

  My wine didn’t do the trick, unfortunately, and it became another long night. I remember lying in bed wondering about my cellmate again. So many thoughts swirled around my head. What if he’s a lunatic? I’m not used to being around people like that. How am I going to cope? And how’s Sandra going to get by? Kelsey said between two and three years. He knows, he isn’t silly. He’s the expert. It’s his business. But he said it isn’t going to happen. He said it won’t happen to me. But it could happen. He admitted that. Two or three years, he said. Round and round like that I went, round in circles until morning came. And those thoughts were not just troubling my mind those fifteen days. I had had nights like that, my mind in turmoil, off and on, for years.

  The story began even earlier, in fact, in June 2001, when I agreed to become director of football at Portsmouth. I had left West Ham United and Milan Mandaric, the Portsmouth chairman, offered me a job at Fratton Park, looking after player recruitment. He said he couldn’t pay me the wages I was on at West Ham, so he would strike an incentive deal. Each player I brought in, I would receive ten per cent of any profit if we sold him on. Just over a week later, I persuaded Milan to buy Peter Crouch from Queens Park Rangers.

  Not that he fancied him. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘he’s the worst footballer I’ve ever seen in my life. Harry, he’s a basketball player. If you think I’m going to pay a million pounds for this player, this useless player, you must be mad.’

  I told Milan he was wrong. ‘He’ll be fantastic,’ I said.

  In the end, I persuaded him to take a chance. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but it’s your head that’s on the block.’ I didn’t know then how true those words would prove to be. I was right about Crouch, though. He was outstanding for us. We bought him for £1.25 million and sold him to Aston Villa nine months later for £4.5 million – a profit of £3.25 million. As far as I was concerned I was owed ten per cent of that, except by then my job had changed. I wasn’t director of football any more; I was Portsmouth’s manager.

  Instead of ten per cent of the profit on Crouch, I received five per cent. I was probably lucky to get that. Knowing Milan I’m surprised he didn’t take his wages, his digs and every other sundry off the commission price. Even so, I wasn’t happy. I asked Peter Storrie, the chief executive, where the rest of my bonus was. He said my contract had changed when I became manager and if I had a problem I should talk to Milan about it. So I did. ‘You’re wrong, Harry,’ he said. ‘This is a new contract, a manager’s contract. You’re earning better money now. You get us promoted, you get a big bonus; you win a trophy, you get a big bonus; that bonus from when you were director of football no longer applies. Now you get five per cent of any sale, not ten.’

  I was not happy. ‘But I bought him and sold him, Milan, and the club made £3.25 million,’ I protested.

  He wouldn’t budge. ‘No, that is your new deal: five per cent and no more,’ he insisted. I was furious, I really went into one. But the club was doing well, and Milan did not want us to fall out. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some good investments coming. I’ll make some money for you. I’ll buy some shares – the stake money is my money, and what we make over the top is yours. I’ll look after you, don’t worry.’

  I said I didn’t want that, I wanted my Crouch bonus. I had the hump, but he was adamant.

  And that was the plan. But in my mind, that was always my bonus money for Peter Crouch. Milan had his own name for it, but to me it was never anything less than what I was entitled to; only later, when the case was going to court, did I find out that Milan was right all along. I had signed a new contract, a changed contract, and hadn’t even noticed. By then, however, that was the least of my problems.

  Milan wanted me open an account in Monaco for these investments. He said to use his bank, but I had to go there in person. It sounded like a nice day out. I didn’t really know Monaco, and Sandra had never been. We decided to make a weekend of it. Milan gave me directions to the bank. ‘Walk up the hill and look for it on the right.’ Sandra sat outside in the sun. Milan had told me to ask for the bank’s manager by name, David Cusdin. He said he was an Englishman, a big Fulham supporter, and would look after me. Our meeting went like clockwork. I was in there five minutes at most. The last thing Mr Cusdin said was that I would need a security password for the account, if I ever rang up. It could be a name or a number, he explained. I can never remember numbers, so I went for a name. I gave the account the name of my dog, the lovely Rosie, and the year of my birth: Rosie47. I walked out of the bank and back to Sandra and I had nothing: no books, no papers, only what was in my memory. Rosie47. There wasn’t even any money in the account at that time. Milan was going to make a deposit and, I’ll be honest, I was sceptical it would ever happen. So much so that I forgot about it.

  And that’s the truth. They tried to make it sound so dodgy in court but I couldn’t even remember the name of the bank until it became an issue. I’ve never been back to Monaco, never saw nor spoke to Mr Cusdin again. The weather was nice, we had a lovely weekend, but the Monaco account wasn’t really a part of my life. That was April 2002. I barely gave it another thought until almost two years later.

  Portsmouth were in the Premier League by then. It had been a difficult first season, but we were staying up. We put a run together just when it mattered. From March 21 through April we had played six games, won five and drew the other. We beat some decent teams, too: our big rivals Southampton, Blackburn Rovers away, Manchester United, Leeds United at Elland Road. That was the season of the Arsenal Invincibles. They didn’t beat us, though, home or away.

  Once we were guaranteed to be staying up, I remembered his promise and seized
my chance with Milan. It had been a great first season for us. Teddy Sheringham and Yakubu came good at an important time near the end and everyone was delighted, Milan most of all. We had come from miles back. Only a few months previously, everyone thought we were relegation certainties. Now we were getting a second Premier League season. Milan was ecstatic at the end of this match. He was cuddling me in the boardroom. ‘I love you, Harry, you are great, Harry.’

  No time like the present, I thought. ‘Milan, you know those investments you made for me? How did we get on?’

  Instantly, his mood changed. ‘Ah, disaster,’ he said. ‘Disaster. Don’t worry, let’s have a drink.’

  ‘What do you mean, “disaster”?’ I pressed.

  ‘I’ve lost millions, Harry,’ he said. ‘Millions. The market crashed.’

  ‘So we’ve got nothing?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s a little bit left in there,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll have another go. I’ll put some more in and when a good share comes along, we’ll see.’

  I went back and told Jim Smith, my assistant, about our conversation. ‘Harry, are you thick or what?’ Jim said. ‘I bet he never put anything in there in the first place.’ We all started laughing. The main thing was we were staying up. It was time to celebrate. The contents or otherwise of Rosie47 could wait for another day.

  In court, the prosecutors tried to depict me as some kind of master criminal, moving money around the banks of Europe to escape tax. Some brain I was, if that was the case, because I volunteered the information about my bank account in Monaco to the investigators. Quest, the company commissioned in 2006 to report on corruption in football, were the first to ask about it. Every manager in the Premier League was interviewed by them. Quest asked me where I banked and I volunteered the information about the extra account in Monaco, as well as my accounts in Britain. It wasn’t as if this secret stash had been cleverly unearthed. I told them how it came about, and that they could get further details about what was in there from Milan because I wasn’t even sure of the bank’s name by then. Now why would I do that, if I had anything to hide? I’d have to be stupid. It would be like a bank robber telling a policeman to search under the floorboards for the loot. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the Rosie47 account. Milan had made an investment for me, the investment was crap, and that’s as far as it went. Milan sent a letter confirming this, too. So without me, none of this would have come to light and Quest’s man, Nigel Layton, said as much in court. He was fantastic for me, as a witness. He just told the truth. Nobody caught me. I informed them, and without that information they would not have known the account existed. I wasn’t bound to disclose everything to Quest – they weren’t the police. I could see Mr Layton set the jury thinking. Why would this man reveal all this if he knew it was dishonest?