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“This is Gary Richardson on Five Live’s Sportsweek. More on the World Cup now. Joining us from Germany is former Nottingham Forest legend Regan Robinson. He also managed Notts County of course. He’s been part of the BBC’s expert panel covering the tournament, and he’s on the line from Berlin. Good morning to you”.
RR: Good morning Gary.
GR: Well it’s all over and done with now. The prizes have been handed out. But there’s still bitter recrimination about England’s performance. You’ve been sharply critical on the television. Where did it all go wrong?
RR: (laughs) Well where didn’t it go wrong? I think it’s the only time I’ve ever seen where a team has got every single thing wrong at a major championship.
GR: Whose fault is that though? Is it the players or the manager?
RR: Well listen Gary. I’ve been a manger so I always hesitate to wade in on these things. Even though I had reasonable success, the amount of criticism I got was just unbelievable. But it has to be said. Sven, and by extension his team, were a complete and utter shambles in this tournament. The players were good enough to win it, and how he managed to turn them from a silk purse into a sow’s ear is quite extraordinary.
GR: What was it specifically though? Tactics? Selection?
RR: Both. 4-5-1 was never going to work. A babe in arms could have seen that. Not that he could do anything about it because he only took four strikers, and one of them got injured. Another one he picked but wouldn’t play. And not that he would do anything about it, because he was afraid to drop Frank Lampard, who was truly and utterly terrible. Quite frankly, they were tactically bankrupt, and there’s no other place for the responsibility to rest other than on the shoulders of the manager. That’s crystal clear.
GR: You think Walcott was a mistake then?
RR: Not at all. But if you’re going to pick him, you have to be prepared to play him. Gary it was a mess. This might sound harsh on Sven, but he really did England no favours at all, and it was the most inept display of coaching I have ever seen. No coaching at all would have been better than incompetent coaching.
GR: How about Beckham relinquishing the captaincy? Is that the right thing for him to have done?
RR: I think that was the right thing for him to do, but he should have gone the whole hog and packed it in as a player as well. I’m not one of those who criticises David, he’s been terrific for England. However, everyone’s time comes eventually. It’s time to move on. And I say that with all due respect to a guy who’s been a wonderful servant for England. He’s no longer worth his place. The way Lennon played when he came on was a death knell for David’s international career. I just hope Steve McClaren doesn’t bottle it and refuse to drop one of his old mates. He needs to be decisive and ruthless on that one. Unfortunately, those decisions are the hardest ones a manger will ever have to make.
GR: Finally on another note, some people might be surprised to see the speculation in today’s papers linking you with a return to management at Nottingham Forest. Is that something that you would be interested in?
RR: (silence, clearly taken aback) Well nobody would be more surprised to hear that than me. I’m going to give you the stock answer. Everyone knows I’ll get back into management eventually. I’ll consider any offer on its merits.
GR: Well with all due respect though, you’re very outspoken as a pundit, aren’t you? It’d be nice if you could avoid a stock answer in this case.
RR: (laughs) Listen Gary, if someone came along and offered you a job, you’d say “let me think about it”. If somebody offered me that job, which they haven’t let’s remember, I’d say “I’ll think about it.”
GR: Fair enough. Thanks for joining us this morning.
I was sitting in the VIP lounge in Berlin airport, with Alan Hansen. Alan wasn’t a bad lad, as long as you didn’t talk to him about football. We’d clashed on the World Cup panel early on in the BBC coverage. He was blabbering on about management, and I asked how he would know what he was talking about, having never managed a football club. He kept blabbering on, but went a bit red, and I could tell he was furious.
When the action started again, he had a pop at me, saying I had tried to embarrass him and say something personal on air. I said that if he gave out the criticism, he had to be able to take it too, which didn’t sit too well with him. It looked like things might escalate, then Gary Lineker and one of the producers stepped in and told us to cool it.
After things had settled down, I invited him out for a couple of drinks by way of a peace offering, and discovered that we could actually get on quite well. Over the course of the tournament, we had quite a few boozy evenings. It might surprise people to learn that a fair bit of skirt was chased too.
