On the Sheffield derby
Did Wednesday turn up then? I didn’t bloody see them. How can anyone fail to see that we 99.991% of the game? And that ref – he must have the fluff from Terry Yorath’s pocket stuck to his hair. Talk about rough house – they’re just animals, Wednesday, snapping at the feet of my graceful gazelles all ninety minutes they were.
The Wednesday fans? While the Unitedites sang from minute one to ninety ( er, can’t remember exactly what they sang – summat about chips probably) I didn’t hear the Wednesday at all, apart from when they were slagging me off. Shows how much they know – I do have a birth certificate, and on it says we had no money, no house, no shoes, no nowt and look at me now. Bet Terry bloody Yorath had shoes – no wonder I’m such an expert on verrucahs.
On the price of cabbages
See, I’m a man who knows about the going rate for fresh vegetables. When I was in the grocery trade we didn’t mither about genetically modified turnips. We never had broccoli and courgettes and all that poncey nosh you get for your tea at Baldwins Omega. And you could buy cabbages for a shilling a dozen, and sell them to families who had nowt for two bob each. People had to learn the hard way about the value of money then. Not like bloody now.
So, when I’m wheeling my trolley round Tesco’s with the lovely wife’s shopping list in my Captain Blade kagoule pocket it fair makes my blood boil to see them charging 47 bloody pence for a cabbage. If the price of cabbages had been what it is now, I’d never have signed Keith Curle.
On the state of young men’s toes
Now, I make the United youngsters work bloody hard, not like Wednesday with that “ once round Hillsborough Park and then all back to Gerald’s for some good shit “ stuff, let me tell you the best shit in Sheffield is yours truly. But when they are getting changed and they take their socks off their feet are a bloody disgrace. It’s not just the ingrowing toenails and the crusty old corns, it’s the foot jewellery and the tattoos. Michael Brown’s got a ring in his big toe ( or is that the other way round?) and Paul Peschisolido’s got his name tattoo’d on his foot ( or at least that’s where it starts - it carries right on up his leg and all I can say is that it’s lucky his name ends in “o”).
Anyway, the point is, people think chiropodists are only there for old people and adolescent girls (a bit like Simon Tracey). Take care of your old plates of meat and they’ll take care of you is what I always say (although no one did so I was forced to become a football manager).
On Gabby Logan
Shows how ashamed people are of Wednesday doesn’t it? Terry Yorath’s daughter forced to change her name so that Andy Townsend and them don’t realise who her dad is. Imagine having to marry that Johnny Logan remember What’s Another Year? – I sing it every May when we make the play-offs) Just so’s people don’t make the connection. It’s a bloody disgrace.
My daughters Neilatta, Neilibeth and Wombelina are all proud of their father and his name; they’ve only moved to Tibet because the weather here is so bloody awful.
On football club boards
See, where Wednesday go wrong is having people who know nowt about football on their board. They’re all bloody fancy-dans with their casinos, and law firms and a few bob from the metal trade. Down at the Lane we don’t hold with all that so it fair makes my blood boil when people think we’re an amateur outfit with the business sense of a failed greengrocer.
So now we’ve brought in the film star Sean Bean. Beany, as we’re already calling him, has the tattoo, the put-on accent and the rugged good looks to show the world we are moving on up into the 21st century. What a professional, dedicated, reasonable manager like me needs to hear when I’m asking for £2m to buy yet another big time flop from Birmingham City is someone who simply says “ Ooh Neil, dost tha’ want t’go to t’hut mah lady?”
Keep Smiling!!