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

by Daniel Taylor

These briefings take the form of a series of question-and-answer sessions in a room to the side of the reception area. It is a pretty nondescript place, with a couple of rubber plants, a coffee machine and four rows of seats. First he speaks to Sky. Then it is the turn of the radio reporters. The daily newspapers go next and, finally, he sees the Sundays. It is a set routine, replicated at every Premiership club, and it takes about an hour out of his week.

  Today, though, he drops his bombshell. There is to be a new venue and a new format – an all-in press conference with every arm of the media squashed into an upstairs room at the youth academy building, 100 yards the other side of the car park.

  He is blaming the coverage of the seventy-four-second conference, the way it has been reported throughout the media as a sign that the pressure is getting to him. He says he is no longer willing to satisfy our different requirements and from now on he will see the lot of us in one go and for no more than ten minutes per week. There will be no press conferences whatsoever before midweek games, no one-on-one player interviews for the rest of the season. And, in addition, the Evening News will no longer be allowed to ring him or send reporters to Carrington separately, a privilege that has always been granted to them exclusively in the past. It is described as a ‘trial’, but everyone who is there knows the rules have been set in stone. Diplomatic relations have been suspended, as they say in countries on the verge of war.

  We are genuinely shocked. We think he has overreacted, that he should have had it out with the individual journalists and sports editors who have upset him rather than punishing everyone together. But Ferguson’s argument is that no other manager in the country has to put up with the crap that is thrown in his direction. There have been too many times, he says, when we have ganged up on him. He is tired of worrying about what he says being twisted. Tired of our two-facedness. Tired of the way we smile and then stab. He has been falling out with journalists all his adult life and he is tired of the same old arguments. Tired of falling out, making up, falling out, making up.

  ‘Why should I talk to people who have been slaughtering me?’ he asked David Meek, the former Manchester Evening News reporter and one of his closest journalistic friends, recently. ‘Going out of the Champions League has triggered not just criticism, which I can accept, but personal abuse aimed at my position as manager.’

  Diana Law explains his grievances to us and we gather in a little huddle, digesting the implications, suitably disheartened. This is a very bad day in our professional lives. Everything newsworthy from his press conferences will now go straight out on Sky Sports’s rolling news channel. In newspaper terms, it will look dated by the time it appears in print the following day. Nor will we be able to go off the record with him – not with half a dozen television cameras filming everything he says. Visiting Ferguson for his Friday briefings has always been the highlight of the working week. It is never going to be the same again.

  The weird thing is that Ferguson drives. At 11.59 a.m. he comes out of the double doors of the main Carrington building, climbs into his Audi S8, swings out of the car park, puts it into second gear, bears right past the groundsman’s hut and pulls into the nearest parking spot (the disabled one) to the youth academy. Then, once his ten minutes is up, he makes the same John Prescott-style journey back. It is a round trip of no more than 200 yards.

  In happier times, we would be able to tease him a little, ask whether his legs were giving up, how long it would be before he was eligible for free bus travel. That is out of the question today. His press conference is humourless and bland, devoid of friendly interaction. Ten minutes of strained questioning, with television and radio interviewers desperate to be heard and frequently talking over one another. No flow, no spontaneity.

  Ferguson is sour and unhelpful. He takes his seat and pours a glass of water. It’s sparkling, he prefers still.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  BUGGED

  24.12.05

  Throughout history there have always been intermittent problems between managers of Manchester United and the press. Dave Sexton never made any secret of his distrust of newspapermen and Tommy Docherty once declared: ‘There’s a place for journalists, they just haven’t dug it yet.’ Yet nobody can remember a manager’s relationship with the press completely breaking down and it doesn’t make us feel very good that the first time might be on our watch.

  What we have today is a man who comes into his press conference with the expression of a vegan going into TGI Fridays. Ferguson drives again. He parks in the disabled bay and we can tell, as soon as he gets out of his car and we see his face, that it is going to be another waste of time. He might as well make a W for ‘Whatever’ with his fingers.

