MOSS SIDE BARROW BOY PART ONE

Things started to go wrong for me on my last day at the Riverside.

As you know I'd just helped Bryan Robson to keep Middlesbrough in the Premier League, and was now stepping down from my position as Head Coach. That was it. No more dirtying of the hands in football management for me. I had a cushy job lined up, providing expert analysis for ITV Sport's new coverage of the Premiership, and two nice big fat cheques arriving. One was from Steve Gibson, from services rendered on Teesside. The other was the first in a regular monthly salary courtesy of Nic Widation at ITV Digital, my new employer. In fairness, I knew the show was going to be crap, but what did I care? Buying into football coverage was as kosher as it got. Who ever heard of a company offering televised football going under? It just didn't happen, and you can trust me on that. I'm a businessman. All the same, the thought of sitting next to Ally McCoist and his so-called ready Scottish wit filled me with revulsion. I liked Des, and Gaby was okay too, but bleeding Ally and his comic stylings? Oh well, it could have been worse. At least Andy Townsend was being kept in a van.

With the thought of my flight down to London in mind, I was assisting Bryan for the last time.

"Here you go then, Bryan. We've been through this a lot, and it's time you tried it yourself. Let's see you tie your own shoe laces."

"Aw, please stay Tel," Robbo whined, as I sorted his tie out for him. He had the pathetic childlike look in his eyes, and I knew he needed his bottle. Sadly, I only had a hip flask to hand. "I can't handle this without you. There's all these big footballers that stay out of the pub and try to keep fit. It's just not something I can understand. I wish Gazza was still here."

"Now now, we talked about this. I'm off to ITV Sport, and that's the end of it."

Just then, as though waiting for the optimum moment of timing, my mobile rang. Ah, that lovely Frank Sinatra dialling tone; a classy touch.

"Hello Terry, it's Des Lynam."

"All right, my son, what can I do you for?"

"I just wanted to wish you all the best with the Boro," he purred, those silky, velveteen tones cranked up to 11. "And to say how sorry I am that you chose them over us in the end."

"Leave it out Desmond. I've got my bags packed."

"But we thought Steve Gibson had persuaded you to stay on."

"No way, china. I'm on my way to the smoke as we speak."

"This is a little awkward," he said, after pausing but still managing to show a fabulous degree of composure. What a pro. "You see, we've already appointed your replacement."

"Stone the crows, you've got to be pulling my chain," I said, reaching for the flask. It was empty. "Who is it anyway?"

"I'll tell you this, Terry," came the unmistakeable, emotionally charged voice of one Mister Keegan. "There are some people who build bridges and others who knock them down, and I think we've done both today. And that came from the heart."

"Smashing," I replied.

"Kevin speaks from the heart," butted in Ally McCoist. "But I - wait for it - talk from behind a tart!"

Des chuckled nervously.

"Really sorry Terry," he said dolefully. "Kevin's going to be providing expert tactical analysis, and Ally will be responsible for the show's new comedy slot, entitled 'Down Ally's Comedy Slot'. It's really going to be a revolution in football presentation. Shame you won't be a part of it."

My phone went dead, and not from a lack of juice. Frantically, I got on to my old charge Gary Lineker at the BBC. Surely Aunty would have me back.

"We just can't take anyone else on right now," he apologised, a pregnant moment later. "With ITV and Sky carving up football coverage, we haven't got any mandate for extra staff. Otherwise, you'd be in."

"Where are you now?" I asked.

"Live from the indoor bowls classic, Newport."

"Oh look, there's a bloke smoking a pipe," Alan Hansen chipped in, his words cracking through a veil of tears.

"Listen Terry, why don't you go to Sky Sports?" Gary suggested.

"Kirsty Gallacher, Kelly Dalglish, Claire Tomlinson," Alan added. "Sky's got its knockers, but it's okay by me."

"There is Andy Gray mind," Gary noted pessimistically.

"Thanks lads, but I can't join Sky. Alan Sugar's still involved somewhere, and besides there was that nasty incident involving Rupert Murdoch and the press unions at Scribes. Let's just say there was some… unpleasantness."

"There's always Channel 5," Gary said. The three of us laughed. Robbo stood facing a wall, so I turned him in the direction of the door.

"Perhaps it's time to retire."

"You want to stay in management," Gary said. "See if Boro will keep you on. It is what you're best at, after all."

I thanked Links and had a good think about what he'd said. In all truth, I considered myself too much of a business hotshot to remain within the confines of the manager's seat, and I recalled my successful spell at Portsmouth as an example of what I could do in a more backroom role. However, if that was the only work available, I would resolve to give Gibson the opportunity to take me on permanently.

Unfortunately, this wasn't to be. 'Gibbo' had accepted my resignation and moved on, at the same time taking it as an opportunity to leave Robson out to dry and go with a new staff.

"We've decided to go for a more credible alternative," he told me, adding the royal 'we' as if he was talking for an entire boardroom. Muppet. "Therefore we have given the job to Steve McClaren."

"What about Bryan?"

"I love him, but unfortunately, he can't get his head around tactics, his eye for a player needs strong lenses and his acumen for the commercial side of the club has been used by marketing students as a textbook example of how not to do it. Basically, he's a crap manager and I've had to let him fend for himself in the wild."

Click here for Part Two.