The mother of all eruptions came in December 2004, a week after television cameras had caught Wayne Rooney pushing his hand into the face of Taib Ben Haim, the Bolton Wanderers defender, during a match at Old Trafford. Haim had gone in for some pretend agony, as if he had been bludgeoned with a sledgehammer, but Rooney had screwed up. He was facing a misconduct charge from the Football Association and a three-match ban. There was a very uneasy atmosphere as we filed into Ferguson’s press conference.
‘Alex, we have to ask you about the Wayne Rooney incident, him slapping the Bolton player.’
He started off calmly. ‘Well, because it’s Wayne Rooney, because it’s Manchester United, yes, I can understand there is going to be a focus on it. But my bigger concern, and you are not even addressing it, is the Bolton player, what he did. He laid down on that ground pretending he was injured for two whole minutes.’
‘I think we accepted that he did that…’
‘You accepted it…?’
Bang!
‘… WELL YOU’VE NOT FUCKING WRITTEN ENOUGH ABOUT IT! You’re fucking on about Rooney, because he has a wee slap in the face and no matter whatever fucking else matters in the fucking game? You see fucking behaviour like that! He should fucking be up before the FA, not fucking Rooney. You are allowing that fucking cunt to cheat.’
What do you say to a man who is this angry?
‘You’re on about Rooney all the time, why not go and fucking blast him, that fucking Ben Haim? Why Rooney?’
‘He’s probably the most famous…’
‘FUCK OFF! It doesn’t matter. He’s a human being like everybody else. He’s nineteen years of age. Jesus Christ, what do you fucking want? Blood out of the boy? You fucking crucify him every fucking time. He’s a fucking nineteen-year-old boy. Right?’
‘He wasn’t crucified…’
‘A joke it is. Their fucking boy should be up before the FA for that. It’s a fucking disgrace. And I’m not fucking saying anything more about it now. It’s up to you to fucking do it. It’s not for me to do it. Fucking joke he is, lying about, rolling about in fucking agony. Any other player than Rooney you wouldn’t have bothered your arse.’
He was so angry at this point that he swung his arm at the tape recorders on his table and sent them flying into a wall ten feet away. One smashed open. The batteries flew out and scattered across the floor.
‘It’s over, right? You can get out. Press conference finished. You’ve got me to lose my temper. Wonderful!’
The remarkable thing about Ferguson is that he can switch from fury to good humour in the space of sixty seconds. The most innocuous remark can have him laying into a journalist, releasing everything two or three inches from his victim’s face. It goes on for a few minutes and then he will be done. His face will return to its normal shade and he will be asking whether we have any more questions, as if it had never happened. He will finish with a cheery ‘All right boys?’ and clap his hands together to wrap it up, joking that he would rather have a ‘week in jail’ than another five minutes in our company. It is an unnerving process. If you are not the victim, he might even give you a crafty wink or a knowing smile as he ushers everyone out. Then the next time you see him he will act as if it was a trick of our collective imaginations. He never refers back to the same incident. But he never forgets either. It makes reporters think twice before asking something that he might not like.
THE DERBY
10.9.05
Manchester United 1
Manchester City 1
Appearance is important to Ferguson. He usually wears a blazer to games, dark blue with the United crest, sometimes beneath a black overcoat, plus a club tie, pressed trousers and polished black shoes. He likes to be smart and well turned-out. But today, inexplicably, he goes for a cotton tracksuit that seems a size or two too small. It clings to him unflatteringly as he appears on the touchline and the Manchester City fans are on their feet, pointing and cackling.
Tracksuit from Matalan!
Tracksuit from Matalan!
Tracksuit from Matalan!
It is usually the other way round: Ferguson taking the piss out of City. He calls the City of Manchester stadium the ‘Temple of Doom’ and he loves it when Paul Hince, chief sportswriter for the Evening News, turns up to his press conferences. Hince is an old-school Mancunian and devoted City fan who, in the 1960s, was briefly on the club’s books as a pro. He calls Ferguson ‘Sir Taggart’.
