Table Of Content

The author would like to thank his colleagues on the Guardian, in particular Ben Clissitt, and everyone at Aurum Press for their support and advice, especially Natasha Martin. CONTENTS Title Page Dedication Introduction 2005–06 Annus horribilis 2006–07 Annus mirabilis About the Author Index Copyright INTRODUCTION TAKING ON THE WORLD (PART I) He’s an amazing man. Let’s establish that straight away. Sir Alex Ferguson is a manager of uncommon ability. He has brought football of butterfly beauty to Manchester United. He bought Eric Cantona, the rebel with a cause. He nurtured the Golden Generation. He discovered Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, the baby-faced assassin. He signed Wayne Rooney, the assassin-faced baby. He has brought trophies, glory, prestige and the kind of happiness, over twenty-five years, that United supporters once only dreamed of. No one has managed at the highest level for so long. Or with such competitive courage. Nobody has beaten the system like he has and accumulated so many trophies. When Ferguson swept into Old Trafford in 1986 Boris Becker was the teenage Wimbledon champion, Nick Berry was at number one with Every Loser Wins and Steaua Bucharest were in possession of the European Cup. It was the year of Chernobyl and Top Gun, Charlene marrying Scott, Andrew marrying Sarah, Diego Maradona’s ‘Hand of God’ and Wayne Rooney’s first birthday. Ferguson posed in the centre- circle for his first photo-shoot and, behind him, the Stretford End was a concrete terrace with steel fences topped with spikes. A quarter of a century on, Old Trafford is a gleaming all-seater stadium, the capacity has risen from 55,000 to 76,000 and the ‘Keep Off The Grass’ signs are in five different languages. It has been an epic journey of 6 a.m. starts, nerve-shredding football and relentless drama. He has outlasted thirteen different Manchester City managers. He has seen off Thatcher, Major, Blair and Brown, and could easily add Cameron to that list as well. He has been knighted and immortalised and he has turned United into one of the most prolific trophy- grabbing machines in the modern game. In his own words, he has ‘knocked Liverpool off their fucking perch’. Twelve league titles, two European Cups, five FA Cups, one European Cup Winners’ Cup, four League Cups. Plus enough individual awards to fill a museum. Those of us who are football writers in Manchester should never forget how lucky we are to have witnessed it. Even in those moments when it feels like the hardest club in the world to cover. We journalists regale our friends with anecdotes and enjoy the certain social cachet that comes from dealing with him. We have boxed away stories for our grandchildren and our office walls are lined with signed books and photographs. But we know, deep down, that he doesn’t like what we do. Trying to establish a relationship with him is a continuous, Forth Road Bridge process. We’d love to swap numbers, to high-five after important victories, to bear-hug and clink wine glasses. But, deep down, we have all had to accept there is never going to be a day when he invites us back to his for scones and tea and some Scottish hospitality. Or a press conference when he finishes with the words ‘Drink, anyone?’ Ferguson, you quickly learn, has erected a brick wall around himself to keep out the national newspaper journalists who work on his patch. Even in the good times he likes to keep his distance. We see him once, twice, sometimes three times a week, and we travel around the world hanging on his coat-tails, season after season. Yet we are still not sure if we know him properly. He is always that little bit out of reach – which, on reflection, is probably just how he likes it. The caricature is of a flint-faced authority figure, steam shooting out of his ears as he stands in the dugout, menacingly chewing gum, ranting at the fourth official and pointing to his stopwatch. Yet that’s exactly what it is: a caricature. The real Ferguson is far more complex than the tabloid portrayal. He isn’t always ‘fuming’ or ‘exploding’. He doesn’t always ‘slam’ and ‘blast’. We have lost count of the number of times we have arrived for press conferences to find him waltzing with an imaginary partner through the reception area at Carrington, the club’s training ground. Or breaking into song as Kath, the receptionist, hoots with laughter and tells him to shush. On his worst days, he can be dictatorial, hostile and standoffish. But he can also be warm, charming and convivial, with kind edges and an infectious laugh. He would be on any guest-list for a fantasy-football dinner-party XI. Ferguson is a natural storyteller. He has an outstanding memory for the tiniest snippets of information and varied interests beyond the four white lines that have contained much of his life. He has taught himself French using audiocassettes. He has learned how to play the piano. He ‘gets’ jazz. He has a global knowledge when it comes to food and is a connoisseur of fine wines. He is past retirement age, yet he seems to have an immunity to exhaustion. Complete strangers are often astonished about how friendly and charismatic he is. They are struck by how different he seems in real life from how he appears on television or in the press. They talk about a sexagenarian of fierce intellect and a student of human nature with an impressively high IQ and an astute appreciation of what makes other men tick. But then there are times when it is difficult to square his more appealing characteristics with his darker sides – the Ferguson who can be cold and ruthless and, in the vernacular of football, a bit of a bastard. His family probably wouldn’t recognise the grumpy journophobe who could argue a point without even the shadow of a leg to stand on. Or resort to the infamous ‘Hairdryer’ treatment, leaning into your face and shouting with such