GOODBYE BUTCH
My word.. the stars come out in force to pay tribute to an England and Chelsea legend
EXCITABLE chatter among the make-up artists backstage at Sky Sports was of the department’s Christmas lunch later that day when Ray Wilkins took the chair.
Charming as ever, or “dangerously well” as the great man would often say, pundit Wilkins was dabbed in enough warpaint and powder to temper the studio lights’ glare off that shaven dome and to mask the crow’s feet around his eyes.
Thanking the girls for their care and attention, then without a word he slipped one of them an envelope on his way out to face the cameras.
When the startled cosmetics team opened it, they found a bundle of notes to buy a sizeable festive round of drinks.
In the church where celebrated novelist Charles Dickens got married 182 years earlier, the football family – including four England managers and five captains – gathered to say farewell to Wilkins.
Dickens could string a few sentences together, but he never scored a peach in the top corner at an FA Cup Final or won 84 England caps.
The 90-minute memorial service for a legend in deepest Chelsea, the constituency which remained closest to his heart, turned into a treasure trove of anecdotes confirming Wilkins was not only a masterful footballer but a class act off the pitch.
If dear old ‘Butch’ – he hated the nickname, but it stuck – was looking down at the cast of A-listers assembled in his honour, he would surely have uttered one of his catchphrases: “My word.” Current England boss Gareth Southgate, plus predecessors Kevin Keegan, Glenn Hoddle and Roy Hodgson were all on parade.
So were Gary Lineker, John Terry, Frank Lampard, Bryan Robson and Terry Butcher, along with venerated England foot soldiers Sir Trevor Brooking, Peter Beardsley, Viv Anderson, Tony Woodcock, Mark Hateley, Peter Reid, Les Ferdinand and Chris Woods.
Chelsea’s contingent was a threeline whip, with manager Antonio Conte and Blues legends led by Alan Hudson, Gianfranco Zola and John Hollins.
Former Manchester United colleagues Mark Hughes and Joe Jordan joined the 300-strong congregation for the 3pm kick-off at St Luke’s, where Wilkins’ daughter Jade was christened.
Frank Stapleton, one of his closest pals at Old Trafford, read a eulogy featuring his recollection of a famous night when United beat Barcelona, including Diego Maradona and Bernd Schuster, 3-0 in the European Cup Winners’ Cup, overturning a two-goal deficit from the first leg.
They celebrated in a city centre restaurant, Wilkins serenading the waiters by singing Lionel Richie’s greatest hits – not necessarily with Richie’s soulful tones – until they were asked to leave at 6am.
Later, Stapleton would be Wilkins’ assistant when he was hired to coach the Jordanian national team, although the job interview had its hairy moments. Stapleton said: “We met Crown Prince Ali at a Mayfair hotel, and Ray introduced himself by saying, ‘So what do we call you, sir? I’ve never met a Crown Prince before.’
“If he was playing now, Ray would be spoken about as one of the best in the world. He was ahead of his time.”
Ray’s son, Ross, ad-libbed an address to reveal Wilkins had suffered from depression and alcoholism before his death last month, following a heart attack, at the age of 61.
“Dad had his demons,” said Ross. “Behind the exterior was a broken man who struggled to find peace without football in his life.”
With respect, for all his son’s wonderful candour and honesty, that’s not how football will remember Ray Wilkins.
Class acts don’t grow on trees. Sometimes they are defined by random acts of kindness and Lionel Richie tribute acts.