  Ole Gunnar Solskjaer is fit again and a reporter from the Sun asks Ferguson what it will mean for the team to have him back.

  ‘You tell me,’ comes the reply. ‘You’re supposed to be the expert.’

  Another reporter asks for an update on Gabriel Heinze’s fitness, saying he has ‘read somewhere that he might be back for the World Cup’.

  ‘Where did you read that?’ Ferguson replies. ‘A comic?’

  After the Chelsea game the Sun ran a front-page story – ‘What a cheeky bugger!’ – about the dressing rooms at Old Trafford being secretly bugged. The newspaper claimed to have been offered the tapes of Ferguson’s team talk by ‘a middle man demanding tens of thousands of pounds’ but said it had refused to pay, handing them over to United instead. The club held an internal investigation and the local CID was called in. Between them, they worked out that someone must have planted the bug on one of the organised tours of the stadium. But Ferguson had a different theory. ‘It was the Sun,’ he said. ‘I’m convinced of it. They did it all right. They bugged us. They were behind it.’

  When the Sun’s correspondent tried to object, Ferguson cut him dead. ‘Don’t even think about telling me it’s not true. I know exactly what happened and it won’t happen again, believe me.’

  Ferguson, it seems to us, is on the brink of refusing to do any more press conferences at all. There are voices telling him he is not getting any younger, that he no longer has the magician’s touch. He is trying to ignore them – but it has reached the point where he feels the volume of criticism has become intolerable. He is blaming the supporters’ criticism of him on what they read in the newspapers rather than what they see on the pitch.

  ‘I take exception when the press try to drive a wedge between the supporters and the team,’ he says. ‘It has been reported, for example, that the crowd booed the team at the end of the Everton game, suggesting that our supporters had seriously turned on us. Certainly there were a few boos, but what else would you expect after a disappointing performance?’

  The press, he says, have blown it all out of proportion. ‘It’s the fans’ way of expressing their feelings when we fall below expectations. Supporters don’t like losing and a few are always going to let us know exactly how they feel. I can live with that. It’s a reminder that we have to do better. Our home form has been pretty poor and it has blunted our attempt to challenge Chelsea. So I can understand the frustration showing itself in a few boos.’

  If only it were that simple. The Christmas issue of Red News is out today and it is as festive as a snowball in the face. In fifty-two pages not a single contributor advocates that Ferguson should stay beyond the end of the season. The fanzine describes him as having ‘nothing left to offer in terms of tactics, changes or inspiration’. It talks about him leaving at the end of the season as if it were a fait accompli:

  It will be gut-wrenchingly sad, especially for those of us who have only ever known Sir Alex as manager. But maybe that’s just emotion stopping us from saying what needs to be done. The heart can’t rule the head if it’s the right thing to do for the club’s future. After so much motivating, after working his magic on so many players, on so many magical journeys for so many supporters, he looks unable to conjure like he once did. In a world full of hungry
young managers he seems no longer able to fight back. Fergie looks old and that’s because he is now. He looked a beaten man on the bench against Benfica. A forlorn figure, slumped back in his chair, looking lost.

  BURTON

  8.1.06

  Burton Albion 0

  Manchester United 0

  FA Cup third round

  Peter Schmeichel has been offering his thoughts about where things have gone wrong.

  ‘From where I’m looking,’ he says, ‘the players seem interested only in cars and who has the biggest diamond. The team lacks personality. They had that in Roy Keane but the only one with that kind of personality now is Wayne Rooney. I’m thinking about players who could take the club forward. Ronaldo? No chance. Park? No chance. Ferdinand? No chance. Without Rooney, United would be a very ordinary team.’

  Burton have been building up to this game for weeks. When we collect our press passes from a little window in the main stand we get a free gift, a jar of Marmite from the local factory, as a souvenir of ‘the biggest day in the club’s history’. The programmes are handed out and when we run our fingers down the list of Burton’s previous matches it is easy to see why they are so excited. One fixture in particular stands out – a Birmingham Senior Cup tie at home to Romulus FC, of the Midland Football Alliance, in front of 119 people.

