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proliferation of nicknames and Souness called me ‘Dogs’ as in the Dog’s Bollocks, but the way he said it, it sounded like ‘Dugs’. Terry Mac named me ‘Super’ after some extravagant headline, but as he had a lisp, this came out as ‘Thuper’.
    I’ll never forget my home debut on 23 August 1977, pausing at the top of the stairs and seeing the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign lit by a single strip of lighting. Similarly enraptured was Tommy Craig, the Newcastle midfielder. Having played together all the way through Glasgow and Scotland schools, wee Tam and I were good friends.
    ‘This sign is supposed to frighten you,’ I whispered to Tam. ‘But it terrifies me!’ Not for long. ‘This Is Anfield’ always inspired me. Running out on the pitch, I felt six feet tall, lifted by the sign and the noise of the Kop, knowing the fans were on my side.
    My warm-up ritual on the pitch was quickly established. I’d sprint down to the Kop end and drill a ball into the net before doing some stretching and ball-work, hitting four crosses from either side. I hated it if I missed that first shot. ‘I’m going to have a bad game,’ I’d tell myself if the ball went wide. The Kop would always let me know, nicely of course. They were always supportive. Before that home debut against Newcastle, Liverpool fans gave me a great reception and I’d not even kicked a ball. It helped that I then scored just after half-time, after Ray Kennedy gave me a pass so inviting it came with a compliments slip. Running in behind the Newcastle centre-half, John Bird, I guided the ball past the keeper, Steve Hardwick, with my left foot. My momentum swept me towards the Kop and I loved seeing and hearing that explosion of joy. Turning back, I swiftly found Ray to show my appreciation for the quality of the pass. The morning headlines were kind to me, one of them saying ‘Kenny’s From Heaven’, but we all knew Liverpool were a team. Everybody contributed. I took as much pleasure playing the pass to Steve Heighway that brought Terry Mac’s goal, making it 2–0 and sending the Kop wild.
    Back in the dressing room, I noticed my new team-mates producing sleek leather bags. ‘What have you got there?’ I inquired suspiciously. They smiled. Out of those bags spilled shampoos, hairdryers, all manner of toiletries and after-shaves. Anfield’s dressing room was transformed into a fancy hair salon, fragrances filling the air. I couldn’t believe my eyes or nose, and it got worse when that king of fashion Graeme Souness strode in from Middlesbrough that January. The aura that surrounded Souey on the pitch was more than matched by his style off it. His moustache was a work of art, lovingly clipped and groomed. With the looks and confidence of a Scottish Tom Selleck, Souey walked in one day, wearing a full-length wolf’s skin coat, which stopped every conversation in the dressing room and probably for miles around.
    ‘What is that?!’ I asked as the other lads started howling like wolves at a full moon. Graeme calmly took off the coat and proudly showed us his initials GS stitched inside – not that anybody was likely to forget who this half-coat, half-animal belonged to. Graeme never wore the coat again in front of the boys, but he soon joined them in front of the mirror after matches, plugging in the hairdryer and styling away.
    ‘What have I done here?’ I thought to myself as they preened away like peacocks. ‘How can you be football players with hairdryers?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never seen football players coiffeur themselves before.’ Terry Mac laughed.
    ‘What did you do at Celtic?’ he asked.
    ‘We didn’t have any of this nonsense. We washed our hair with soap. Look at you with your shampoos and deodorants. Unbelievable.’
    When Terry Mac and Souey got perms, the coiffeur sessions lasted even longer. Terry and Souey had these fork-like contraptions they’d stick in their hair, blowing it with their hairdryers.
    If that was part of