I didn’t quite hit it off so well with Lineker. I was suspicious of his nicey-nice exterior. He was always talking about his family, and what a clean-cut lot they all were. I happened to know that his brother was inside for VAT fraud, so they can’t have been that glittering.
Anyway, I digress. Hansen and myself had had a couple of drinks whilst waiting for the flight to London, but were getting seriously bored. As hinted earlier, another of his egocentricities was that he was a fabulous hand with the ladies. He had started trying to chat up some German bint next to us in the lounge, and though she had a perfect understanding of English, it didn’t extend to his version of it.
That was when my mobile phone rang.
“It’s Nigel here,” said a familiarly oily voice on the other end.
“Nigel who?”
“Nigel Doughty! Chairman of Forest! How are you?”
“What do you want?”
“How would you like to come back to the club?”
“As manager, without you as chairman. But I don’t believe in fairytales.”
“A-ha, now I know you’re just having a little joke with me. I’m serious though.”
“Look Nigel, I’ve been down this road once before. That was a dirty trick you tried on a while back. It caused me a lot of aggravation. I’m not interested in your bulls**t.”
“I am sorry about that. Honestly.” As if he knew anything about honesty. “Cards on the table. I’m offering you the job right here and now.”
I paused, possibly a fatal expression of weakness.
“We made a mistake,” he continued. “There. I’m big enough to admit it. Are you big enough to swallow your pride and come back?”
“I’ve just been offered the Forest job” I told Hansen, after the call had ended. He’d given up chasing the German bint by now.
“Take it,” he said, without hesitation. “They’re a massive club. A sleeping giant,” he insisted, lapsing into cliché as usual.
“It’s good money at the BBC though.”
“You can still do that. It’ll just be that they’ll restrict club managers to being on the panel for internationals only. You’ll still get plenty of work.”
“Hmm. I guess so.”
I spent the flight home in contemplation, wondering if I needed the hassle. Hansen was asleep. Ideal, since there would be no way I could concentrate on the matter at hand with him droning on in my ear.
We said our goodbyes in the arrivals lounge. He was catching an onward flight to his home in Merseyside, whilst I had been living in Sevenoaks for the past few months. A quite delightful existence it was too. Idyllic Kent countryside, sprinkled with country pubs, and magnificent country homes and cottages, one of which I had recently bought. There were golf days, and nights out, and sleeping with as many women as I could get my hands on. Was I ready to give that up for Nottingham Forest?
Nigel Doughty was certainly convinced that I was. The little bugger knew I was Forest through and through. A weakness even greater than I had for pints and ladies, and the odd snort of snow. As I strolled out of the arrivals lounge, a fellow in a chauffeur’s uniform was standing there, placard in hand with my name on it.
“Hello sir, I’m Bob Parsons of executive limousines. Mr Doughty has sent me to pick you up, and take you to Nottingham. He thought you’d appreciate a limousine rather than a plane flight. It’s a very large stretch limo…fully stocked mini bar, television, DVD etc.”
That little f***er. I had wanted to go home and unwind, but it was something of a fait accompli. So up the motorway we cruised, heading for the scene of many a crime, The City Ground Nottingham.
On the face of it, it was a match made in heaven. High-profile young manager, with a proven promotion record, returning to the club he loved. The club he would never walk away from. Yet as the cameras clicked at the press conference, and Nigel preened himself in front of the media, in the worst tradition of Peter Ridsdale, there were already tensions under the surface.
If I’d known I was going to get the same crummy contract I got the first time around, I might not have bothered. The salary was dwarfed by what I was making in a part-time job at the BBC, and was only till the end of the season. Worse still, the chairman had wanted me to pack that in, “so that you can concentrate fully on the club”. I told him no way. Once they paid me 5 grand a week we could talk about it. Since the press were already on their way to the ground to see my unveiling, I had him by the balls for a change.
I have to say I was astonished by the press conference. There was unbridled hostility towards me from the local media. It seemed to stem from the fact that I had been in charge of both local clubs, and had “walked away” from one of them. They had this idea that I was some sort of self-centred egotist and publicity seeker, always on the make. The egotist part I could accept, since it was true, but I pointed out I’d done a damn good job while I was in charge. Nigel masterfully glossed over all the questions about my previous time here, when the simmering rows between board and manager saw the club’s dirty linen continually washed in public.