  Burton have a shiny new stadium and a familiar manager in Nigel Clough. They are a touch more refined than the traditional non-league side – but only just. The club has a sponsorship deal with Bovril, a captain who doubles up as a builder and a ground named after a tyre factory. Today is only the third time they have reached the third round of the FA Cup. When Clough pops into the pressroom an hour before kick-off to say hello to all the journalists and thank them for coming – most unlike his father and, indeed, the opposition manager – he admits to fearing the worst. He doesn’t expect to win or anything silly like that, but he hopes they give a good account of themselves. ‘We don’t want to get thrashed,’ he says, ‘but there’s a chance it could happen.’

  What happens next is the classic David and Goliath cup story.

  When the game gets under way, it is immediately obvious something is wrong. The pitch is bumpy and gloopy and covered in sand and there is a bad vibe about Ferguson’s players. He has picked a deliberately weakened side, promoting Richie Jones, Gerard Piqué and Giuseppe Rossi from the reserves, leaving out the likes of Ferdinand, Giggs and Van Nistelrooy, and there is a lazy vibe. They are playing as if they just have to turn up to qualify for the next round.

  Burton have a shot that is cleared off the line. Then another one. They start getting hold of the ball, knocking it around, left and right, and as the players in yellow and black start to gain in confidence, there is gallows humour in the away end.

  We’re being outplayed by Burton

  We’re being outplayed by Burton

  Lots of teams start games sluggishly. Except that United’s bad start becomes a bad half and then a bad hour. Suddenly seventy minutes have gone and they still haven’t had a chance of note. Ferguson is starting to look seriously agitated, out of his dugout, and the humour in the away end is slowly making way for anger.

  Fergie, Fergie, sort it out!

  Fergie, sort it out!

  The final twenty minutes are fraught. It dawns on United that they are in danger of being made a laughing stock and they pile forward. But Burton have their chances too. Back come United, trying to save face, but time is up. Too late, too late. Photographers are haring on to the pitch to get their celebratory pictures of these strange, unfamiliar, non-league heroes.

  Clough describes it as a ‘miracle’. The club’s groundsman, a stocky guy in a blue parka, is weeping with joy, blubbing into a soggy handkerchief. As United’s players trudge apologetically towards the away end, we sit in stunned silence in the row of seats that passes as a temporary pressbox, trying to take it all in and saying ‘Unbelievable’ over and over again. A chant sweeps round the ground and we realise we might never witness another moment like this in our lives.

  Are you Tamworth?

  Are you Tamworth?

  Are you Tamworth in disguise?

  When Ferguson comes out for his interviews he looks baffled and embarrassed by what he has just seen. He knows it is going to make the headlines on News at Ten and that the shit is going to hit the fan – again. He is smiling, but it is the smile of a man who has just been punched in the face and is pretending everything is all right.

  He talks to MUTV and Sky about how great it is for a Conference club to get a replay at Old Trafford. He is desperate to put some positive spin on it, however much his face betrays him. ‘I didn’t expect a replay,’ he says. ‘The whole nation probably expected us to win, but we were up against committed opponents on a difficult pitch and these shock results can happen. It’s the FA Cup, I suppose, and fortunately we didn’t get a more severe shock. At least we’ve got a second game to put it right. We’re still in the cup, that’s the main thing.’

  He heads back to the dressing room and we sincerely doubt whether he is so philosophical and understanding with his players. United will win the replay, of course, but the point is that a replay should never have been necessary. Not against a side that is fourteenth in the Conference. Not against a team that gets 119 people for some matches. Goliath should really be kicking David’s ass.

