This is the One: Sir Alex Ferguson: The Uncut Story of a Football Genius

by Daniel Taylor

  The room is full of South Korean journalists, one of whom asks him what he made of Park Ji-Sung’s first appearance for the club. Ferguson comes out with a couple of run-of-the-mill compliments but his Glaswegian accent is too much for the Koreans to understand. Clearly embarrassed and very, very nervous, they have to ask him to repeat himself.

  ‘Do you know that the most perfect English in the world is spoken in Scotland?’ he says good-naturedly. ‘That’s absolutely correct by the way. If you go up to Inverness for a day you will learn how to speak English perfectly.’

  The poor Koreans don’t have a clue what he is talking about. Yet they smile politely and bow their heads, as if in the presence of some higher authority. ‘Thank you,’ they say. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Ferguson.’

  The press conference is a peacekeeping operation and it goes well. We nod in agreement at every observation and ask questions that make it clear we like what we have seen. Ferguson seems a lot happier, maybe even a little relieved. Glazer’s sons, Joel, Bryan and Avi – now United directors – were at their first match and the players have put on a convincing performance.

  ‘The Glazer brothers have been in the dressing room and spent twenty minutes congratulating the players,’ Ferguson says. He seems keen to do a spot of PR on their behalf. ‘I think they’re reasonably acquainted with the game and they have great enthusiasm for it.’

  Not everyone is happy, however. Before the game, more than 3,000 fans march in protest outside the stadium. There are scuffles with the police and chants of ‘We can do this every week.’ Emotions have been running dangerously high ever since the Glazers took control and it needs a major security operation to smuggle them into the stadium. There are riot vans on Sir Matt Busby Way, dog-handlers on the forecourt and a police helicopter hovering above. The Glazers arrive in a car with blacked-out windows, a posse of bodyguards and an escort of police motorcycles, sirens wailing. They arrive early to get there before the crowds, and they leave deliberately late for an unspecified out-of-town hotel. United say it is not deemed safe for their whereabouts to be known.

  AIRPLANE

  23.8.05

  We fly to Budapest today for the return leg of the Debrecen tie. As we are coming into Ferihegy airport the plane hits awful turbulence. There are some nervous flyers among Ferguson’s players and, apart from the odd expletive, everyone falls silent. It is much worse than the usual light vibrations. It is a stomach-churning sequence of lunges and lurches and even the aircrew look slightly panicky as the plane starts to judder violently. Drinks are flying everywhere, bags are banging about in the overhead lockers. Everyone is feeling queasily apprehensive.

  It stops as suddenly as it starts and – ding! – the pilot comes on to apologise. The air hostesses flit around, straightening their hair and checking everyone is OK. The players hold their stomachs, full of bravado and trying to laugh it off, but are obviously shaken.

  Then the lavatory door bursts open at the front of the plane and out staggers a bright-red Ferguson, looking as if he has gone through a tumble-dryer.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  As a comedy moment it is up there with David Brent’s dance in The Office and Del Boy falling through the bar in Only Fools and Horses.

  Ferguson is trying to smooth down his side parting, reaching unsteadily for his seat, when he suddenly realises the entire plane is watching. People are standing up and pointing, craning their necks to get a better view. The players start cheering and it makes him go redder and redder. The sponsors and corporate guests start cheering. Then the journalists join in. He is going the colour of a ripe tomato. You wouldn’t believe a man could go such a shade of red.

  ‘Who the hell locked me in?’ he calls down the plane, playing up to his audience as an air hostess totters down the aisle to help him to his seat.

  ‘I hope you haven’t splashed, Sir Alex,’ she says, and there are more loud cheers.

  At least he sees the funny side. One of Ferguson’s more endearing traits is his ability to laugh at himself and, half an hour later, he is still chuckling about it in the arrivals hall, holding up his trouser leg to show his shoes are urine free: ‘Quite clean, I think you’ll find’. He has agreed to do an interview by the carousel, so we find a quiet corner where we won’t be disturbed. The incident with Keane seems to have been forgotten and his mood is light and jovial.

