Mick Quinn - Who Ate All The Pies? The Life and Times of Mick Quinn

Dedication
To Mum and Sean Ill never forget you.
And to Karen, the love of my life.

ITS. 1992 AND COVENTRY CITY ARE FACING ASTON VILLA. PLAYING UP FRONT FOR CITY IS MICK QUINN, A 14-STONE SCOUSER COMPLETE WITH ROGUISH MOUSTACHE AND UNMISSABLE MULLET HAIRSTYLE.

Villas fans belt out another chorus of Who ate all the pies? at Quinn, who has barely touched the ball all game. Suddenly he latches on to a through ball and with a lightning turn beats his defender and thumps the ball into the net.

Mick Quinn, the boy from a Liverpool council estate dubbed Little Beirut, always loved his birds, booze and betting. They said Mick had a sixth sense for great accuracy in his playing days he could find a party from any range. Quinn says he only put 50 on each race but liked to stay in the bookies for twenty races a day!

Sentenced in 1987 to three weeks in prison for twice driving whilst banned, Micks been accused of punching Peter Schmeichel on the pitch and John Fashanu off it. On retirement, though, Quinn switched to the Sport of Kings, but controversy led the blue bloods of racing to hang the scouse oik out to dry and he was suspended from training for two and a half years.

Who Ate All The Pies? is the funniest and most honest football book youll read for a long, long time.

I am the greatest, I said it even before I knew I was. Dont tell me I cant do something. Dont tell me its impossible. Dont tell me I am not the greatest. I am the double greatest.

Muhammad Ali

WALKING OUT THROUGH the heavy iron gates of Newcastles famous St Jamess Park stadium, I had a smile on my face the size of the Mersey Tunnel. I had just signed a big-money contract to lead the attack for one of Europes most famous clubs. It meant I would wear the black and white number nine shirt which in Geordieland is revered like a footballing Turin shroud. Newcastle legends Hughie Gallacher, Jackie Milburn and Malcolm Macdonald had all possessed the sacred shirt. Today it is worn by Alan Shearer. If I was a success I would be treated like a god by the Newcastle fans, known as the Toon Army.

It was July 1989, and I was 27 years old. After the formalities of putting pen to paper I decided to have a stroll through the city to get a feel of the place, and to treat Sheila, my girlfriend at the time and the mother of my beautiful twin girls Natasha and Melissa, to a celebratory bevvie. I was wearing my favourite Armani grey-flecked double-breasted designer suit, and handmade Italian loafers. Sheila, her long dark hair bouncing off her shoulders, looked stunning in a cream trouser suit. The sun shone as brightly as it ever does above the Tyne and life felt great. I had finally fulfilled my footballing destiny. The boy from a Liverpool council estate had run to something after all.

I turned to Sheila and said, Darling, this is one of the proudest moments of my life. Its what Ive been struggling to achieve since I practised kicking a tennis ball against a wall every night when I was a kid.

She squeezed my hand and said, Im really made up for you, babe. This is a new beginning for both of us. Im so proud of you.

I hugged her tightly. We walked hand-in-hand through the gates and on to the street.

Suddenly, we both stopped in our tracks as we heard a rhythmic chanting: Sack the board, sack the board, sack the board! Dozens of folk in black and white shirts were marching towards us. It was a demo by the Toon Army against the men then running the club. As they came closer we could make out the wording on a huge banner carried by two fans in the middle of the throng. In large black letters, it read: WHO THE FUCK IS MICK QUINN?

Welcome to Newcastle.

I had a month to wait before I could answer the question on that banner. My first game was against Leeds, a giant of a football club who, like Newcastle, were languishing in the old Division Two the equivalent of todays Nationwide Division One. Newcastle had just been relegated from the top flight and the failure had hit the fans hard. Being such a fanatical football city, the supporters wallowed in the good times but suffered terribly in the bad. The citys traditional industries, like shipbuilding, were going through a long, slow death as well, and unemployment was high. Watching their team win on Saturdays helped shine some light into their lives. They hadnt had a real hero with the number nine on his back for years. The leading scorers in the last two seasons had been the Brazilian Mirandinha with eleven goals and John ONeill with thirteen, and the supporters couldnt see yours truly being a twenty-goals-a-season man, which is the mark of a good striker. I had just scored 54 League goals in 121 appearances for Portsmouth, including 28 in one season, to shoot them into the First Division, but the Toon Army didnt seem very impressed. As I jogged out on to the pitch at a packed St Jamess Park, I could feel the atmosphere of discontent on the terraces.

Leeds, as always, had brought down big travelling support, around 3,000 of them, all in full voice. The Yorkshire club had bought seasoned pros Vinnie Jones, Gordon Strachan and Jim Beglin in the close season and they were hoping to get off to a flying start. In contrast, there was a muted atmosphere among the 26,000 Newcastle fans following the previous seasons relegation and what they saw as an inadequate rebuilding of the squad. The announcement of my name over the stadium loudspeaker was greeted with a polite ripple of applause. Where was that famous St Jamess Park atmosphere? I was used to being treated like a hero by the fans at Portsmouth. The Leeds fans were giving me the usual crap, too. Jabbing their fingers at me in unison, they sang: Who ate all the pies, who ate all the pies? You fat bastard, you fat bastard, you ate all the pies. But, with the adrenalin pumping through my veins, it was easy to ignore, and I knew there was at least one friendly face in the crowd: my dad Mick senior had made the trip up from Liverpool to watch my first game. All I kept thinking about was that banner. I wanted to show the Newcastle fans exactly who Mick Quinn was.

When the whistle went, I was like a pitbull terrier straining at the leash. I put myself around for the first few minutes, and when Beglin tripped John Gallacher for a penalty I sprinted over. I grabbed the ball before anyone else could and placed it on the spot. It was a cocky thing to do in my first game, but I was desperate to score a goal and, fuck it, I had the number nine shirt on my back. I wasnt going to miss this chance of getting off the mark. I had this method of taking pens at the time which I thought was the business. I would turn my back on the keeper, then, when the ref blew his whistle, I would spin round as fast as possible and hit the ball as hard as I could. It certainly flummoxed Leeds keeper Mervyn Day. I clenched my fists in the direction of the Gallowgate. 10.

Soon after, the Magpies got a corner. The ball flew in towards the near post and my strike partner Mark McGhee nodded it on for me to head in at the back post. Cue mad celebrations. The Toon Army seemed to be warming to me. Minutes later, a cross came in from the right as I made a darting run into the box. I connected with the ball six yards out and bundled it over the line for my hat-trick. I went nuts and ran towards the Gallowgate, arms outstretched. Thats who fucking Mick Quinn is! I screamed, almost tearful. The Newcastle fans went absolutely berserk. A new chant echoed around the famous old stadium: Hes fat, hes round, a number nine weve found, Micky Quinn, Micky Quinn. I had won over the Toon Army and would never need to buy another drink in Geordieland again.