Ferguson, in return, uses City’s failures to beat Hince around the head. His favourite line is to tell Hince, who is close to retirement, that he should still get a game. Or, if City have had a run of bad results, he will ask him whether he has remembered his antidepressants and offer to put him in touch with a ‘good counsellor’.
When Hince asked a question on one European trip, Ferguson just burst out laughing. ‘What are you doing here?’ he wheezed. ‘Can’t get into Europe with your own team so you have to latch on to us. Is that it? Well, I’m telling you nowt, you little Blue spy.’
Hince tried again. Ferguson playfully shook his head, telling him not to confuse him with Kevin Keegan (City’s manager at the time). ‘You think you are talking to Kevin, don’t you? And Kevin would give you an answer, wouldn’t he? But you’re not talking to Kevin – and you ain’t getting my team. That’s it, press conference over.’
There is no joking today, though. Ferguson is under a lot of pressure right now, more than he probably cares to let on, and there are the signs of a man who has just gone through a wedding set’s worth of crockery in the dressing room. City are not even a good side. They will be marooned in the bottom half of the table by the end of the season. Yet the rivalry seems to inspire them when they play United. Van Nistelrooy scores first but Joey Barton equalises and Stuart Pearce, Keegan’s successor, is pumping his fists in front of the United fans. There are enough chances for United to win handsomely, but it is City who finish the stronger. In the final few minutes Andy Cole, the former United striker, nearly wins it for the visitors. ‘Blue Moon’, City’s adopted anthem, is echoing around Old Trafford when the final whistle goes.
It is a bad result for United, not just in terms of points but for the morale of their supporters. There are boos at the final whistle and Ferguson looks really down. Chelsea have won their opening five games without conceding a goal and if it is to be United’s year they cannot afford to drop points against middle-of-the-table sides. Manchester City at home is the kind of game they have to win and worryingly, there are signs that the supporters are beginning to doubt the team. Some of the fans behind Ferguson’s dugout let him know exactly what they think of it. As he walks down the tunnel, he is shaking his head. The worry lines on his face stand out like contours on a map.
VILLARREAL
13.9.05
We’re on an early-morning flight to Spain today for United’s opening Champions League group game, against Villarreal at the Estadio El Madrigal. Everyone is excited about the start of a new Champions League campaign and Ferguson is in a jovial mood when we check in at Manchester airport. The players are in their club suits but Gerard Piqué, an eighteen-year-old defender signed from Barcelona’s youth team, doesn’t know how to knot his tie. Blushing, he has to ask if there is anyone who can do it for him. The check-in girls are teasing him and Ferguson is quietly chuckling.
He doesn’t even fake a smile, however, when a Liverpool fan swaggers over at passport control and starts to have some fun at the players’ expense.
‘Eh, lads, how’s your summer been?’ he crows. ‘Mine’s been absolutely mint. Been to Istanbul. Won the European Cup. You wanna hear about it?’
This guy is a moron. He has a sunburnt nose, a pot belly, peroxide hair and a long-suffering wife. He is wearing a white shellsuit, unzipped to show a red T-shirt bearing the words: ‘Liverpool – five European Cups’.
When Wayne Rooney walks past, the loudmouth can’t believe his luck. ‘Wazza lad, do you wanna buy a T-shirt? Might be a bit tight but it’s yours
if you want it.’
Ferguson walks off briskly. He signs a few autographs, ruffles a young boy’s hair, poses for photographs. One girl takes an age getting the camera working on her mobile phone but he sticks around, smiling sympathetically when one or two of his players (Keane, for example) might have made their excuses and left. Ferguson is really good when it comes to meeting the supporters in public.
It is when we arrive at Valencia airport that he drops his bombshell.
