Sir Alex Ferguson’s Desert Island Discs
End of the day, making peace with the BBC and being asked to do Desert Island Discs means bugger all.
To the Corporation, however, it means everything. End of the day, they need me more than I need them. How many European Cups has Mark Thompson won? How many League titles has 5Live disc jockey, Nicky Campbell secured? How many Semi-Finals of the Sherpa Van Trophy has Stephen Fry lead his team to, only to be cruelly denied by a hotly-disputed injury-time goal (that ref’s still in my ‘Book of Shitebags’)?
My first record is The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel – as it reminds me of the sound you hear when I bump into 5Live’s Alan Green after a game. (Number four in the Book of Shitebags, as well being a total bastard.)
One of the biggest problems we have in football nowadays is that TV has become far too powerful. I was saying this during a discussion on Sky’s Goals On Sunday, just the other day. My agent said it’d be good to go on and get my side of the argument across, and besides the fee pays for this month’s nose anti-discolouration procedure. I also brought the subject up on Roy Keane’s Two-Footed Tackle Compound Fracture Bloopers, on MUTV later that day. That was merely a warm-up for the vastly superior Alex Ferguson Hairdryer Half-Hour, in which I continued to lambast television bosses and chatted to Liza Goddard at length about zonal marking and her time on Bergerac.
My next record is When The Devil Went Down To Georgia, by Charlie Daniels. As a footnote to this, when we chose to sign up with the television companies, we shook hands with the Devil, although I should point out that the Devil did give me a free Sky HD subscription and some M&S vouchers, which I thought was quite a nice gesture on his part.
To relax at night, there’s nothing I like more than to sip on a wee drop of malt whisky and have Pam Ayres come over and recite poetry to myself and the youth team, who are kept under armed guard in my utility room. I’ve installed a giant litter tray for them, which is lined with copies of Kenny Dalgish’s autobiography. Every night, just before bedtime, I tell them the cautionary tale of Lee Sharpe, who at one time had everything a young footballer could dream of – a bright future, amazing talent and Martin Buchan’s old parking space. Then I tell them how it all went horribly wrong and that he’s currently appearing on ITV2’s Celebrity Blowjob Island and the lads let out a loud ‘oooooh!’ in unison. And that’s that. If you want my final choice of record, then you’ll have to go and talk to Mike Phelan.
The one book I’d take with me would have to be my Clydeside & Drumchapel Building Society savings book, from 1973.
End of the day, my luxury item would be Juan Sebsatien Veron, who could pay me back some of the £28.1m I spent on him, by letting me hollow him out and use him as a canoe.