It was an uneasy start to my tenure, but motivating in some ways. I have always enjoyed taking on the media, and have encouraged a siege mentality around the clubs I have managed. I want my teams to go out thinking they are taking on the world.
I’d been unveiled on a Tuesday morning, and the chairman and I had agreed that I would actually start work the following Monday. I needed a rest after my BBC commitments over the Summer, and had a few matters to attend to at home. I was easily able to keep in touch with things, and react to anything that occurred. In addition, I still needed to look at the club from a distance; what needed to be done in terms of overhauling the playing and management team.
Authors note: WSM 6.0.3 English, Scottish, Italian and Spanish Leagues. Even though this story starts after the World Cup I am running the game from the start so you'll just have to roll with me on that one. It's a follow up to Forest of Mediocrity and assumes I return for a second spell there. In this parallel universe I am also a single man with no kids, since that allows me to put in juicier subplots that people seem to like on here Hope you all enjoy it. I will update as time allows.
I had a few awkward conversations with Frank Barlow, who I had fired as assistant manager the last time I was at the club. He'd been brought back after I'd been given my P45, but was no doubt expecting the boot again. Fortunately for him, he'd signed a nice long contract, which precluded me from getting rid of him unless I felt like paying out 130 grand. I didn't at this point in time.
He told me what I had feared, that the squad was complete pants, and had little chance of fulfilling Nigel's demand of the League One title. In his eyes we definitely needed a new goalie, which I certainly questioned given my high regard for Rune Pedersen. Paul Gerrard was also a very reasonable back-up. He was also dismissive of our midfield, again a touch harsh, more of that later.
Something he told me got my goat. Four players were on loan at other clubs, yet we were paying their wages. I wasn't having that. Alan Rogers, Kevin James, and Gareth Taylor, were recalled, though Neil Harris couldn't be. At the very least these players could be transfer fodder. With a niggardly transfer budget of 300K, we needed all the dough we could get, though I was wary of flogging off half the squad for 100 grand here or there, just to pay a million for some Premiership retread.
Our centre back corps looked strong. Ian Breckin was a top professional, and my assistant believed he fit best with Danny Culip. I definitely preferred Wes Morgan though. At right back we had the experienced Nicky Eaden, who I didn't fancy, and also John Curtis and James Perch. The latter was an exciting prospect, and Curtis looked like a great utility man. The same went for John Thompson. Utility left and centre back Julian Bennett was a name I wasn't familiar with, and he joined Gino Padula and Alan Rogers as left sided options.
Paul Evans and Gary Holt were solid anchor men. Two youngsters, Ross Gardener and James Beaumont caught my eye in centre midfield. David Friio was the safe choice, together with some bloke called Sammy Clingan, whom I had never heard of. On the right flank, Nicky Southall was an ageing nobody, Kevin James was a young nobody, and Eugen Bopp was clearly the best player at that position that we had. The left flank had only one option, but that option was Kris Commons, acknowledged by everyone as a very fine prospect.
The front men were a motley bunch. Eugen Dadi was a goner. Scott Dobie was game but limited. David Johnson had all but frittered away his career. Gareth Taylor didn't really suit the style I wanted to play. Jack Lester was struggling back from a cruciate ligament injury. Grant Holt and Nathan Tyson were lower division bangers worth a second look. Decent goalscoring records, and with plenty of time to develop.
The training was my usual specific style. The defence worked on strength, aerobics, tactis, defending, and set pieces. The midfielders trained generally. The strikers worked almost exclusively on shooting, attacking, and ball control. I did my usual 4-4-2, with short passing and hard tackling, the Cloughie blueprint of style and ruthlessness.
The financial situation wasn't great. We were at 78K per week in wages, 18K over budget. People had to go. No-one would touch Dadi when I offered him around, so I sent him to the reserves to get him out of my hair for the season. After that his contract was up and we could say cheerio. Whilst I was busy offering around all and sundry, news came through from the club that Gerrard had done his back in during a weight room session, and would be out 2-3 months. Terrific. We had precious little transfer funding as it was. Now we had a big hole to fill.
