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Big Fry: Barry Fry: The Autobiography
Phil Rostron
Barry Fry
Sir Alex Ferguson
This edition does not include images.Barry Fry was one of the most colourful characters in English football. His journeyman career took him to Old Trafford, where as a player he was one of the original Busby Babes, through to football management at Barnet, Southend, Birmingham and Peterborough, among other clubs.Wherever he went, ‘Bazza’ had a knack of making the headlines. His days as a youth apprentice for Manchester United saw plenty of action on the pitch as he came under the tutelage of Matt Busby – but even more off it as he joined the likes of George Best on ‘a binge of birds, booze and betting’.He quickly gained the reputation of ‘the has-been that never was’. Playing stints at Luton, Bedford and Stevenage failed to inspire a reckless Fry, and it wasn’t long before injury forced him to hang up his boots. His first managerial role was at Dunstable, where Fry recalls with sharp humour how the chairman had suitcases full of currency in his office with hitmen protecting them.He followed this with spells at Maidstone and Barnet, – where he joined forces with the notorious Stan Flashman and proved his pedigree by gaining the club promotion into the League – and Southend, where he was responsible for bringing on a young Stan Collymore. It wasn’t long before he was poached by Birmingham under owner and ex-pornographer David Sullevan and his glamorous sidekick, Karren Brady – about whom Fry revels in some marvellous stories concerning their love-hate relationship.Whether it’s tax evasion, fraud, transfer bribes or chicanery in the dressing room, Barry Fry experienced it all as a player, manager and club owner. He is ready to tell everything in his autobiography – ‘Enough to make your eyes water’.
Copyright (#ulink_508f536b-8914-5711-9f84-5f51bfd32483)
Harper Non-Fiction
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in 2000 by CollinsWillow
First published in paperback 2001
© Barry Fry Promotions Ltd 2001
Barry Fry and Phil Rostron asserts the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780002189491
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2016 ISBN: 9780007483297
Version: 2016-09-09
Dedication (#ulink_8150ed07-75e0-5824-a6c3-45c58aa5228f)
To my wife Kirstine,
and my children Jane, Mark, Adam,
Amber, Frank and Anna-Marie.
Contents
Cover (#uf5afa3e4-d850-5e4c-b3b7-0507fab4c5d8)
Title Page (#u8b7d2c9e-c8fa-523f-bfc0-2a748e63ae5d)
Copyright (#ulink_0566f638-6a1b-582b-89dc-3a81841d29f5)
Dedication (#ulink_acf395e0-3cda-5e13-bd5f-de6514d15858)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_9e62a183-81dc-52cf-9b5c-922875d4f633)
Foreword by Sir Alex Ferguson (#ulink_2aeabc28-5a3e-5bdc-8598-f5368b763d65)
ONE Who’d be a football manager? (#ulink_748ec317-a31d-5eb7-912b-97dc304eb909)
TWO ‘Practice son, practice’ (#ulink_807353d4-b883-557c-bdbc-18f2395e3b42)
THREE New boy at Old Trafford (#ulink_9af32b27-f103-51c3-9639-a52c746b78e4)
FOUR Bankruptcy and on the scrapheap (#ulink_7b914bdc-99a5-5dad-91f7-bf66dc1cf353)
FIVE Cheeseman and the frilly knickers (#litres_trial_promo)
SIX Backs to the wall at Barnet (#litres_trial_promo)
SEVEN Stan the Main Man (#litres_trial_promo)
EIGHT ‘You won’t be alive to pick the team’ (#litres_trial_promo)
NINE Fry in, Collymore out (#litres_trial_promo)
TEN Brady blues (#litres_trial_promo)
ELEVEN ‘How many caps does that woman wear here?’ (#litres_trial_promo)
TWELVE Over to you, Trevor (#litres_trial_promo)
THIRTEEN Posh but pricey (#litres_trial_promo)
FOURTEEN A small matter of £3.1 million (#litres_trial_promo)
FIFTEEN Saved by the Pizzaman (#litres_trial_promo)
SIXTEEN Play-offs, promotion and ponces (#litres_trial_promo)
SEVENTEEN Competing with the Big Boys (#litres_trial_promo)
EIGHTEEN Small Fry (#litres_trial_promo)
Index (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_95cff05b-149c-525a-abd7-37f3ebe0191e)
This book would not have been possible but for the support of my family. To my late mum Dora and dad Frank, thanks for all the sacrifices you made for me and your encouragement and understanding in trying to help me fulfil my dream. My wife Kirstine has been a rock, my best ever signing, while her mum Gisela and dad Andy have always been there for me.
