Harry Redknapp’s Desert Island Discs
Basically, at the end of the day, the bottom line is this: I’m the sort of man what likes music what’s got a good tune I can hum to myself in the motor, drivin’ back and forth from disappointin’ home results.
I don’t care what it means to the lads in the dressin’ room, the missus, the boy Jamie, or me business associates. That may seem a bit, like, selfish – but I’m a man what knows what’s what, and what I know is that Sham 69’s Hersham Boys is the name of the first record I want on that playlist when I go out there into that studio.
Forget about your Brown Girl in the Ring by your Boney M, or anything by your bleedin’ Gap Band for that matter. The last time I heard Oops Upside Yer Head I was in a lift with a business associate. I had one of me bleedin’ panic attacks when he slid to the floor and invited me to do that stupid rowing dance Bonzo and Brooking used to do at West Ham’s end of season bash at Hollywood’s in Romford. Couple of bleedin’ clowns.
My next record, is the theme to the popular 70s crime drama Target. I’m big pals with Patrick Mower – we goes back a long way to the days when I was managing Bournemouth and running me A2B2C mini cab business out of Southend. Once, as a favour for a favour, he came down to open our new stand dressed in the combat jacket what he wore in the show. The kids loved it, apart from one ignorant litle bastard what chucked a hot dog at him – there was red sauce and mustard all over his barnet, not to mention the bleedin’ jacket. The BBC wardrobe department went totally apeshit, apparently.
I took a party of business associates for a proper night out at the dogs last week. It was an absolute blinder: we all copped a win and afterwards we went to a karaoke bar. Big Ron Atkinson got up and did me final choice, Mac the Knife, and didn’t make a bad job of it as it goes.
I’m not a great reader, but I’d have to say that if pushed, the one book I’d take with me is the Exchange & Mart Annual, 1978.
For me luxury, I’d like a goalkeeper who don’t act like a big old tart whenever the ball enters the six-yard box – there again I’d also like to do that Raquel Welsh, but that ain’t going to happen in a hurry, neither.