The A40 between Cheltenham and Gloucester, is quite a non de-script road. Dotted with warehouses, the occasional field with the odd pony staring aimlessly at nothing. It’s not the place I’d normally be hanging out, but with the end of the C of E championship for another season, I’d been delighted to bag an interview with notorious, Henry ‘The busy bee’ Coke (or whatever you want to call him) – the guvnor of Henrys Hotspurs.

The week before he’d angrily phoned my office demanding an interview to put the record straight. Accordingly some upstart from California had fucked him over – he sounded livid about it. I didn’t really understand what the idiot was on about, but arranged to meet him at a transport café renowned for its Egg & Chips, close to Drifting Par, home of the Hotspurs.

Sat behind an abattoir and a scrapyard, Drifting Park stands stoically, like a bastion from another age. It reminded me somewhat of those tenement blocks that used to adorn East Germany – grey and uninspiring, it definitely had seen better days. All that was missing was the odd bit of tumble weed twirling past, swept by the howling wind coming off the Severn valley. There was a general malaise to the area, a place you would cross the road to avoid conversation or eye contact with anyone.

I had arrived early not wanting to upset the guvnor. I’d heard he got the beef if you were late and certainly didn’t want to get on his dark side. I sat there patiently with a mug of tea warming my hands at a table by a partially steamed up window in the Dog & Doug café – the unofficial club boardroom, it’s walls covered in Hotspur memorabilia and some old photos of Henry in his playing days.

Hotspurs season had perplexed me. The season before had seem them push earnestly for the title, finishing a credible 2nd behind Boruccia. They had been hot tips to go one step further but had flattered to deceive. An appalling start with 10 weekly scores below 40 saw them languishing in mid table – failure to qualify for the cup saw the club reach a new low.

A rally towards the end of the season saw an improvement in form, but weeks 21 and 27 pitiful returns, saw many ultras riot in the Cleeve kop, ripping up seats and demanding the Guv’nor’s head on a plate. I wondered how ‘the bee’ had coped with this outpouring of vitriol and mid table obscurity.

As I sipped my tea a 1973 Austin Allegro pulled up outside – smoke billowed from it’s exhaust. The car was sprayed in a garish green with a big ‘Laura’ sticker in the back window. Its arrival could herald only one thing – The Guvnor was here.

Dressed in a sheepskin jacket, wrapped tightly against the cold, he was quickly cracking jokes with Dog and Doug – a homosexual couple who ran the café.  They were happy to toy with him about Hotspurs disappointing season, but he was having none of it.

‘ You shut the fuck up you big queen’
he screeched at Doug, the more feminine of the two, before directing his fire at Dog, who obviously did most of the cooking,
‘And you concentrate on my egg and chips you fat twat’
he retorted, which brought sniggers of laughter from behind the counter, and a wink in my direction as he clocked me presence.

I was momentarily shocked at Henry’s lack of political correctness but that was what appeared to make the man, he was a colossus not to be messed with.

Standing at over 6 feet 2’and packing a few extra pounds, he sauntered over towards me. His short salt and pepper Brylcreemed hair, goatee beard and horn rimmed glasses, gave him a look of Rafa Benetiz with a bit of Ronnie Cray thrown in. He certainly had an inner core, an aura about him, if you want. He pulled up a seat opposite me, and threw his great bulk down into it, sending a shock wave resonating around the café.

‘God it’s a bit parky out there’ he barked, rubbing his hands together, blowing air out of his mouth, like the sound of a piston engine. He removed his John Motson cast off, and turned his gaze towards me, offering a warm smile and a clammy handshake.

‘Thanks for making the effort for coming all this way Dan. I’ve got a lot to say about all the shenanigans this season. You’re the only hack I can trust who’ll say it my way’

I was touched that he held me in such esteem and glad he was in such a jovial mood. His past had been fraught with some tasty tit bits.

Unlike many of his fellow managers from the C of E, who had distinguished playing careers, Henry had plied out his career in the lower leagues. He had masqueraded as a right back, but there was no hiding the Pit bull on steroids that ran out of the tunnel when Saturday came.

Most weeks TV viewers would be shocked at the scything brutality of his tackles, and dumbfounded at his porous excuses….. that he had slipped because he didn’t have the right boots on. Many promising starlets with glittering careers ahead of them were poleaxed, never to set foot on a pitch again.

Thankfully injury and a long spell in plaster, put an end to the barbarism. Encouraged to move into management by his then mentor Father Willie O’Donnell, Henry had cut his teeth in the Telegraph premiership, winning the title and gaining promotion to the C of E, before taking over at the Hotspurs.

Handling himself well in his new environment, he quickly earned the mantle name ‘The Guvnor’. His borstal type regime played dividends. Securing a top 5 finish in his inaugural season. The Hotspurs then nearly gate crashed the party the following year, finishing an admirable second place. However any subsequent blossoming of his dream of C of E domination, cruelly wilted in a torturous third campaign.

I was keen to find out, why the wheels had come off and how he envisaged getting the Hotspurs back on track.

‘Look gets one thing straight’ as he poured malt vinegar over his egg and chips, which Doug had daintily placed before him.

‘Breaking Lawsaw and Brucharest was never going to be easy’.

He had a point there, as he tucked into his breakfast. Managed respectively by twins Lawro and The Boss, they’ve set a high bar. Sharing the title over 3 seasons, they have dominated proceedings, a bit like Celtic and Rangers of old. Many saw them in a league of their own.

However the Guvnor was clearly confident in his abilities, and saw no mountain too big to climb. He remonstrated with a clenched fist as he described that fateful run in.

‘We pushed Brucharest, right to the limit last season, with a bit more luck – we’d have done a fucking Leicester!’

Obviously irked by missing out on the holy grail – I could see his ears turning red, he continued.