His itinerary on European trips has traditionally included a ten-minute briefing, exclusively for the daily newspaper journalists, once we have landed and are waiting for our luggage. But today Ferguson sends a message via Diana Law that the arrangement has been cancelled. He cites what happened with the supporters in Budapest, saying we broke his trust by reporting it and that we have nobody to blame but ourselves.
It is another sign that media relations with Ferguson are going the same way as red telephone boxes. There is still the official Champions League press conference, organised by UEFA, but those airport briefings were precious to us in terms of beating early-evening deadlines. By speaking to him in a private huddle we could also get some exclusive news away from our television or radio rivals. In happier times, he has even been known to turn on broadcast journalists he has caught trying to eavesdrop. He would be quite protective, clearing them off with a flea in their ear. But no more.
RED CARDS AND RED MISTS
14.9.05
Villarreal 0
Manchester United 0
Champions League, Group D
Wayne Rooney gets himself sent off tonight. He is booked for tripping a Spanish player and turns on the referee, breaking into exaggerated, sarcastic applause. It is childish and unnecessary. A second yellow card appears, followed by a red. Even then he wants to prolong the argument. The other players have to usher him away before he makes it even worse. He completely loses the plot.
It is usually very hard for Ferguson to see his players in a bad light. Unless someone has thrown a killer punch and knocked an opponent clean out he nearly always says the referee got it wrong or that he needs to see it on video. He defends them out of loyalty because, in the long term, he thinks they will repay that loyalty.
Tonight, though, we can tell from his body language that Rooney will be in for it in the dressing room. Albert Morgan, the kit man, is despatched from the dugout to shepherd Rooney down the tunnel and Ferguson deliberately blanks him as they pass on the touchline. United have been on top for most of the game but, a man down, they have a desperate battle to hold on for a draw. Rooney’s petulance has cost them any chance of winning.
The press conference afterwards is in a whitewashed room in the bowels of the stadium. It is sweaty and airless and buzzing with mosquitoes, and Ferguson’s face is red enough for us to suspect he has been shouting in the dressing room.
‘In the circumstances, Alex, you must be pleased to have hung on for a draw, but can we ask you first for your thoughts on Wayne’s sending-off?’
He chooses his words carefully. ‘I think Wayne reacts to injustices. He felt it was a wrongful booking and he reacted. The fact is, however, you can’t applaud a referee like that. He’s given himself no chance whatsoever, especially with that referee. We’ve had problems with him before, y’know?’
‘Do you think Wayne invited the red card then?’
His reply is loaded with exasperation. ‘What have I just said to you?’
‘We’ve seen this behaviour quite a lot from Wayne. Is it time for him to cut this sort of thing out of his game? He’s been playing long enough to know what’s right and what’s wrong.’
‘Oh yeah, he’s been playing a really long time – two years, is it? Really long … really long…’
‘Well, long enough, surely?’
‘Listen, he’s a young lad. He’s nineteen. We hope, through maturity, that these things evaporate. The important thing is to retain his good points and eradicate the bad ones …’
Someone’s mobile goes off – Cock-a-doodle-doo! Incredibly, a Spanish journalist answers it.
‘Hola.’
This guy is jabbering away at a hundred words per minute, apparently oblivious to the fact that there is a press conference going on. Other reporters are trying to shush him but he isn’t paying attention. And Ferguson is gaping, scarcely believing what he sees, blood pressure 170 and counting. The next question could easily tip him over the edge.
‘Has Wayne apologised, Alex?’
‘Right, I’ve said enough about that,’ he says. ‘I’d like to talk about something else, if you don’t mind.’
Subject closed.
YOU WOULDN’T PUNCH A MAN IN RED-TINTED GLASSES?
16.9.05
Ferguson has fallen out with MUTV. He has been tipped off that while we were in Spain one of the presenters, Paul Anthony, broke ranks and apparently indicated on air that United should change their tactics to 4-4-2. Ferguson has developed a fondness for 4-5-1 this season, with Rooney shunted out to the left wing, and Anthony suggested it was too negative. He was merely repeating what every journalist in Manchester has been writing but Ferguson has taken it badly, as if he has suddenly found out his best friends have been bad-mouthing him behind his back. He is refusing to speak to anyone at MUTV until he gets an apology and a promise it won’t happen again.
