Sir Alex Ferguson hairdryer: How trying to grab a word with David Beckham saw cub reporter receive the infamous Alex Ferguson ‘hairdryer’ treatment
SunSport's Mark Fleming was in the novice days of his journalism career - but that didn't stop Fergie giving him both barrels
SIR Alex Ferguson claims he only used the infamous hairdryer six times during his 27-year reign at Manchester United.
If that’s true I am part of a very select club indeed, with just five other shell-shocked members.
I was a painfully green young sports reporter at the Daily Express, innocent in the ways of explosive Scottish firebrands, when Fergie cranked his hairdryer up to 11 and fired it directly into my face.
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My first-hand experience with Ferguson’s legendary red rage came out of a clear blue sky… literally as it happened on a gloriously sunny summer’s morning.
United were on pre-season tour in Norway in July 1998 ahead of what became Ferguson’s landmark campaign, when his Red Devils completed the Treble.
My crime was to attempt to speak to David Beckham, who was sitting alone as the rest of the Man Utd squad took part in a vigorous training session at a public sports pitch.
I sniffed a story.. Beckham out with shock injury… so I went over to ask him what was wrong. He politely told me where to go, and that was that.
Or so I thought.
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The training session ended an hour later and I had arranged with United’s PR man to have an interview the club’s new signing Jaap Stam, who at £10.75million had just become the world's most expensive defender having just signed from PSV Eindhoven.
The rest of the first team squad were milling around getting a much-needed drink and I was grilling a very sweaty Stam when one of the United players shouted: “Hey Jaap, the boss wants you.”
The imposing Dutchman politely said he had to go, so I switched off my tape recorder and waited. A minute later however Jaap was back with the bombshell news.
“It’s not me he wants… it’s you.” I looked up puzzled to see Fergie striding purposefully towards me, his face far too red to mean he’d forgotten the sunscreen.
“Who the **** do you think you are?” he shouted as he kept coming.
“What the **** are you doing talking to Becks? What’s your name? Who the **** are you? Why are you talking to Becks? You don’t ****ing talk to my players unless I say so.”
At this point he had come right up to my face and then taken a step even closer. He was so close I could smell what he’d had for breakfast, and for dinner the night before.
This is a man who doesn’t respect personal space. And doesn’t mind dropping several F-bombs into every sentence.
To say I was taken aback was an understatement. I had introduced myself to him a day earlier and he had seemed relatively friendly.
So I stood my ground and tried to answer him back. I now realise this was a terrible mistake.
“I normally cover West Ham and we can talk to any players we like,” I said.
“I didn’t realise I had to get permission to speak to players. I have only been at the Express for a couple of months, so that’s why you don’t know me.”
Well done me. This only served to stir the hornets’ nest.
“Who the **** are you? This is Manchester United. When you cover Manchester United you have to know my ****ing rules,” Ferguson ranted.
“Why don’t I know your ****ing name? Why are you ****ing speaking to Becks? You don’t ****ing speak to my players.”
The tirade continued. There was no reasoning with him. Fergie barely drew breath as he fired off his rapid fire questions without giving me a moment to answer.
He stood an inch from my face and let rip. He wasn’t actually offensive, despite liberal use of the F-word. And he never jabbed a finger in my chest or anything.
But it was relentless and intimidating.
And then he was off. The players looked at me and most were openly laughing.
I said something like: “Now I know what you lot have to put up with” and shaking slightly I walked off, my face red as a ripe cherry.
As I walked slowly over to where other journalists and the fans were waiting, Fergie came back for seconds. This time he was slightly less angry, but still clearly furious.
I later learned he thought I might be a news journalist sniffing around for some dirt on Beckham, who at that time was a national hate figure having been sent off for England in the World Cup defeat to Argentina.
Ever since then I have assumed getting the hairdryer treatment was rite of passage that countless players, agents, referees and journalists have been through.
I now learn I am in a very select band of recipients.
So thank you Sir Alex for picking me to join the club back on a sunny day in Norway in 1998. I wonder who the other five are?