  Ten minutes later there is a knock at the dressing-room door. A queue of Burton players has formed and, very politely, they ask if they can get some souvenirs, in particular Rooney’s autograph. They are giggling like nervous schoolboys, as if they can’t quite believe what is happening. Rooney comes out, freshly shampooed, and they nudge each other and thank him profusely. They do their Match of the Day interviews, staring nervously into the television cameras. Then it is time to celebrate properly and they arrange to meet at a pub on the outskirts of town. The cry goes up: ‘Everybody who wants a drink, head for the Beacon.’

  By the time the first journalists arrive the players are already getting stuck into their third pint. There is a plate of corned beef sandwiches, with dry cucumber slices on the side. A golden Labrador is asleep in the corner, with a yellow and black Burton scarf tied round its neck. It is a typical scene from a pub team’s Sunday lunchtime. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and there is beery talk about where United went wrong.

  The captain, Darren Stride, says it is a question of desire. ‘You could sense their lads didn’t fancy it. You could tell a few of them didn’t want to be out there. It was as if they didn’t want to get hurt. We were getting the ball down, passing it and creating chances. It was them, not us, who resorted to knocking it over the top.’

  Burton is a brewery town and a specially commissioned pint called Fergie’s Fury will be on tap in the next few days. There is talk about printing T-shirts for the replay carrying his quote: ‘The whole nation expected us to win.’ Tomorrow, news crews will be on their way from all around the world. This is what happens when United leave themselves exposed to embarrassment. Everyone wants a piece of it.

  UNKNOWN PLEASURES

  24.1.06

  Manchester United 2

  Blackburn Rovers 1

  Carling Cup semi-final

  The Carling Cup is the ginger stepchild of football trophies. To Ferguson, this competition used to be an afterthought, cluttering up an already congested fixture list and getting in the way of more important matters. He would play his reserves, they would lose in the third or fourth round and, unblushingly, he would move on. Even when York City knocked them out, winning 4–3 over two legs in 1995, there was no sense of prolonged anger or disappointment. United had other priorities, and he would never apologise for playing his kids – even when an MP once complained about it in the House of Commons.

  This season, Ferguson cannot be so choosy. United have beaten Barnet, West Bromwich Albion and Birmingham City to get to the semi-finals and tonight they put out their strongest team in an effort to reach the final. Ferguson is not
going to make the same mistake he made against Burton. It is his most attacking line-up, with Giggs and Rooney playing as advanced midfielders, and Louis Saha partnering Van Nistelrooy in attack. Wigan Athletic, sixth in the Premiership, will be the opposition at the Millennium Stadium, six months into their first-ever Premiership season, and suddenly, almost freakishly, Ferguson is talking about the Carling Cup as if everyone has misjudged it all these years. ‘It is a great cup competition, one we have always enjoyed,’ he says. ‘The Carling Cup represents a great opportunity to mark this season as a successful one. I’m delighted to be in the final.’

  The club certainly need a lift after the embarrassment of Burton. It is still strange, though, to hear Ferguson banging the Carling Cup drum. The fans seem genuinely appreciative of a good performance, with Saha and Van Nistelrooy getting the decisive goals, but it doesn’t alter the fact that the season has come down to a battle for the consolation prizes. Or that the Carling Cup, to quote one of the fans’ websites, is ‘a $50 hooker compared to the supermodels we used to date’. The internet messageboards have become a battlefield for pro- and anti-Ferguson factions recently. The phone-ins have been crackling with angry callers and the fanzine writers have been bitingly, and increasingly, cruel. United We Stand’s new-year edition bore the front cover: ‘Goodbye and good riddance to our annus horribilis’.

  This is where Ferguson could do with some better PR. He never speaks to the fanzines these days and it has become rare for him to attend official supporters’ functions. Yet when he joined the club in 1986 he went out of his way to identify with the fans. He was a regular guest at meetings of the Independent Manchester United Supporters’ Association and his message was one of unity. He wore a gold ring with the club’s Red Devil motif and spoke of his concerns that workingclass supporters were being priced out of the game. He described himself as the ‘bridge’ between the club and the fans.