Even by Ferguson’s standards this is extraordinary. MUTV is known in media circles as ‘Pravda TV’. A station where interviews are about as demanding as Hello! magazine. The general rule for MUTV presenters is to agree with everything Ferguson says and explode with laughter every time he makes a joke. If he were caught stealing flowers from Southern Cemetery, they would find some way of defending him. If he landed a right hook on Arsène Wenger’s chin, they would argue he was provoked. For Ferguson to refuse to speak to MUTV is not like Tony Blair turning down a one-onone with Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight. It is Blair refusing to be interviewed by Ant and Dec because one of them looked at him in a funny way.
The issue is a familiar one for anyone in the media who has covered United for any length of time – that Ferguson weighs each ton of praise as nothing beside a hundredweight of criticism.
After the Manchester City game Paul Parker, a former United player now working as one of MUTV’s pundits, criticised the decision to leave out Ryan Giggs. Lou Macari, another pundit and ex-player, has made it clear he would rather United go back to 4-4-2. Paddy Crerand, who won a European Cup medal with United in 1968 and has the reddesttinted glasses of them all, says the same. And now Anthony, a man with no football background, has questioned whether playing with only one striker goes against the club’s attacking traditions. Ferguson has been working it over in his mind, getting increasingly wound up, and he has decided that MUTV, and Anthony in particular, need to be taught a sharp lesson.
It is ludicrous, of course. Anthony might have touched a nerve but surely Ferguson could have pulled him up about it in private. An apology would have been forthcoming, presumably. Anthony could have explained that he was a fan and that he cared deeply about the club. And that could have been the end of it, without anyone else knowing.
Instead, we have the crazy situation where Ferguson is boycotting a television station operated by the club and watched exclusively by its own supporters. It’s the first time anything like this has happened with MUTV. The station is used to getting privileged access and Anthony, we’re reliably informed, is having a terrible time.
POLITICS
18.9.05
Liverpool 0
Manchester United 0
There is talk in the pressbox today that David Gill is going to have to involve himself in sorting out Ferguson’s differences with MUTV. Gill is a good negotiator. In theory, he should be in a position to stand up to Ferguson and tell him to snap out of it. It is not a conversation he will necessarily look forward to, but it is one that needs to take place. Because, as it stands, Ferguson has made it very clear that he is not in the mood for making up.
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The interesting thing is that most of the supporters seem to be on Anthony’s side. United won the European Cup, scattering all before them, by playing in a 4-4-2 formation and it has been baffling that Ferguson should change to a more conservative approach. Ferguson is an admirer of the top Spanish and Italian teams and his Portuguese assistant, Carlos Queiroz, has had spells at Sporting Lisbon and Real Madrid. Together, they have decided that the team should adopt a more continental style, with Keane operating as a holding player in a five-man midfield and Van Nistelrooy operating as a lone striker. This is a different United – more methodical, less gung-ho – and they have managed only five shots on target in their last three games. They have not scored in 225 minutes of football and, to be brutally honest, they have not looked like scoring. They are seven points behind Chelsea already and the fans are starting to question Ferguson in a way they have not done for years. On the internet messageboards some of them have even been campaigning for him to go. They are in the minority, but it is still shocking to see Ferguson, the master manager, getting so much flak, and sometimes abuse, from his own supporters.
A draw at Anfield is a satisfactory result but it is another drab and defensive performance. And, with five minutes to go, things get even worse. Keane goes into a 50-50 and feels a sharp pain in his left foot. He carries on for a few minutes but eventually he gives in to the pain. The X-rays confirm his fears: his third metatarsal is broken.
This is the One: Sir Alex Ferguson: The Uncut Story of a Football Genius Page 4
