“Right lads, a last few words. What I want is 100 % performance. 100% nothing less. What is it Waggy?” Waggy's my best striker. For that I forgive him his stupidity, his 80K a week and bonuses, his stupidity, his late tackles on me in training, his stupidity, his modelling contract. By the way did I mention his single brain cell.

“I've been thinking.” Groans all round especially from under the massage table. Whose under the massage table? Before I can investigate. “I don't think 100%'s enough Topman. Stephen G. tells me that Raffa asks for 200% and a Chuckle Brother told me that Sir Alex demands 210 %. So if you only want 110% we're gonna lose. Stands to reason.”

“Listen Waggy, my beautiful striker that's gonna get me 20 goals this season, they are winding…”

I'm interrupted by a cough, not a nervous cough but a clear your throat cough which always heralds a contribution from Mother Teresa. “What is it this time, Mother?”

“I know what you're going to say Topman but on this occasion Waggy's got a point. Lampers is always looking for the next pass even when he hasn't got the ball and he's closing down players, that's two things at once instead of just one, that's 200 per cent performance that is.”

What is it about Mother? Always chipping in. Sees good everywhere. That's why we call him Mother, short for Mother Teresa not that we say Mother Teresa to his neck. Six foot eight of muscle. I can't stand the unctuous prat. What I know and they don't is that Mother is after a job with the PFA, the footballers' trade union, when he packs in this year. He can pick up £500k a year, no sweat, just by visiting the training ground and stirring it. Still no time to put him down, there's a team talk to be finished before kick off.

“Point taken. Mother. Let's go over it again. Not 100%. Not 200%. What I want is a 300 % from you Waggy. Three jobs. First I want you to kick off, right? Then you're playing up front right , …and three you're holding the line.”

“Line dancing again, Waggy, Yee Haw” I now know who's under the massage table. I give Front Page a sly kick. Waggy as usual rises like a trout and misses the fly. “Nah Front Page, hard core garage, me.” Another sly but harder kick silences Front Page but not the rest.

“OK Lads Shut it. What I want most is pride in the jersey you're wearing.”

“ ‘Scuse again Topman.”

“No Front Page. No. Just listen up OK? What I want is a fierce burning pride in this jersey.”

“Say Hey Topdude”

This time it's Fried Chicken. What is it with these guys interrupting? On match day it's usually focus, focus, focus. Don't be worrying about all these nicknames, footballers get them with their first pair of boots. You can work most of them out yourselves. Well most people can. Did I hint earlier that Waggy might have special needs? Anyhow his name is Wagstaffe and when he was interviewed on Football Focus, Garth Crooks asks him why he's called Waggy and he says “Eee I don't know, never thought about it” Set up again, everybody's at it. Back to business, I've gotta crack on, still time to come across cool though.

“Fried Chicken, which part of no, say hey nonny no, do you not understand? Now what I want is a pride that burns so fiercely….”

Blow me now, isn't there a kerfuffle outside and then the door slams open and the wood work trembles. I turn, this time snarling.

“Now what the… oh Chairman, come in.”

Allow me to introduce billionaire Major Bellamy. Made his money in scrap. In fact he's making more money now than ever; what with all the kids nicking the manhole covers. Once upon a time all chairmen were local lads made good, now it's all Yanks and Russians, but not here. Trouble is he thinks' he knows a bit about football but if you've watched United for seventy years you know sweet FA. Still he pays well and spends well. And he did promise no interference in the dressing room.

“Just popped in lads. Right Topman? You know what today's all about don't you Topman?”

“Do I? Do I? Chairman.” Best to humour chairmen I always think. “I've had Saturday afternoon in my blood since I was knee high to a corner flag. When Saturday comes, I'm there where I've always been, in the dressing room rallying the troops.”

“I know that Topman, we know that, but…”

So much for promises, we're only four games into the season, this is only our second home game.

“and it's a big but…”

Oh no, he's gonna issue the team instructions.

“…we're not playing ‘til Sunday.”

Sunday? What's the old fool talking about. Then it hits me. Sunday. The game's on sodding Sunday. I look around, the room's swimming, the players are grinning in and out of focus, Tommo my No. 2 has got his head down, why the hell didn't he… that explains a lot, the wife, the car park attendant, the stadium tour guide, the players, every sodding person I've met today, the lack of noise, even down here in the bowels of Home Park. I thought it was just because we're playing Bolton . I've got to act quick, restore my credibility.

“I know that, I know that…I've just got the lads …kitted out …here in the dressing room…. practising visualisation..for tomorrow.” The Chairman was looking hard at me, sizing me up. “Get it right in your mind the day before, sleep on it, then next day repeat it on the pitch. A technique I picked up in Holland .”

He doesn't believe me of course or does he? Nobody in their right mind would believe me. But he relaxes and smiles.

“Good… then visualise six points, Bolton 's a six pointer.” Almost as bad. Talking about six pointers is a definite lead up to the dreaded 100% vote of confidence. I'm only two months into my contract; I haven't had my first bonus yet. My payoff will be pants. I've got to restore my sodding credibility, my respect, my pension. I've been around too and I've got to let him know it.

“Please. Perspective. Some perspective please Chairman. This is September, this is early season, this is a very, very important …….three pointer…”

“Cough, cough.”

“What is it now Mother?” we turn, the chair and I together.

“The reason why I've got so many good mates in football is because I'm always there for them. I can square this.. Today the pools panel will decide our result, my gut tells me they will give us the three points, so when tomorrow comes we will have three points in the bag already and we'll be playing for three more... add them together and you have…”

“Five points” interrupts Waggy. “Nah Mother doesn't add up mate, doesn't add up.”

The chairman is now talking under his breath. Something about getting less S H 1 T from his pigeons. And then he makes a decision, I can see it in is eyes .

“Anyhow just popped in to wish you lads good luck for tomorrow. I won't be here.”

Unbelievable, he was telling me the other day he hadn't missed a United game in seventy years and then we all know why. “I'll be in Portugal on business”. With that he turns and marches out the door. I stay cool and I nonchalantly shout after him:

“Bring me back another Ronaldo!”

“Nah… Mourinho”

“Who said that? Waggy?”

“Forgive him his sins Topman. He's just rapping and rhyming. He could just have easily said Ronaldhino.”

“No he couldn't Mother. He can barely say Deco and that's on a good day.”

“ 'Ere you saying I'm a Rooney”

“No son.” Recovering myself, I pause for major effect. “Believe me with every fibre of your being you're no Rooney.”

“S'allright then.”

Am I, are we missing something here? More money than you can count on the fingers of the entire population of Moss Side. More endorsements than Gary Lineker. Baby Bentley for a run-around. Waggy looks down on Rooney? I break the silent, open mouthed astonishment.

“Now back on the job lads. I‘ve brought you in for visualisation. Nearly had you all going. What I want you to do is very, very simple.”

“You'll have to watch then Waggy”

“Yeah be like you then, on the bench, Front Page”

Immediately a chorus of “Let's get ready to HANDBAG” goes up.

“Knock it off lads. One more disruption and I'll have you back in for extra training. Front Page, Waggy that's two grand each for the Christmas kitty”. Never yet had to put my hand in my pocket for Christmas.