He mused on the following morning's game with Arsenal - a real six pointer as they say, before slowly drifting off into a restless sleep.
As the clock struck midnight, a strange sound invaded the room. Was that the rattle of chains that he could hear ? Surely not. Intrigued, Houllier stepped from the bed to investigate, but before he could reach it the bedroom door was flung wildly open. Astonishingly, a figure clad entirely in chains, and looking remarkably like his erstwhile sidekick, Roy Evans, peered back blankly at him through the gloom.
"Sacre Bleu", cried Houllier, "is that really you Roy ? I thought you 'ad gone to play golf, and now you 'ave all deese chains and you are a ghost ?" exclaimed the exciteable Frenchman.
At this, the ghostly figure raised his hands and gave a rattle of the said chains.
"Ay, now calm down Ged", said the phantom. "I never wanted to be a ghost on the wall at Anfield you know, it just 'appened. Now I've come to give yer a bit of a warnin' ".
"Oh, and what is dis warning ?" asked an intrigued Houllier.
Evans moved menacingly towards the now quaking Houllier, dragging behind him a large iron football that was manacled to his left leg. Pressing his face up against his former colleage the spectre spoke in dark, reverential tones.
"Yer gonna be visited tonight by three other ghosts - far worse than me. Yer gonna be told a few 'ome truths about all the ****** ups and things yer've done wrong."
"Er, what ******-ups ? I 'ave done nothing wrong. I am rebuilding our great club."
"Well there's loads of room for improvement mate, I can tell you that for nothin'. Now look, get back to bed, and at one, two and three o'clock the ghosts'll come and get yer. And don't do that Gallic shrug thing at me, it cuts no ice !"
With his message delivered, and with a final shake of the chains, Evans disappeared as quickly as he had come. 'Hmm', thought Houllier, 'I really should leave the Camembert alone before turning in at night.' He climbed back into bed and tried to forget his rattling visitor. But sleep was elusive. Something told him it was going to be a long long night.
As the night wore on the dark sense of foreboding that had been washing over Houllier intensified. Something was in the air and it didn't feel very nice. He wasn't really going to be visited by three ghosts, was he ? Then, on the stroke of one it happened, just as Evans had said. There at the foot of the bed, a figure could clearly be seen, silhoutted against the streetlight that was filtering in between the curtains. "Gosh", thought Houllier, "Roy 'as never been right before."
Trying his best to compose himself Houllier attempted to speak to the spook.
"Err, are you, er the errm, I mean 'ave you come to err, " Try as he might, Houllier could not speak. The words choked in his own throat such was the terror of the moment.
"Christ son, spit it oot will yee," rasped the clearly irritated ghostly shadow. "I have nae come all the way here to listen to a gibberin' Frenchman."
"No, it cannot be. c'est magnifique, it is Bill Shankly !" Momentarily, Houllier's shock turned to pleasure as he recognised the greatest football manager of all time standing at the foot of his bed.
"Jeez son, you look like you've just seen a ghost. I am indeed the Spirit of Christmas Past. Your past and my past. Come with me, we've got some stuff to see. Here grab a hold."
Shankly held out his hand and Houllier did as he was bid. Within a moment they had left the room and were flying over the rooftops in a whirl of stars and clouds. After a few moments, Houllier could see an opening in the grey swirl. As if by magic, for that's what it was, both he and his ghostly hero were back on the ground. A football ground, and it wasn't any old football ground. It was Melwood.
"Don't worry son", said Shanks, as if anticipating Houllier's next question. "No one here can see us. It's 1965, two days before the F.A. Cup final. Look, there's me over there !"
There was the earnest figure of the young Shankly, organising and cajoling his Liverpool players in a 5 a side match. Tommy Smith was wagging a finger at an errant Geoff Strong whilst the rest of the players were laughing and giggling. There was a supreme confidence and assuredness about the players. And then in a moment, the two ghostly interlopers were whisked away to Wembley. Suddenly, big Ron Yeats was holding aloft the F.A.Cup and brandishing it in front of a fervent sea of red and white. 'Eey-Aye-Addio we won the cup' they chanted back.
