Free Be Careful What You Wish For by Simon Jordan Page B

to work another day in my life but given my personality I needed a challenge. Running a football club was that challenge, one that I believed I was more than capable of rising to. Turning potential into reality was something I was good at.
    That covers the why. If you asked me now what owning a football club is like, I’d say I imagine it’s a bit like being a drug addict. You indulge yourself in something you enjoy, knowing it’s bad for you, and after the initial rush of pleasure it gives you a headache and sucks all the money out of your bank account.
    * * *
    In the summer of 1997, as a token of appreciation to my father, I spent £10,000 on what Crystal Palace laughingly described as a ‘luxury box’ so he could watch his cherished football team out of the cold.
    To some extent that is where it all began.
    The following year I received a call from the club’s extremely pretty marketing manager.
    ‘If you’re ringing me up to renew that scabby box at Palace the answer is no,’ I said cheekily. ‘If you’re calling me to go out on a date with you, the answer is yes.’
    Whilst the company of a charming and beautiful woman is priceless, after dinner not only had I spent £10,000 on the executive box, I had also coughed up £100,000 for a PocketPhone Shop marketing campaign with Crystal Palace Football Club, an expensive evening out by anyone’s standards! Was the date worth it? I think I’ll keep that to myself.
    In truth I was showing off to impress her, but there was also an underlying interest in becoming involved in the club in some way, which appealed to my ego. So not only had I had a charming evening, but I also had the promise of an introduction to her boss, the new club chairman.
    In the autumn of 1998 I met Mark Goldberg.
    Mark was a personable, energetic character – a small chap, with slicked-back hair and braces – who struck me as being a little guilty of style over substance. He had recently paid £20 million – a vastly overinflated price – to acquire the club from its previous owner, Ron Noades, the same Ron Noades who had been locked in a long-running legal battle with my father.
    Mark’s hugely expensive deal hadn’t even included the purchase of the stadium, leaving Noades with some feeling of tenure over the club. Rather like a noisy ex-wife, he felt this gave him the right to expel his opinions. In what was his charmless way he’d spewed out one of them at the time: ‘Goldberg was stupid and he wet his knickers when I agreed to sell him the club.’ In my opinion, Noades was a thoroughly dislikeable man, who had used the club to make money for all it was worth and showed no respect for Mark and, more importantly, the club. Rather than disappear into the ether with his huge bounty, he had the audacity to ridicule someone who was prepared to put their hand in their own pocket. This made me gravitate towards Mark.
    But all this did not detract from the fact that right from the start of his ownership Mark was in serious financial trouble.
    He had arrived in a blaze of publicity, appointing the former England coach Terry Venables as a marquee manager following relegation from the Premier League. He talked about signing Paul Gascoigne and Ronaldo, invested heavily in the playing side and support structure and overpaid for players. His plans were unsustainable in the division they were in and the club was haemorrhaging money.
    Mark wanted investment and wasted little time before instructing one of his sales staff, Phil Alexander, to invite me to a corporate club event held at the Selsdon Park Hotel in November 1998. It wasn’t my thing but I decided I would attend out of sheer curiosity.
    The whole evening was a non-event. I knew I was only being buttered up for money and lo and behold found myself sitting next to Terry Venables.
    I had mixed feelings about Venables. On one hand, there was the childhood memories of him as the young, energetic and flamboyant Palace manager of the eighties;