JUST WHEN IT SEEMED THAT THE dust had been allowed to settle on the touchline tantrum between Arsène Wenger and Alan Pardew, up steps the FA with its ludicrous charge of Upsetting The Servants And Horses (or whatever phoney baloney has been pointed in the general direction of these two fine managers). Thus an incident that should have been a two-day wonder will now go on for weeks. In one way, though, this is all to the good because there is an aspect of this whole brouhaha that has not yet been fully explored.
Most pundits have expressed their bewilderment at the aggressive, snarling belligerence of Mr Wenger. In his defence they point out that he is the owner of a pair of small glasses, and is therefore probably both an intellectual and a pacifist (although, to be historically fair, Tojo and Hirohito wore minuscule specs and they were both just mad for the global carnage). They also say that his impression of Grant Mitchell at his “do-you-want-some” best was totally out of character. Out of character, yes, but not, I suggest, a big surprise, at least to Arsène himself. Because, you see, it is my contention that Wenger’s volcanic eruption was the result of long months of careful planning.
It all goes back to April 22 this year and the North London derby at a sunny Highbury. The highlight, for the connoisseur, was the confrontation between the two managers. Upset that Tottenham Hotspur had had the temerity to score, Wenger was going tonto at the side of the pitch, hollering and bawling at his counterpart Martin Jol. Unsurprisingly, Jol responded and Wenger’s small glasses were soon in close proximity to the voluminous bovine noggin of the Dutchman. Worse still, said noggin was attached to a physique that could clearly have knocked the professorial Wenger into the middle of next season, and so a puce-faced Mr W backed off. He was made to look a bit of a wimp and has spent the past six months working out when, where and against whom he could redeem his manhood. Last weekend, Upton Park and Alan Pardew were his choices.
All of which poses an even more critical question: now that Premiership managers are starting to square up to one another, who is the hardest? Who, in a Marquess of Queensberry face-off, is the daddy? To try to work out this pugilistic puzzle, The Game is proud to present the thumbnail form guide to the Premiership’s managerial brawlers.
ARSÈNE “The Prof” WENGER (Arsenal)
Lanky, stringy, bookish. After that defeat by Jol, his recent effort against Pardew looked promising. Allowed himself, however, to be manhandled by fourth official Andy “oh-no-Roy-don’t-hit-me” D’Urso, which suggests a deal more time in the Emirates gym may be required.
MARTIN “The Holte End Hitman” O’NEILL (Aston Villa)
Only member of Nottingham Forest’s great Eighties team who wasn’t a toughie, the former midfield player would probably make a better corner man than a boxer.
MARK “The Welsh Warrior” HUGHES (Blackburn Rovers)
Ulp. The first serious (when did you last see him smile?) title contender. Brow like masonry, thighs like Calor gas bottles. Character reflected in a team that features Robbie Savage, Andy Todd and Lucas Neill. Tough? Why do you think no one ever uses his real first name — Leslie?
SAM “The Slam” ALLARDYCE (Bolton Wanderers)
In his playing days, the archetypical half-man, half-monster centre half. All profiles of him have to include, by law, the words “no” and “nonsense”. Previously Neanderthal reputation now masked by flashy clobber, taste for sports science and wireless communication gizmos. Physical power augmented by suspicion that he may have developed some sort of hi-tech death ray.
IAIN “The Greenwich Grinder” DOWIE (Charlton Athletic)
“By the look of him, he must have headed a lot of balls,” Harry Redknapp once opined of his former striker. Indeed, Iain’s nose is reputed to have been broken some 15 times; Simon Jordan, the Crystal Palace chairman, would apparently like to make it 16. But he was a rugged player and his degree in mechanical engineering may let him out-think some of his more snail-witted opponents.
JOSÉ “The Special One” MOURINHO (Chelsea)
Only openly religious Premiership manager, but notably disinclined to turn the other cheek. Very unlikely, though, to want to get his lovely wardrobe rumpled. Outsider for the title.
