He’s in a car driving through the streets of London in the winter of 1976. The traffic lights ahead have just turned red but, instead of slowing down, he places a firm grip on the steering wheel and his foot on the accelerator. He speeds through the junction waiting for the smash but nothing happens. It is four o’clock in the morning. The city is sleeping.

He has been on the town with his friend George Best since they finished training at lunchtime: pubs, bars, nightclubs; champagne, vodka, brandy. What a night they’ve had! What fantastic lives they lead! They are talented, wealthy, good-looking and famous. Why does his heart feel so sad? What are those tears streaming down his face? Another signal on the road changes to red. He accelerates but dodges the bullet again.

Rodney Marsh is 32 years old. Nine years have passed since the defining moment of his career – a wonderful, jaw-dropping strike for Queens Park Rangers in the 1967 League Cup Final. He has played for England, Manchester City and the Tampa Bay Rowdies and been treated like a superstar since he returned to play with Best and Bobby Moore at Fulham.

Why is he drinking so heavily? When did the depression take hold? In his autobiography, Priceless, he ascribes it to end-of-career blues and the hurt inflicted by comments from some of his former team-mates. Only the gullible bought it but what was he to do? How could he reveal the secrets he has withheld from his wife, Jean, all of his married life? How could he explain those things he was unable to explain to his therapist? No, better to smile for the cameras, keep your bright side out for the punters and project a confident face. Better to be Rodders, the cheeky cockney, always game for a laugh.

Better to keep the dark side hidden as much as possible. Better to lock the pain in the deepest cavern of your mind and throw away the key.

THURSDAY morning at the David Lloyd Leisure Centre near Wimbledon. He arrives for the interview with a tennis bag on his shoulder, dressed to play, and leads me to a table in the cafe.

“This doesn’t tally with the guy who once drank 23 bottles of champagne with Malcolm Allison,” I say.

“A true story,” he smiles. “How about a pot of tea?” He crosses the room to place an order and is curious that I’ve switched to a quiet table in the corner when he returns with the tray.

“Too many distractions over there,” I explain. “I don’t want you performing for the crowd.”

“Look,” he says, suddenly affronted. “You don’t know me and I don’t know you, but when you get to know me you’ll realise that I haven’t got time for the b******s of life.”

“What’s the b******s of life?” “I’ll give you an example, a specific example. I was working at this game and ...”

“For Soccer Saturday on Sky?” “I’m not saying what it was. I was working at this game and we were in the press room with television and radio people and journalists and before the game this highly respected broadcaster was talking about Alan Shearer. He was arguing basically that Shearer was overrated, finished and had no right to be playing in the team on that day.

“Later that evening, I’m listening to his broadcast and it’s: ‘Oh, what a wonderful professional Alan Shearer is. He’s a world-class footballer.’ It turned my stomach. I totally lost respect for that person there and then. That’s what I mean by the b******s of life. Ask me a question and the answer you get will be 100% true and accurate.”

Explore Football

• Premier League

• Football League

• Scotland

• European Football

• International Football

• TheGame

• Live Match Tracker

• The Fink Tank

• Fantasy Football