I was fortunate enough to be at the birth of each of my six children Jane, Mark, Adam, Amber, Frank and Anna-Marie, and I can honestly say that the experience is better than scoring at Wembley! Since the days they were born they have all, in different ways, brought so much pleasure and enjoyment into my life. As have my three grand-children Keeley-Anne, Yasmin and Louis and the best son-in-law anybody could wish for in Steve. I count my lucky stars that I have been surrounded by such a wonderful group of family and friends through my rollercoaster career in football.
Finally, thanks to my publishers HarperCollins and the man who helped me put my thoughts down in writing, Phil Rostron. It’s been a privilege working with such professionals.
FOREWORD (#ulink_4859bd25-e74f-5ecf-b640-d4e179e92bcf)
Sir Alex Ferguson (#ulink_4859bd25-e74f-5ecf-b640-d4e179e92bcf)
I am privileged to have been asked to write the foreword to the autobiography of a man whom I cannot bring to mind without the thought prompting a smile. This is not because Barry Fry is a figure of fun, but because of his larger-than-life character, happy-go-lucky nature and reliance upon humour to soften the blows which a life in football can inflict with uncomfortable regularity.
Barry is a man for whom football is a blinding passion, displayed in his every thought, word and deed. He is one of the rare birds in the game in that he is highly respected by almost all of his fellow professionals for his vast knowledge, unquenchable enthusiasm and unflinching adherence to the ideals in which he believes.
He is a very popular manager among managers. Barry may not have been at the helm of a Premiership club but that, in itself, is surprising in many ways because he has achieved success in one way or another at each of the many he has managed both in non-league football and in the lower divisions of the Football League.
A staunch member of the League Managers’ Association, he shows as much enthusiasm for its affairs as he does in his day-to-day club involvement. We operate in an industry which all too often does not meet its obligations when there is a parting of the ways between clubs and managers, and there is a real need for voices as powerful as Barry’s to be heard if an equilibrium is to be achieved. Some managers are fortunate enough to walk straight into another job once they have been shown the door, but there are many others who do not enjoy the same fortune for one reason or another. They need protection, with due and full severance pay a priority, and Barry, who knows a thing or two about such matters, works tirelessly towards these goals.
Thoughts for the welfare of others are typical of the man and his self-deprecation is very endearing. Having walked into Old Trafford as a young boy to become one of the original Busby Babes, he says that the only reason Barry Fry did not make it as a player was Barry Fry. He is perhaps being a little hard on himself with this observation. The fact is that the crop of youngsters with whom he was competing for places at the time was exceptional, as has regularly been the case at Manchester United, and it is no disgrace that he failed to break through into the big time.
There is no disputing that he was a smashing little player – you don’t get schoolboy international caps and headhunted by Manchester United if you are no good – but Barry didn’t get the breaks. Simple as that.
An incongruity in football is the number of great players who do not aspire to be, nor become, top managers and a corresponding number of distinctly average players who achieve tremendous managerial success. In my own case I was never anything more than a run-of-the-mill player and the same could be said of the likes of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley, but playing is one thing and managing entirely another. Barry is in the category of people who have done better as the man in charge than he did as the one taking the orders and his feats in winning championships and cup competitions are not to be underestimated. In any walk of life you have to be special to achieve success and there is no doubt that Barry Fry is a very special man.
He takes us here on a roller-coaster ride which reflects his colourful life. Hold on to your hats and enjoy the journey. Then, when you think about Barry Fry in the future, I defy you to do so without a smile on your face.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c9fa1fc3-c37f-55ec-ab0d-3a00fdf67aa6)
Who’d be a football manager? (#ulink_c9fa1fc3-c37f-55ec-ab0d-3a00fdf67aa6)
Raindrops trickled down the window of the prefabricated building that was my office on the winter’s day that a familiar red Lamborghini drew to a halt in the parking bay outside. The magnificent machine was just one of the success symbols flaunted by the highly charismatic Keith Cheeseman, who had recently assumed control of the Southern League club Dunstable Town. This was my first managerial position in football and I felt privileged to be the individual charged with the task of transforming the fortunes of a club which, for eight successive seasons, had finished stone cold bottom of the league. I was in a fairly strong position in that things could hardly have got worse. Or so it seemed.