I was to travel to Nottingham on the Sunday to take charge of our first friendly. There was just time for Hansen to pop down for a weekend booze-up. He told his wife I had invited him down to informally advise me on some aspects of my new job. I'm not sure she either believed him, or gave a f**k. Either way, Friday afternoon was the start of the bender, and it didn't finish till Sunday morning. I had to leave at 10am, yet I could still hear Hansen snoring away upstairs. I went up, threw him the spare keys and told him he could let himself out, just lock up behind him. He grunted and rolled over, revealing the tarty blonde that he had picked up on Saturday night. She was wide awake, and winked at me.
"You're too old for this lark sonny Jim," I laughed. "Fug off," he moaned.
I arrived at the ground to discover that Eugen Bopp, whose contract was up at the end of the season, had penned until 2008 for the same money. Ross Gardener did likewise, till the end of the 2009 season. That was the situation as we entered our first pre-season friendly against old rivals Derby. I named the following team: Pedersen, Perch, Padula, Morgan, Breckin, Evans, Bopp, Gardener, Holt, Tyson, Commons. Yet I didn't take any part in the preparations. I pretended Frank was in charge of the game, didn't go into the dressing room beforehand to meet or give a team-talk to the players, and sat in the stand for the whole game watching. I wanted to create a bit of mystique about my arrival and keep the players on their toes. Frank thought it was a good idea, in the best traditions of Cloughie.
We began in lively fashion, only for The Rams to score with their first kick in the 40th minute. I got on the phone to my assistant. I saw no reason not to ring the changes, and only Breckin and Pedersen remained for the second half. It didn't make any real difference, and a dire game dragged to the final whistle. The visitors were no better than us, but they did score. Not the most auspicious start to my second tour of duty with the club I loved. Alan Rogers did a groin during the match, which would see him miss 2-4 weeks.
Monday morning rolled around, which saw my first official day at the club. I had already laid out my requirements for my office, and everything was just so when I arrived. I had already fleetingly met my new secretary, Marjorie, and whilst I was disappointed by her level of attractiveness (50s, several children, slight hint of facial hair) I certainly couldn't quibble with her efficiency. I did flummox her when she asked me if I wanted tea or coffee, and I said I didn't drink either. People look at you as if you're an alien when you say that.
My first day started well enough, with the news that Beaumont and Evans had extended until 2008 and 2007 respectively, whilst an email came through from Tottenham accepting our season long loan offer for highly rated centre back Calum Davenport. Unfortunately for me, that was as good as things were going to get that first day...
Nigel rudely walked into my office without knocking at 10am, unfurling a newspaper from under his arm and slapping it down on my desk.
"Read that," he demanded. "The News of The World," I said, bemused. "I don't read that. I don't even wipe my arse with that."
"Well you're going to have to. Page 26 is where it starts."
It all sounded very ominous. When I turned to Page 26, the blood ran to my feet. Then my blood started to boil.
Sicko Soccer Boss in Massage Parlour Shame
Popular, outspoken TV football pundit and new manager of Nottingham Forest boss Regan Robinson has been visiting sordid massage parlours, The News Of The World can reveal.
Just days after being installed in his new job, the pervy pundit was seen going in and out of Executive International Massage, a run down flat above a chip shop in Rushcliffe, just outside Nottingham. A source close to the massage parlour has told how:
Robinson indulged in seedy SPANKING and ROUGH SEX
Had a HUGE appetite for women, often TWO or THREE at a time
The parlour is run by an ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT.
I'd seen enough. "Where did this dogs**t come from?"
"So it's not true then?"
"Of course not! I wasn't even in Nottingham that week, I was in Sevenoaks."
"I thought so. Then you'll have to sue of course."
"Hang on a minute. I don't want to end up in a libel trial. They'll dredge up every girlfriend and booze up I've ever had. Besides which I can't afford to lose."
"I'm not giving you a choice," he said sternly. "I can't have you as manager unless everyone knows you have a good name. I have the interests of the club to think about."
"Well thanks a f***ing lot Nigel you bas***d. The least you could do is give me the name of a good solicitor."
