I did apply for the England job. Never heard nowt. Apparently the FA interviewed ten people, yet Eddie Howe, tipped as one of the favourites, says he was never contacted. I know how he feels.
I considered myself a pretty good fit. You don’t have to have had a starry career as a player, though aged 14 I was a pretty canny creative midfield for Kingston Rovers in the Carlisle and District under-15 league. Then I was a regular in the 1980s for Wardington in the Banbury league. That was tough, being kicked all over the shop by farm labourers.
Like Thomas Tuchel, I have recently been chucked out of a good job. It was on the Sunday Times, doing a column on the money pages, which I did for 25 years; Tuchel got the push at Bayern Munich last season.
Being England manager is a job for the semi-retired, pensioners, the past-it. Because frankly being England manager is a doddle, piece of piss, easy peasy. A Premier League manager – now that is a real job. At a club like Man City you probably have up to 70 games a season – 38 in the league, plus all those cup runs and friendlies .
By comparison, England has only ten games in a normal season – except, of course, every two years there are the Euros and World Cups. For most of the last 58 years, England has been chucked out of them early doors, so in an average year, I estimate an England manager has to get out of bed for only 15 to 20 games a year. Call that work?
And unlike a club manager, he doesn’t have to worry about transfers, about horrible agents driving you mad with their new wonder discovery who turns out to be rubbish. As a Prem manager, I’d lie awake at night, furious to think how much every football agent was getting. As England manager, you don’t have to worry abut money. Plus you get £5m a year.
No board of directors interfering or intriguing behind your back – or chief executives moaning about your league position and fears about going down. No half-witted owners who know nothing about football telling you who to pick because their spouse likes them.
During all those empty months when there are no England games, you are expected to trundle along to a Prem match, picking those not too far away, where you get a top seat in the stand and some good tuck with the directors. You don’t care who wins, so no pressure – just enjoy yourself. If one of your England players is on the pitch, then get out your pencil and make a few technical notes: “Two legs, still working.”
No one hates you. Not like a Prem manager. They get booed by away fans, told they’ll be sacked in the morning, and are booed by home fans if their team loses.
All those post-match press conferences you have to endure, with inane questions from simpering idiots.
Wembley is a nice, friendly place. Really. I have been going there since the 1966 World Cup final, and on the Tube supporters of both teams are always having a fun day out, pleased to be there – not looking for a fight, as in an Arsenal-Spurs game.
Look around at Wembley, and you will see a large number of parents with kids. They might not all be experts on each of the players, but it is an occasion for them, something the kiddies will remember. So it’s “Come on, England!” even when they are playing stupid tippy-tappy sideways stuff and getting nowhere.
You also have help: up to around ten coaches and assistants. Well, someone has to book the limo to take you to watch Man City vs Liverpool. I see among Tuchel’s backroom staff he has hired the goalkeeping coach from Chelsea. Dear God, why does he need one of those? If you are a goalkeeper good enough to play for England, you have been coached all your life.
When I was a lad, England did not have a manager. Until 1946 someone from the FA’s selection committee picked the team. The success rate has been much the same since.
Singing the national anthem? No problem. I consider myself Scottish, but am willing to sing along. Except I still sing “God Save the Queen”. I am sure no one would have noticed…
[See also: We can’t all be geniuses]
Content from our partners
Related
This article appears in the 23 Oct 2024 issue of the New Statesman, The crisis candidate