  But then all the bonhomie and levity is shattered.

  Three supporters, in their thirties, have landed on a separate flight. When they see the squad waiting for their luggage they head straight for David Gill, the chief executive, and start tearing into him, shouting and swearing and accusing him of ‘selling out’ because of the way he has rolled out the red carpet for the Glazers.

  Everything happens so quickly that Gill is caught off guard. He is a big man, well over six feet, but he visibly seems to shrink as the men crowd round, accusing him of betraying the club and collaborating with the enemy.

  ‘You’ve fucked us over big-time. How could you sell us out to Glazer? How could you betray the fans like that?’

  Gill is speechless. He doesn’t know where to look or what to say. For a split second a look of annoyance crosses his face but he doesn’t want to take on these guys. He knows there is nothing he can say to calm them down so he just stands there with a thin and nervous smile, looking unhappy.

  When the Glazers set about buying the club Gill did everything he could to delay and block the takeover. He described their plans as ‘unworkable’ and ‘aggressive’, and he was championed by the supporters because of the way he was trying to protect the club’s traditions and save them from a family with no interest in football.

  His was a courageous stance for as long as it lasted. The problem was it didn’t last very long. When it became obvious that the Glazers had the financial muscle to get what they wanted, Gill unexpectedly made a U-turn. Suddenly he was welcoming the Glazers with open arms, gushing about how excited he was to work alongside such interesting people … and Long Live America!

  The supporters fought long and hard against Glazer, at great cost and emotional sacrifice. They feel let down. These guys are giving Gill a really hard time. A circle has formed, like a playground scrap, and he looks utterly miserable, totally out of his depth. The blood is draining from his face.

  ‘You turned your back on us. How can you work for the Glazers?’

  Suddenly Ferguson is in the middle of the circle. He gets on well with Gill and it seems to us that he thinks he can calm the situation just because of who he is. The reaction takes him by surprise.

  ‘You’ve fucked us over too, Fergie. You could have spoken out about it. Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘The fans want some answers, Fergie.’

  Ferguson was opposed to the Glazers’ takeover of the club but the sum total of his resistance was a few paragraphs in his programme notes. After that, he kept well out of it. It wasn’t easy for him. He was in an invidious position. Anyone who criticises him should ask themselves whether they would dare to speak out against the people who might be their future bosses. Yet Ferguson has always prided himself on standing up for what he believes. Rightly or wrongly, the supporters expected something that he wasn’t willing to give them – his backing.

  He is temporarily stunned, barely able to take it in. Most fans tend to treat the manager of their club with a certain reverence and Ferguson is used to a level of veneration usually reserved for high-ranking priests. Fans wave to him in his car or wind the window down to shout something supportive. Children will rush towards him in the street and then fall silent when they reach his side. Grown men will blink in disbelief, then nudge each other in wide-eyed excitement, unsure whether or not they should speak to him.

  Not here. These guys are hardcore anti-Glazer militants. They are eyeballing him, accusing him of letting them down, making it clear that, in their eyes, there is a big difference between being a great football manager and a great football man. It is shocking, unpreced
ented.

  It takes Ferguson a few seconds to digest what is happening and then he returns fire. ‘I’ve got a job to do here,’ he snaps. ‘Let me get on with my job.’ He says the criticism is unwarranted and makes it clear he has no intention of resigning. ‘I’ve got fifteen staff to think of. They come first for me. So let me get on with my job.’

  By now, Gill has melted into the background, relieved to be out of the firing line. Gill is the kind of guy you would find swapping anecdotes at a Round Table dinner or swinging his racket at a lawn-tennis club in some leafy Cheshire village. Airport rows are not his speciality.

  Ferguson is different. He has been embarrassed in front of a large audience and he is not going to take that from anyone.