"Whitlow, Ullathorne and Goss are very good. Marjorie has their number. I knew you'd see sense."
He turned on his heel and walked out. I'm fairly strong mentally, so I just put it to the back of my mind and walked down to meet the players at training. What the hell had I let myself in for?
The lads were gathered in the dressing room, and it all went quiet. Maybe I was paranoid, but I thought I saw a few sniggers as well. So after Frank introduced me to an admittedly decent round of applause, I went on the offensive.
"All right lads. First things first. There's some sh**e in the newspaper about me going to a massage parlour. I was 300 miles away with a tonne of witnesses, so forget that ********, and let's get to work on winning the title. We'll play pretty football and kick lumps out of the opposition. That's all you need to know. Now let's get on that training field and get to work."
The lads loved that one and gave me a raucous reception. After an energetic training session, I had a better idea of my next moves. It also gave me a lift after this morning's bombshell.
That one returned to haunt me though, as I left the ground to go back to the club apartment they had assigned me. A little weasel from the aforementioned rag approached me and asked for a comment. He nearly got a punch, though I knew I had to be smart. What annoyed me just as much was when I got buttonholed by a BBC Nottingham camera crew. A pretty young reporter asked me about the allegations.
"Oh come of it," I snarled. "Do you honestly think the manager of Nottingham Forest goes to a flat above a chip shop in Rushcliffe for a rub and tug?"
"Are you going to sue?"
"Absolutely my dear. Now I'm going home."
I came in the next morning ready to deal with some football related matters for a change, and over the next few days managed to make some progress.
Gareth Taylor was peddled to Swansea for 60K plus 5K a week off the wage bill. Even better, Kevin James agreed to join Oldham for 24K, taking another 1.5K off of our outgoings. Unfortunately, Calum Davenport could not be persuaded to join us on loan, which is a bummer. Still we've got some decent centre halves. To my delight, Dexter Blackstock was totally interested in joining us on loan for the season from Southampton. This lad is a highly-rated prospect, and I'm hopeful he can do some damage in front of goal for us. I think we're going to need it.
He went straight into the side for the next friendly match against Stockport at Edgeley Park on the following Saturday. Evans opened the scoring after 6 minutes with a free-kick, Blackstock doubled it after 33. A goal straight after the break from Bopp gave us an easy win. But then I expected that. I told the lads well done, then it was back to the training ground to work on our game.
On the following Wednesday, I went for my first consultation at Whitlow, Ullathorne and Goss. It was all pretty informal. They were well prepared, told me to leave it in their capable hands and they'd been in touch. At this stage the wheels would be moving slowly, so they told me to go away and more or less forget about it. The only shock I received was when I walked in. The very sultry Afro-Carribean secretary had quite enormous breasts, and wonderful ebony skin. I couldn't take my eyes off them. I'm afraid I asked her out, and she said yes. Her name was Jenny. When am I going to wise up and stop thinking with my trousers? I'm going out with her this weekend. We don't have another fixture till the following Tuesday.
When I got back to my office, I arranged a 3 month loan deal for Chelsea youth team midfielder Danny Hollands, with an option to buy for 80K. It's just a flier, and we'll see if it pans out. Late in the day I managed to get shot of Scott Dobie to Barnsley for 150K. It didn't give me any great delight because he's a reasonable player. I just needed the money, and his 5K off the bill.
I didn't work this weekend...well not in the traditional sense anyway. I got plenty of exercise, and it was one of the more memorable weekends in recent times. The only thing that spoiled it slightly was my paranoia. I'm convinced The News Of The World are trying to set me up. I half-jokingly mentioned it to Jenny and she just laughed, assuring me that she wasn't an undercover reporter. She's good fun and a complete goddess, so we've agreed to keep seeing eachother.
While all this was going on, the month ends with a 376K profit for the club. Just one more friendly at the start of August, then it's into the league season.
Thanks Spav, I was always more of a "stick to the football" man but I have to realise that other people like to be catered for with more outside stuff. So far I'm enjoying it.
They say never go back... 
Hope you all enjoy it. I will update as time allows. 
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