In a blur of colour and pageantry, Houllier then saw all the triumphs and cup winning exploits of Liverpool's great '60s and '70s teams play out before him. There was Smithy and Cally, St.John and Hunt, Toshack and Keegan, scoring goals and collecting trophies as if to the manor born.
Slowly, the images faded, and the two ghosts were suddenly in the living room of a house in North Wales. The date was now 1984, and the television screen in the corner of the cosy living room showed Graeme Souness holding aloft the European Cup after Liverpool's triumph in Rome. In front of the TV sat a 3 year old boy, staring avidly at the images on the screen.
"Mon dieu, it's Tiny Michael Owen", said Houllier. " 'e looks so 'appy."
"Aye son, that's right, and all the lad wants to do is play for Liverpool when he grows up", said Shankly. "He's like millions of other kids. They just want to play for the best and they want their local team to be the best. Now hold on tight, we're going over to France."
"Daddy, daddy why do my legs hurt so much ?"
Tiny Michael gets a lift home from training.
They left the Welsh countryside and sped over the English Channel and within seconds they were touching down in the Parc Des Princes in Paris. As they looked down on the stadium, Houllier racognised the younger version of himself, standing hands on hips, watching his exciting French team as they tackled Bulgaria in a world cup qualifier.
"Ah oui, they were some team" he said.
Shankly shrugged his shoulders, "Aye lad, nae bad, but they should've done a lot better. Ring any bells ?"
Just then, a young dark haired man galloped down the touchline in front of the two visitors, beat two men with a swivel of his hips but disappointingly gave the ball away with an overhit pass. Gerard Houllier was disgusted at the sight.
"Pah 'umbug, dat David Ginola", spat the indignant Frenchman, " 'e is nothing but a criminal."
"Jeez son, I know. I've seen the shampoo adverts.", said Shanks. "but never mind that, the point is you built a great team and laid some solid foundations. You've proved in the past you have what it takes. Now it's time for us to leave here."
As they flew out of the stadium, Houllier just had time to glimpse his earlier incarnation throw his hands in the air in despair as Bulgaria scored in the dying seconds, thus denying France a place in the 1994 World Cup finals.
"The next ghost will arrive at 2 o'clock son", said Shanks as he began fading away. "And take care, he's a right misreable bugger !".
Before he knew it, Houllier was lying on his bed again, shaking at the memory of all he had just witnessed.
"Ginola", he cursed to himself.
But as he gathered his thoughts, it wasn't the misdeeds of his compatriot that occupied his time, but rather the words of Shankly's ghost that proved difficult to shake off. 'You've proved in the past, you have what it takes.' Disappointingly, the words Shanks had used to describe the next ghost, 'he's a right misreable bugger', were also proving difficult to shift from his troubled mind. Who could the next visitor possibly be ?
Dutifully, Houllier sat on the bed and waited. On the stroke of two, the next phantom materialised in a riot of noise and pandemonium. A tray of tea-cups on the bedside table was sent crashing to the floor. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Present", came the haunting voice. It was a tuneless, harsh Scottish brogue, that lacked the humour and warmth of Shanks' voice.
"Oh dear", said Houllier bowing his head in trepidation. "I know who you are. You are my worst nightmare."
"Aye it's me. Sir Alex Ferguson. I've come to remind you how glorious this Christmas will be for me and how grim it'll be for you. Are you ready ?" Without waiting for any kind of answer, Lord Govan, King of all Manchester, whisked Houllier to an expectant, seething Old Trafford. Liverpool were in town and United were looking for another three points.
The match was already in full swing. Remarkably, Liverpool were winning 0:2 thanks to two goals from Owen.
"Ah tres bien, good old Tiny Michael" nodded Houllier, suddenly filling with pride at his protégé's stunning achievements. "Maybe this will not be too bad after all", he thought to himself. Down on the pitch, the referee was looking at his watch. Only one minute plus stoppage time to go.
The horrible, red faced ghoul, sneered mockingly. "There's plenty of time yet. Just watch this."