  ‘How long before the Glazers put up the prices?’ one of the fans asks him accusingly.

  ‘If you don’t like it, go and watch Chelsea,’ Ferguson snaps. ‘Go and see how much it costs for a ticket there.’

  He phrases it terribly. He is trying to point out that it is far more expensive somewhere like Stamford Bridge and that the supporters shouldn’t jump to conclusions about the Glazers hiking prices. But he puts it so clumsily that it comes out as if he is saying: ‘Well, if you don’t want to support Manchester United you can always sod off to Chelsea.’

  The fans hold their ground for a few more minutes before shaking their heads and turning to go. ‘You’re out of order,’ they tell him. Ferguson stares back then turns to the twenty or so journalists who have made the trip. We are making notes and he realises we have seen and heard everything.

  BUDAPEST

  24.8.05

  Debrecen 0

  Manchester United 3

  Champions League qualifier, second leg

  On foreign trips the press are allowed to fly with the team. The club are happy to have a ‘united front’, although we are aware it is a source of irritation to Ferguson and a privilege he occasionally threatens to take away from us. At least once he has raised it with the board of directors, presenting a case for us to be left to fend for ourselves. The directors are reluctant to take him on but they don’t understand why he has such a problem. We sit at the back of the plane, the players sit at the front, and the curtains are pulled across. It might as well be a steel shutter.

  His grievance is that we delay them before flights home. After matches the team travel straight to the airport, with a police escort, as soon as they have showered and dressed. Before we leave the stadium we have to write our final-edition match reports and quotes pieces and there are no flashing blue lights in front of our coach. The players are tired, they have training the next day and they just want to get home and into bed. We are keeping them waiting.

  We are even later than usual tonight and there isn’t a great deal of friendly interaction as we make our way apologetically down the plane. Some of the directors nod hellos but behind them, in the players’ seats, there are at least two comments along the lines of ‘about bloody time’. Ferguson is midway through the Daily Express crossword and we shuffle past, trying not to bang him with our laptop bags.

  We can see the newspapers in front of him:

  Ferguson hit by four-letter volley

  Ferguson clashes with fans over Glazer

  Fergie tells fans: go support Chelsea

  Fergie’s row

  We move further down the plane. Past Ryan Giggs, Edwin van der Sar, Rio Ferdinand, Paul Scholes. But Gary Neville is out of his seat, holding up a copy of the Daily Mirror. The closer we get to him the more obvious it becomes that he is waiting for us. There is an apprehensive hush. Then David McDonnell, the Mirror’s Manchester correspondent, tries to get past and suddenly Neville is shouting. United have won, qualifying for the Champions League, but Neville looks as if he has lost the biggest match of his life.

  ‘What was that shit you wrote about me this morning?’

  McDonnell is knocked back on his heels. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’ve misquoted me. When have I spoken to the papers for you to be quoting me?’

  He is pointing to an article, on the inside back page, that quotes him saying United should not think about winning the European Cup until they have shown they can win the Premiership.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gary, but I haven’t misquoted you about anything,’ McDonnell says. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding. Those quotes were sent directly to my office by Press Association. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  Press Association, or PA, is a national news agency that provides a 24-hour service for every arm of the media at press conferences, matches and other newsworthy events. Most newspapers have only one correspondent in the main football regions (i.e. Manchester, Merseyside, Yorkshire, the north-east and the Midlands) and maybe three or four in London. PA provides extra manpower. As part of the service, it monitors MUTV and distributes the players’ quotes to the newspapers.

  Neville shouts: ‘Don’t give me that. You’ve misquoted me. Do you hear me? Don’t ever fucking misquote me again.’

  McDonnell tries to deny it again but Neville shouts him down. ‘You’re lying to me…’

  Everyone on the plane is watching. The sponsors. The air hostesses. The directors. The players. The manager. Diana Law tries to intervene but Neville isn’t listening.

  McDonnell starts to move off. ‘I think you should calm down, Gary. Nobody’s lying. Those quotes came from PA and I can prove it to you.’