DAVID “The Goodison Gouger” MOYES (Everton)
Utter fearlessness displayed when he kept having to tell world’s most dangerous footballer, Duncan Ferguson, that he was sub again. Slightly sinister post-match interviews add to intimidating reputation, as does intangible impression that he may, on occasion, actually be armed.
CHRIS “Hot As Mustard” COLEMAN (Fulham)
Resilient enough, in real life, to survive near-fatal car smash, but, honestly, far too nice for a tear-up on the cobbles. His nickname is “Cookie”, for heaven’s sake!
RAFAEL “The Rotator” BENÍTEZ (Liverpool)
Just too cuddly (unless you’re Steven Gerrard).
STUART “Psycho” PEARCE (Manchester City)
The sobriquet says it all. Pearce spent most of his career reducing opponents to smears of quivering jelly. The only blot on the punk-rock devotee’s record is the match against France when he allowed Rangers’ Basile Boli to get in a head-butt while Pearce’s attention was momentarily distracted. Such carelessness against the present crop of managerial bruisers could prove damaging; otherwise among the bookies’ favourites.
SIR ALEX “The Nutty Knight” FERGUSON (Manchester United)
Fears that age has eroded this legendary lacerater were assuaged during the summer when he saw off Roy “I Hit Him Hard” Keane. The Irishman joined a long line of previous opponents — Jaap Stam, Lee Sharpe, Paul Ince, Dwight Yorke and David Beckham (who suffered eye damage) — whom Fergie has brought low. Ageing champ, but still to be reckoned with.
GARETH “The Riverside Rumbler” SOUTHGATE (Middlesbrough)
After his powdery penalty miss for England in the shoot-out against Germany in 1996, his mother echoed the feelings of a grieving nation when she wondered “why didn’t he just belt it?” Just not the belting kind, Mrs S.
GLENN ROEDER (Newcastle United)
Major operation on a brain tumour in 2003 means that Glenn is not allowed a Premiership boxing licence. Or a nickname.
HARRY “The Pompey Pummeller” REDKNAPP (Portsmouth)
Anyone who leaves Portsmouth to manage Southampton is obviously hugely courageous. Or has already taken too many right-handers. However, a career spent at West Ham United suggests very little stomach for actual combat. NB: the great Billy Bonds is the exception to this rule. And Julian Dicks.
STEVE “The M4 Mauler” COPPELL (Reading)
Far too studious. Has degree and manages only club whose name is part of the national curriculum.
NEIL “The Battling Blade” WARNOCK (Sheffield United)
They both like talking: but that’s where any resemblance between Muhammad Ali, the “Louisville Lip”, and Neil, the “Yorkshire Yak”, ends.
MARTIN “The Dutch Destroyer” JOL (Tottenham Hotspur)
Tony Soprano’s head; Clint Eastwood’s voice. Shiver. In the 1982 League Cup semi-final, I witnessed jovial Jol, then of West Brom, knock out Tottenham’s Tony Galvin with a single right hook. He was sent off. He still laughs about it. Arsène Wenger decided against duking it out with him. Arsène Wenger is a very bright hombre.
ADRIAN “The Vicarage Violator” BOOTHROYD (Watford)
Youthful unknown who has, in the manner of boxers everywhere, started to refer to himself in the third person.
ALAN “The Hammer” PARDEW (West Ham United)
Stood up to the baying mob at the Boleyn when things were going badly, which indicates raw pluck.
But the very fact that Wenger thought he could take him should be enough to curtail any prizefighting ambitions.
PAUL “The Genuine” JEWELL (Wigan Athletic)
Only his surname (“a real gem”, “diamond-hard” etc) recommends him for the clump ’n’ clobber game. Also, his characterisation by adoring Athletic fans as “Chief Wigan” — after his supposed resemblance to the doughnut-loving policeman, Chief Wiggum, in The Simpsons — suggests general doubt, even among his admirers, about Paul’s physical conditioning.