As he spoke, a mishit Paul Scholes cross sailed into the far corner of the net. It was 1:2 and the Liverpool defence visibly appeared to wilt. From the kick off, United regained possession, and Liverpool's panicked defenders managed to force the ball past their own hapless 'keeper. It was 2:2. In front of his own disbelieving eyes, Houllier watched Liverpool's hard won lead unravel in a combination of bad luck and ineptitude. Then, inevitably, as the clock ticked into the 7th minute of injury time the referee inexplicably awarded United a penalty and Denis Irwin slotted the ball through Sander Westerveld's legs to put United 3:2 up. Right on cue, the final whistle blew and Liverpool's players, as one, slumped to the ground in total dejection.
Tiny Michael acknowledged the travelling fans as he trudged off the pitch. He was heartbroken.
"Soon he will leave Liverpool" warned Sir Lord Archbishop Ferguson, King of Scotland and all the Isles. "He's had enough. He pulls his tripe out every week and for what ? Your defence has got more holes in it than a crateful of spaghetti hoops. Your midfield is full of posing superstars, and you thought the Spice Boys were dead ! Ha ha ha ha."
"Wooooooooooooooo"
"Oh cut it out Roy, can't you see I'm not in the mood ?"
Houllier was distraught. "I thought I was doing well. I thought I was on course to get Liverpool back to the top, but now I can see it's all going to turn to poop. It's as if Roy 'ad never left."
United had now gone 7 points clear at the top of the Premiership, and were in good heart for their vital Champions League showdown with Real Madrid the following Wednesday. In contrast, Houllier winced as he caught sight of himself at the post match press conference explaining how his team had to 'cut out silly defensive mistakes' - yet again !
King Fergie, Duke of Altrincham, Fuhrer of Sale and Salford, began to disappear from view, his night's work done. "Well, you've got one more visitor tonight, the Ghost of Christmas Future, but if you ask me, there is no future for you !"
The ghostly apparition disappeared from view, but almost immediately rematerialised in front of the terrified Houllier. With a boot of his right foot, the ghost sent the remainder of the tea-cups crashing into the wall and with a final snarl, vanished for good.
"Zut alors", said Houllier, "What a complete pillock 'e is."
Once more Houllier found himself alone on his bed. His heart was racing. Over and over he played the collapse he had just witnessed at Old Trafford through his head and slowly but surely began reorganising his thoughts and ideas. But for now, he could do nothing more than wait for his final visitor.
As the clock struck three, a noise more terrifying than any he had ever heard before filled the room and knocked him, momentarily, off his bed and onto the floor. It was the sound of Manchester United's Stretford End in full song, of Everton's Gwladys Street, of Arsenal's North Bank. It was the sound of the San Siro, the Stadium of Light ( no, not that one ), Ibrox and the Bernabeau. It was not a friendly, welcoming sound. It did not hold any warm invitations. It chilled him to the bone.
The ghost appeared before him. No face was visible, it's features hidden behind a hooded black cloak.
Houllier knelt down before the terrible presence, trembling with deep apprehension. "Oh spectre, I fear you more than any of the others. Do your worst and let it be over quickly", he pleaded.
They were in the Liverpool dressing room. All the shirts were hanging on their respective pegs, the names of the players being clearly visible on the backs of each shirt. Lying on the floor, discarded at Houllier's feet was a stray shirt. He picked it up and turned it round to read the name on the back.
"But there is no name on this shirt. Who does it belong to ?", enquired the Frenchman.
"It used to be Michael Owen's," replied the third spirit "but he doesn't play here any more ! He's gone to Old Trafford. He couldn't stand it here any longer."
Houllier was crushed. "Oh no no, not Tiny Michael", he whimpered.
They moved out of the changing rooms, and onto Anfield Road. A match had just finished and Houllier could see a group of supporters trudging away from the ground.
"Houllier ruined us. We should be European Champions now with all the money he's spent. Where's it got us ? Nowhere ! We're no better off now than when he joined. I'm glad he's got the sack."
Houllier was aghast. "The sack !, surely that is not true ?" The ghost, still shielding his face, nodded slowly and began to speak.
