One of the funniest and most insightful film clips of the week was a cutting-room floor outtake of Sky Sports’ Rob Palmer interviewing a not-so-jovial ’arry Redknapp. Palmer had the temerity to suggest that ’arry might be something of β€˜wheeler- dealer’… Perish the thought.

’arry took great exception to this, and terminated the interview somewhat curtly; with a crudely worded suggestion that Palmer might like to take his microphone and camera and point them elsewhere. This was followed by one of Redknapp’s underlings suggesting, equally vociferously, that the terms β€˜football manager’ and β€˜wheeler-dealer’ are mutually exclusive.

When I had finally stopped laughing I started to think about Palmer’s assertion, and wondered why RedknappΒ had found it so insulting. For the life of me I couldn’t think of an answer that painted Redknapp in any sort of favourable light.

Was it, as the headline had suggested, β€˜arry in denial, or was there a more sinister explanation? Inconceivable as it may sound perhaps Daniel Levy (N17’s very own Shylock) had managed to instil a modicum of fiscal responsibility in the man who, for so many years, danced like a whirling dervish across the crimson-inked balance sheets of so many south-coast clubs.

To my artless and simplistic understanding, there exist two distinct and separate beings at the helm of any successful Premier League football club. The former is usually found at the coal-face, wearing short pants, looking entirely incongruous, and trying his level best to ensure that not only does each part function correctly, but that the whole is of significantly more value than the sum of those individual parts.

He spends his conscious daylight moments sniffing back hay-fever mucus, and scratching at his crotch, while bellowing four-lettered words from the touchline, alongside such bons mots as β€˜get in their faces’ and β€˜don’t let em breathe’ and β€˜go on my son, ave im, ave im! He’s the good-old British meat and two veg, who crawls between the sheets at night with his back aching from the daily toil, and numbers and formations snapping and gnawing at his brain like Piranha at a carcass… 4-4-2 and 4-3-3 and 4-1-3-1-1, and 2-3-5 (or can’t you remember that one) and so on ad infinitum.

The latter, on the other hand, is an entirely more accomplished and sophisticated being. He is the inspirer and creator, with all of the more endearing attributes of the former, and yet so much more to boot. He understands the motivations of the playing and coaching and management staff, and probably devised many of the formations that haunt those lesser brains.

He knows about the whole, because he specified what that whole should be. He did it at the same time that he created the environment within which everyone can and does succeed.
He too is a wheeler-dealer, who bought at the right time and sold at the right time, and then not only developed and tuned each cog of this high-performance footballing wheel to perfection, but specified the mixture of fuel necessary for maximum efficiency. He is both strategist and tactician, and he is all things to all men; an acknowledged master of the universe, and he’ll carry the future with him.

So why on earth did RedknappΒ not positively burst with pride at this premature ennoblement? When the hapless Palmer called him a wheeler-dealer, and in so doing likened him to a genuine master of the universe, why did he not spread his feathers like the proud and glorious peacock that he always secretly wanted to be?

When Arsene Wenger buys for pennies and sells for millions can RedknappΒ not see a correlation, or does he only see the wheeler-dealerΒ as a caricature of himself; the Arthur Daly of the footballing world with trilbyΒ hat, and felt-collared barathea coat, and golden Virginia roll-up pinched tightly between forefinger and thumb?

Because, my fellow Gooners, that is precisely what he is…

He is the boy who wheeled-and-dealt his way from the streets of Poplar to the opulence of millionaire’s playground Sandbanks and the halls of White Hart lane. The ambitious young cockney who played alongside the greats of the game on the pitch, and who now sits alongside the greats of the game in the dugout; the boyhood Arsenal fan, who wheeled-and-dealt his tortuous way to fame and fortune, but who still looks jealously up at the glory of the Arsenal, and the genuine master of the universe who plies his trade there.

I can recall my own uncertain steps into adulthood when, at the tender age of fifteen, I left my adopted home to join the armed forces. The last thing I can recall was my adopted grandmother placing a frail arm around youthful shoulders and offering the words of advice that have lasted me a lifetime… β€˜Michael,’ she said, β€˜to thine own self be true’.

It was long before I came to appreciate the genius of Shakespeare, or understand the timeless wisdom of the loquacious Polonius, but those words have stayed with me ever since that day.

All his life Harry Redknapp has rubbed shoulders with the greats, without ever being one of the greats… that has to sting a little. But the words that my old white-haired granny armed me with, all those years ago, I now happily pass on to him…

To thine own self be true, β€˜arry, to thine own self be true.

n.b.
Next week: β€˜Neither a borrower nor a lender be’ – More words from the Bard of Avon, and more of the wisdom of Polonius, as we look north-west to Hicks and Gillett and the Glazer family… Just kidding.