Alex Ferguson has been called many things in his time but you can be certain `the Rhett Butler of the football world' isn't one of them. Why? Well, last Christmas Alex forgot to buy his wife (or his `domestic assistant manager', as he probably calls her) a present, so he wrote out a cheque, stuck it in an envelope and presented it to her on Christmas morning. Lovely.
(Presumably the cheque had to be jointly signed by Manchester United chairman Martin Edwards and the sum of money was to be paid in instalments, depending on how many caps Mrs Ferguson went on to win in the coming season.)
Mrs Ferguson, sensible woman that she is, ripped the cheque to pieces and told Alex to stick it up his Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. Alex confessed to this sorry tale in his ghost writer's most recent book, The Manager's Diary: A Will To Win (available in all good supermarkets). A year on you'd think he'd have learnt his lesson and maybe even had a chat with his players about how family should always come first during the festive season. But no. A Sky News team happened to be passing United's training ground on Christmas morning, on their way back from reporting on the storm damage in the area, when they spotted Alex and his first team squad going through their paces. "This is very unusual Alex, to see a team training on Christmas morning," said the reporter. "Aye, but sure it gets them out of the house and lets their kids get on with playing with their toys," said Alex, who believes a `new man' is a footballer who's just fully recovered from a hernia operation and is ready to return to first team action.
No doubt, back home Mrs Ferguson was contemplating asking for a free transfer under the Bosman ruling, while leafing through her 1997 Christmas present from Alex - The Manager's Diary: A Will To Win. "Gee thanks, Alex, you shouldn't have," she probably said, through gritted teeth. "No problem, pet - you'll notice I signed it too on the inside cover," Alex probably replied, on his way out the door to Christmas Morning training. ("I hope Darren Huckerby scores a lastminute winner for Coventry against ye on Sunday," she probably muttered under her breath. Huh, shows you how much Mrs Ferguson knows about football.)
At least Jack Charlton's wife had a pleasant Christmas Day, as she accompanied him to the island of Mauritius where, while her husband got to grips with a wahoo out on the high seas, she had time to take in the sun.
The Marlin World Cup was Sky Sports' offering at 3.0 on Christmas Day, a bold attempt to beat the Queen's Speech in the television ratings. One suspects, however, that the competition might actually have taken place some time before the only day of the year we all eat Brussels sprouts. In truth, it didn't have that Christmassy feel about it.
Jack was skipper of the Irish boat - Ireland One - in this annual angling extravaganza that featured 50 anglers (professionals, part-timers and celebrities) from nine countries. Day one and Jack and his partner, Eddie Kirtland, set off in their boat in search of Marlin. In a formation reminiscent of his football-managing days Jack set up five rods across the back of the boat, then sat down for a bite to eat. Then there was a howl from his three Mauritian helpers. "BITE MR CHARLTON, YOU HAVE A BITE!." Jack rushed out of the cabin, grabbed a rod and, after much huffing and puffing, reeled in a weird looking fish that you'd expect to see swimming in the vicinity of Sellafield. "What is it," said a puzzled Jack. "A wahoo," said one of his helpers. "Right," said Jack. "That's an Acanthocybium Solanderi, to be exact," said the commentator, giving the fish its posh name. Jack was gutted later in the day when he learnt that the Acanthocybium Solanderi, who he had always thought was Albania's left-back, was at the bottom of the competition's scoring chart. He needed to catch a marlin, or, at the very least, a shark, to be in contention for first prize.
Day three. "SHARK," screamed Jack's helpers. He dropped his sun tan lotion bottle and can of beer, rushed to his rod and began a twohour battle with a creature that looked more like Moby Dick than Jaws. Half way through the battle he (Jack, not Moby Dick) needed a toilet break. He returned and the battle recommenced. Jack, clearly, had never experienced anything like it in his life. Veins popping out everywhere. Bucket-loads of sweat dripping from his brow. Arms screaming in agony. Big red face. In fact, throughout the entire war, his face had that same stunned expression that it wore when he saw David O'Leary step up to take that penalty in Genoa.
Two hours later. Victory! The shark gave in, Jack reeled him in, gave a clenched fist salute and collapsed back in his deck chair. He proudly returned to shore, where he oversaw his helpers hauling the shark from the boat to the weighing station. Then disaster struck.
"I am very sorry Mr Charlton but . . . this shark isn't listed on our scoring chart so . . . you don't score any points," said the nervous competition referee. An Orlando-like row threatened to erupt but Jack was too knackered to be violent. "Well, I'd never caught a shark before," he gasped. "And if that's what it's like I don't want to catch any more." And with that he headed for the bar. All that effort and not a point to show for it. Jack had to settle for fifth place overall in the end. Mrs Charlton? She probably got The Angler's Diary: A Will To Win for Christmas. Lovely.