"The supporters haven't totally deserted the team but they ran out of patience with you. Even Everton ocassionally get bigger crowds these days. Things have come to a sorry point."
Houllier was distraught. He stared straight into the faces of the fans but they could not see him. He saw the deep disappointment in their eyes, but could do nothing about it. He bowed his head in sorrow.
"But please tell me, is it too late for me to stop this 'appening ?" begged Houllier. "I 'ave to know."
The ghostly figure lifted up his cloaked hand and pointed to a faraway place on the horizon. There, in the distance, a vision was spinning and hurtling towards them at great speed. The vision stopped it's spinning and hung in the air a few feet from where Houllier and the hooded phantom stood. Like a gigantic television screen, it revealed a picture of Liverpool's football academy at Kirkby. Young lads, enthused with the joys of the game, were knocking the ball about continental style, controlling and passing in one simple movement. In the middle of the pitch, stood a silver haired man, shouting at and encouraging his young charges. They were playing a cultured brand of football. Quick and snappy but with an edge of steel and resolve. It was mesmerising.
Houllier narrowed his eyes and sharply focused on the vision. Simultaneously, the mysterious figure alongside him removed the hood from his face and revealed his identity. It was the silver haired man from the vision.
"Ooh la la, It's you", gasped Houllier. "But what are you doing 'ere ?"
"I represent your future", said Steve Heighway, "it can be a very bad one, or as you can see, it can be glorious. The choice is yours to make."
The scene in the hovering vision shifted to Queen's Drive in Liverpool. An open topped bus was cruising slowly through an enormous crowd of Liverpool supporters as the club paraded the Champions League trophy, the Premiership trophy and the recently captured World Club Championship trophy to it's adoring fans. Outside the Town Hall, the gathered supporters crooned 'Houllier, Houllier', to the tune of Amazing Grace.
Houllier's face beamed with delight. In this vision of the future, the fans loved him. What a turnaround ! But there was still one thing troubling him.
"What about Tiny Michael. I do not see 'im. Will 'e stay ?"
The ghost pointed again to Tiny Michael's discarded shirt and instructed Houllier to pick it up and examine it once more. This time there was a big white number 10 with the four beautiful letters 'O' 'W' 'E' and 'N' emblazoned above it. It was true ! There was still time to prevent total disaster from happening !
"You're supposed to be at home"
With a flourish of his arm, the spirit of Steve Heighway waved them both back to his room. "Now, you know what you must do", he said, before fading gracefully from view. Houllier was alone again, and he fell, finally, into a deep restful sleep.
Smashed tea-cups littered the floor when Houllier stepped out of bed a few hours later and the memory of the night before came quickly flooding back. What a night that was ! But what day was this ? Had he missed the Arsenal game ? Anxiously, he turned on the radio and was delighted to discover it was the morning of the 23rd. The day of the match ! He hadn't missed anything at all.
Gerard Houllier marched into Anfield and gathered his players around him. He knew what he had to do.
"Right", he announced, "there's going to be one or two changes around 'ere."
And so, it came to pass, Gerard Houllier put into place all he had learnt on that fateful Christmas evening in 2000. Tiny Michael was given a huge pay rise, enough to keep him happy at Anfield for the rest of his playing days. Indeed, he went on to play 640 games for Liverpool, scoring 411 goals and a further 112 games for England ( 86 goals ). His four goals in the World Cup final of 2006 are still talked about to this day.
All the lazy, greedy mercenaries at Liverpool were weeded out and Houllier began to look more closely at the local talent Steve Heighway was bringing on through the Academy. Liverpool's football was a joy to behold and their policy of playing 6 local lads every week brought huge dividends.
And what about Man. United ? Well, HRH Lord Archbishop President Fergie, King of Weatherfield, Brookside and Hollyoaks, Duke of Narnia and Poet Laureate retired at the end of the 2000-2001 season and United unfortunately went into free fall. They were relegated soon after the appointment of Bryan Robson as manager and have never been the same again.
© Derek Dohren, Spion Ltd,
November 2000