  ‘FUCK OFF!’

  Diana Law: ‘Gary! No!’

  Alan Smith is in the next row, laughing. ‘Whooh! Whoooooh!’

  But Neville has a face like murder. ‘Don’t ever make up quotes from me again.’

  We move to the back of the plane and sit there in stunned silence, collectively digesting what has just happened.

  SIX OUT OF TEN

  29.8.05

  Newcastle United 0

  Manchester United 2

  The team have made a good start to the season, maintained today by goals from Rooney and Van Nistelrooy, but things ended so badly on the way back from Budapest that, for once, we are quite happy not to have any contact with Ferguson after the game. Kath, the tea-lady in Newcastle’s press-room, has a freshly brewed pot and a plate of chocolate digestives waiting for him but we know she is wasting her time. She waits and waits then, huffing loudly, clears up her crockery. She has been serving tea at St James’s Park since 1968 and it is obvious she feels put out. ‘What’s he like when they lose?’ she asks.

  We saw him for ten minutes at Carrington yesterday and the events in Hungary were never brought up. Sometimes, though, it’s enough just knowing that he’s in a flaky mood. It was a classroom atmosphere, like detention. Ferguson sat behind a wooden table, brusque and intimidating. We were lined up in two rows of seats, being as polite as we could, our questions designed not to antagonise him, much as you wouldn’t ruffle the fur of a sleeping bear. Our survival instincts have kicked in since Budapest and if that means buttering him up for a week or two then so be it.

  The Neville business is different. We haven’t seen a player throw a tantrum like that since a very wound-up David Beckham had a go at a reporter from the Manchester Evening News for giving him six out of ten after a game against Leeds United a few years ago. It is amazing how seriously the players take those marks. A few years earlier the team bus overtook the same reporter on the motorway and Neville and Beckham came to the window, holding out both hands to indicate that they deserved a ten. On this occasion, Beckham had scored lower than Nicky Butt, who was given a seven, and he never spoke to the Evening News again.

  Neville is generally media-friendly. None of us reported his rant from the other night and we are hoping it won’t turn into a long-term grudge. He is usually one of the players who is OK about talking to the press and his dad often has a drink with us on European trips.

  THE HAIRDRYER

  9.9.05

  So far this season Ferguson has restricted himself to a few mild tremors. But when the pressroom door bangs shut to
day we get the full volcanic eruption. It has been building up and we aren’t particularly surprised. He lets off some steam and hopefully we will be able to start again with a clean slate.

  His complaint is that quotes have appeared in the Daily Express and the Daily Mirror from an old interview in UEFA’s Champions League magazine and he thinks he has been stitched up. He is evidently angry as he takes his seat, and addresses Richard Tanner of the Express and David McDonnell of the Mirror.

  ‘Right, Richard and David, I’ll call you by your first names on this one occasion but, hear this, it’s the only reference I will ever, ever give you.’

  McDonnell, who has been on holiday, is beginning to think he would get the blame for the half-time oranges being sour. He tries to cut in but Ferguson shouts him down.

  ‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT! That shite in your paper, absolute crap…’

  He is remarkable when he gets going: half out of his seat, neck muscles straining, eyes protruding, more swear words than you might hear in an entire afternoon at Old Trafford.

  ‘I don’t give any of you credibility, do you know that?’ he shouts. ‘You talk about wanting to have an association with people here and you wonder why I don’t get on with you? But you’re a fucking embarrassment, a real embarrassment. One of these days the door is going to be shut on you permanently.’

  He is fine for the remainder of the press conference, good-humoured even. His responses are calm and measured and the flares behind his eyes burn themselves out. But he has turned us into a bran-tub of nerves. We are on edge, aware that one question might trigger that outrage reflex again. We have seen it too many times before. All will be well and then someone will ask something slightly too daring, or phrase a sentence badly. He will take it as an affront to his authority and react.