I was just a few months into the job and the chairman’s arrival on this dank Tuesday was the signal that this was to be no ordinary day. Up until now he had never been near the ground in midweek unless we had a game. And even then he did not come to all the games because he got bored with them.
My first thought as he got out of the car was ‘What the hell is he doing here?’
As he came into my office I offered him a warm greeting.
‘Hello mate, what brings you here?’
He replied that he had come to meet somebody and seemed disappointed when I said that nobody had arrived.
I offered him a cup of tea, which he rejected, and he waved aside my invitation to sit down. He was on edge and started to prowl the room. Even though he was always naturally on the go, there was something different about his demeanour.
After a while a Jaguar pulled up alongside the Lamborghini, giving this dilapidated little outreach in Bedfordshire the incongruous appearance of a classic car showroom. We watched as the driver emerged and walked to my office. His polite knock on the door was answered by Cheeseman.
‘Ah, I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘I’m Keith Cheeseman. Please come in.’
And with that greeting the chairman slammed the door shut. In a lightning-fast move he had his visitor pinned back against the door with his forearm tight against his throat. He hastily frisked this hapless man and, as I recoiled in horror, Cheeseman tried to make light of the situation.
‘Just checking that you aren’t bugged or carrying a gun,’ he laughed.
Now I’m just a silly football manager and I feared something approaching a siege might be developing, but Cheeseman just said: ‘Barry, I’ve got to speak privately to this man. Have you got the keys to the boardroom?’
Confirming that they were in my car, I went to get them as they made their way to the boardroom at the other side of the ground. I caught up with them and as they stood on the halfway line they surveyed an advertising hoarding belonging to a particular finance company.
I was never introduced to the visitor, who boomed at the chairman: ‘You can take that board down straight away. That goes for starters.’
Cheeseman put his arm round him and smiled.
‘My boy, that’s just cost you three quarters of a million. I’d leave it there if I were you.’
And with that I let them into the boardroom where, I presumed, they concluded whatever business they were up to. None of what had happened and been said made any sense to me but I was left with the distinct impression that something was amiss.
A few days later I was given a much bigger indication of the type of man I was working for. We had a home game on the Tuesday night and in the afternoon I took a call from Cheeseman in which he said that he would not be going to the match. I said that was fair enough, but there was more. He said that after the game he wanted me to do him a favour and go to meet him.
‘I’m only in the country for five minutes,’ he said ‘but I want to see you before I go. I’ll ring you when the match is over and let you know the location.’
I didn’t raise an eyebrow because it was not unusual for him to be abroad on business. I often went to his office in Luton before one of these trips for him to hand over some cash or to sign some cheques.
When his telephone call came there was something quite sinister about it.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘I want you to leave and bring with you a case that somebody has dropped at the ground during the game. When you get to the roundabout at Houghton Regis go round it two or three times and make absolutely sure that you are not being followed. Then shoot off all the way down the A5, get on the M1 at the end and come off at Scratchwood Services. I will meet you there.’
‘Keith, what the hell …’
‘I’ll explain it all when you get here,’ he interjected. ‘Just make sure you have got the bag.’
I asked the secretary, Harold Stew, whether someone had dropped off a bag from the chairman’s office and he confirmed that it was in one of the other offices. So I picked up this big bag, a briefcase, and put it in the boot of my car.
It was with a very nervous look into my rear mirror that I pulled away from the ground and onto my unscheduled journey. I approached the Houghton Regis roundabout with his words ringing in my ears, but I just thought how ridiculous it would be to keep going round and round it and completed the manoeuvre normally. From there, though, I could hardly keep my eyes on the road ahead because I was looking so many times into the mirrors. It was frightening how often I thought one car, then another, then another was tailing me. Paranoia was sweeping over me.
I was overcome with a sense of relief as I arrived unscathed at Scratchwood, yet there was still a feeling of foreboding about the contents of the case and what kind of situation I might soon be walking in to.
Cheeseman answered my knock at the door and welcomed me into a room inhabited by two other members of the finance company and three other people who acted as legal representatives and advisers.
As well as being a member of the Dunstable Football Club board, one was also the manager of the finance house. I hadn’t seen him for some time and greeted him warmly. But when I asked if he was well he answered: ‘Oh, I’m terrible. I’ve been out to Keith’s place in Spain and all hell has broken loose.’
Cheeseman broke in here and asked me, ‘Have you got the case?’
‘Oh yes, I forgot. It’s in the boot of my car.’ He asked for the keys and off he went to get it.