‘Don’t get me wrong, those boys have a lot of talent, but they tend to blow hot or cold. If one of them is on the ball like Lawsaw this season then the others on fucking holiday! It was the same last season when we had  it snatched by Brucharest, Lawsaw were just treading water – it’s all about hitting them hard and maintaining that consistency’.

Hotspurs failure to kick on this campaign, in the Guv’nors eyes was not about his own failings but the plague of foreign money and players infesting the league.

‘Last year was proper British. We weren’t the only ones trying to break the big two. The ‘All stars’ were always in contention – they had a great season, but they’ve suffered like us this time round’.

He droned on with a blob of egg yolk on his chin,

‘What’s different this season is the fucking influx of Septic tanks. Some of them are right con merchants and they’re just ruining the game’.

I asked him to elaborate, sensing he was saving his ire for the brilliant first full seasons by Rapid Los Feliz and LAFC and their respective coaches the Colonel and Wally Red.

‘That fucking cock sucker The Colonel….done me up like a right kipper… made me look a right cunt’ he steamed, grinding his teeth in irritation. His animosity dated back to a pre season training summit which both had attended. ‘ I’d given him the nod on a few players and he had the fucking cheek to ignore me. He then poured more fuel on the fire by tipping of that lackey of his Wally Red. The whole episode cost me a small fortune. I’ll never trust that nonce again!’

Seething at his supposed injustice, the Guvnor then launched into the other members of the west coast crew.

‘Then there’s that bloke who calls himself the Buddha (Whoop Ass Shaman). He just spouts on about Nasri being a lesbian! – that’s outrageous in my opinion, and then to cap it all there’s that ponce who calls himself Laurence the Great. He did fuck all last season, just sunning himself senseless and still managed to avoid relegation. It’s a fucking conspiracy I’m telling you!’

It took about 5 minutes of slow breathing, counting to 10 with the odd hit on his inhaler to calm the Guvnor down. I was wary of sending him over the edge again after his last rant,  but still keen to garner more about the foreign influx. I suggested to him, it had in fact opened the league up, citing Clash City’s 4th place finish and his own protégées the Felix Tigers solid first season.

The Guvnor paused momentarily to capture his thoughts, before leaning forward. Still red in the face, he grimaced, his eyes fixed on mine with an icy glare.

‘Listen…I picked up quite a bit of noise about the Tigers gaining entry to the league. Let’s get this crystal clear’ he said pointing his index finger in my face.

‘They are a work in motion. Larry Lloyd is just holding the reigns…for the big guy, he’ll take over when he’s ready. If people don’t like that, then they can just fuck off!’

I was probably wise to avoid a follow up on the Tigers, so I prompted him about the rise of Clash City. There mention seemed to calm him as he relaxed back into his seat with a smile on his face.

‘I was pleased for Jimmy Wheel’ be blurted out laughing. ‘They’ve got a hard working team down there and punch above their weight. However their season was a flash in the pan. It will never be repeated’.

He started to shake his head,

‘He’s talks a load of shit our kid, always forgetting City have no backbone. I’m telling you now – If they finish above us next season, I’ll be happy to run naked down Cheltenham High Street with my soiled underpants on my head……that wanker’s got no chance’.

He sat there chortling for a while, finishing his tea, before supplying his thoughts on what would be his winning formula for the season ahead.

‘We’re going to hit the ground running and try and avoid those key injuries (Callum Wilson tore a cruciate ligament the day Henry had him on a triple captain boost) or an over reliance on Newcastle to affect our season’

I pondered his proposed strategy,  aware of his extreme training methods, which some argued had led to the squad depletion. Henry held endurance tests weekly for his players, in the River Severn mudflats – many suffered terribly.

Before I had a chance to ask him about the mud sessions, his phone started to ring. I instantly recognised the ring tone, the Wurzels 70’s classic, I am a cider drinker which trundled on before he took the call

‘Hello Clayton, what’s happening bruv?’

He sat there listening for a while, a frown appearing on his head, uttering, ‘yep, yep’ a couple of times, before rising and putting his coat on, whilst he looked at me

‘No, I’m only down the road…ok…I’ll see you in 10’ , he hanged up and slipped the phone into his sheepskin

‘Sorry my man, I’m going to have to call time on our meeting, something’s kicking off at Drifting Park. I need to be there…you know what I mean’.

I didn’t have a clue what he was on about or why he’d winked at me when finishing his sentence, but he was obviously in a hurry. As we exchanged hand shakes, he looked me in the eye for one last time, with a dead pan look on his face.

‘Believe me Ron, we won’t get fooled again – those mother fuckers have seen nothing yet!’, with that he was heading for the door.

I couldn’t help admiring his confidence and conviction as he revved up the Allegro outside the café. He’d high fived Dog and Doug on the way out and had left me to foot the bill. It was a small price to pay. Meeting the Guvnor had been an experience, one I had survived to tell my story.

Next season offers much to be excited about. Surely they’ll be more hope and glory for fast Eddie, his season blighted by tragedy after a promising start. Maybe we might witness the promised renaissance of the forgotten man Rufio, whose below par performance resembled an Italian ww2 tank- constantly in reverse. Perhaps the take over talk of the ‘All stars’ will elevate Bishops charges, or will it be normal service resumed, and the continued hegemony of the twins.

Whatever the outcome, one thing is certain. Come early August the guvnor will be tweaking his squad for the battle ahead. All 12 managers will see themselves as contenders for the title but few will have fire in their belly like him.

It will be a force that either lights his way on his quest to the pinnacle or the cauldron that consumes it. If it’s the latter, then the Guvnor faces many seasons marooned in the barren wastelands of mid table, with only bitterness at the emergence of a new order to drive him…only time will tell.

Ron Digger