United’s year of living dangerously

IT WAS one of those moments where you hold your breath and fear for the life of a colleague.

Alex Ferguson was glowing radioactive red, stiffening in his seat, the look on his face suggesting that he couldn’t quite believe what he was being asked. The journalist, one of the elder of the species, had couched his question in almost reverential terms, calling him ‘Sir Alex’ more than once, but Fergie wasn’t about to be disarmed by some old-world politeness. No, there was no getting away from it. Barely an hour after his latest European conquest had been shattered, Alex Ferguson was being asked if he could possibly summon up the enthusiasm to lift his troops and do it all again next time.

“How long have you known me?” Ferguson barked. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that question.”