On September the Twentieth,
the year Two Thousand and Four,
a stern looking gentleman,
knocked on heavens door.
St Peter answered cautiously,
then recognised the face,
and he told the man to come on in,
and find himself a place.
The man nodded at Bill Shankly,
Bob Paisley, Bertie Mee,
shook the hand of Joe Mercer,
and waved to Matt Busby.
With shoulders back,
head in the air,
he marched over to God,
who sized the man — up and down,
and gave a friendly nod.
” I need to know the history,
of what you did on earth,
I need the total details,
from the moment of your birth.”
” I was born a proud Yorkshireman,
in the year of Thirty Five,
and through passion and endeavour,
in football I did thrive.
My wife she called me Brian,
some others ‘ Ol Big ‘ead,’
but throughout my life,
I never cared,
what other people said.
I played for my home team Middlesbrough,
won two England caps as well,
and ended up at Sunderland,
when Boro chose to sell.
But my world was rocked by injury,
at the age of Twenty Six,
when I tore my knee at Bury,
something doctors couldn’t fix.
My managerial career I started.
at the bottom of the heap,
the terraces at Hartlepool,
myself I had to sweep.
Next I went to Derby,
and brought them great success,
those were the happiest of my days,
to that I must confess.
I had a brilliant partner,
Peter Taylor he was named,
for scouting out new talent,
throughout England he was famed.
I got average players,
and made them great,
I brought big heads down to size,
the press and public loved me,
but me the F.A. did despise.
I had McGovern, Nish, McFarland,
who no one could get by,
Alan Hinton, Archie Gemmill,
and the gallant Dave Mackay.
I was a fixture on the telly,
my comments were profound,
but I got into trouble one night,
for calling a Polish man a clown.
A short spell then at Brighton,
where I discovered Peter Ward,
but after a while down by the sea,
I started to get bored.
I insisted my teams play on the ground,
never use the old long pass,
if football was to be played up on the clouds,
wouldn’t you have put down grass?
I took over Leeds United,
from Mr Revie over there,
but only lasted Forty- Four days,
cos the players they didn’t care.
Then a call came from Notts Forest,
my services they beckoned,
and I took the reins of a team,
who were lowly in the Second.
Soon with brilliant management,
I had Forest on the rise,
and soon we were up in the First,
taking the big boys by surprise.
I brought in Peter Shilton,
Kenny Burns a solid rock,
and up front I had John O’Hare,
Birtles and Woodcock.
Archie Gemmill and John Robertson,
Ian Bowyer a bargain steal,
Frank Clark and Peter Withe,
and of course Martin O’Neill.
Untrendy Forest won the League,
and the Euro Cup as well,
it was in football management,
my most successful spell.
Another Euro Cup was added,
as for League Cups I lost count,
but alas with Peter Taylor,
tensions began to mount.
We had a major falling out,
and never spoke again,
it caused me guilty feelings,
and many years of pain.
I see him over there now,
plotting tactics with Saint Paul,
and showing young Jeff Astle,
how to head the ball.
I wouldn’t say I was the greatest,
but I was clearly the top one,
but without my old mate Taylor,
a lot wouldn’t have been done.
My young son Nigel made the grade,
which made me very proud,
and I signed Roy Keane and Stuart Pearce,
to please the Forest crowd.
I believed in tough man management,
I had a temper to avoid,
just ask Edward Sherringham,
or the cocky Larry Lloyd.
I never won the F.A Cup,
or possessed the England job,
mainly cos the suits in London,
didn’t like my gob.
I departed Forest in 93,
disillusioned with the game,
and life for me unfortunately,
would never be the same.
I did my share of drinking,
a new liver I acquired,
but for the last year of my life,
I’ve felt so weak and tired.
So now MY Lord to you I’ve come,
and laid my soul quite bear,
NOW YOUNG MAN PLEASE MOVE ALONG,
COS YOU’RE SITTING IN MY CHAIR.