Hail, Caesar! Well met, Sir Knight! Ron's doing his pieces ... not in the technical area ... I'm here to throw the moneylenders out of the temple! Enduring image, isn't it? Hmm.
Could the beautiful game be rotten to the core? Our year-long pageant merely a smokescreen concealing the fat cats dipping their snouts into the trough? Hmm?
In a word ... hogwash, eyewash, piewash and pugwash! Er, avast me hearties ... yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
Cloughie had a crate of rum off me when I offloaded Bob Pipe on Derby in the Seventies! Never mind small boys in the park ... large men in smoke-filled rooms ... bundles of cash for goalposts. Marvellous!
Footie's in the news again. Hmm? They builds 'em up. They knocks 'em down and, er, toepokes them in the bovrils!
Big Sam, Big Ron, Big Mal, er, big Mama Thornton ... Mighty Joe Young. Is that a bung in your pocket or just a lazy lob? Hmm?
Is it just Ron who has noticed that every time the England job comes up, someone starts digging ... unearths a bit of a bad smell ... and we have to employ a muppet?
The drip, drip, drip of innuendo, isn't it?
Cloughie! Plip ... El Tel! Plip ... Ron Manager! Plop.
Mud sticks. Hmm? But when it gets dry you can brush it off a bit. You can thank Mrs Manager for that tip! Marvellous!
Blame Johnny Foreigner! Remember Rune Hauge seducing George Graham into taking a bite from the forbidden fruit? Honest George. Hmm? Would you Adam and Eve it? Ho ho, just one of my "funnies". But like the erstwhile Arsenal supremo, Ron Manager never stooped so low as to accept a bung, merely unsolicited payments which, be fair, have always been part of the hurly-burly rollercoaster ride on the managerial merry-go- round. If one of those agent johnnies had inadvertently slipped something in my back pocket, er, centrifugal force would have robbed me of it on the managerial waltzers. Marvellous!
Bungs, isn't it? Johnny Haynes once gave me a bong he'd picked up in the Emirates. What laughs in the Fulham dressing room at half-time with Jimmy Hill as we got the wrong side of a bit of "wacky baccy" and Jimmy did the sand dance to Delroy Wilson. Enduring image, isn't it?
Ho ho. I laughed till I could laugh no more, at which point I stopped.
As you know, Ron Manager is not one for making rash statements, but the guff I've been reading in the press all week about my eldest offspring Ferenc's business dealings has just been making my blood boil. And it's time to let off some steam.
If anyone knows my son, it's me. Er, and my wife.
Not all offspring of top footy folk are equipped for a career in the top flight, and although Ferenc could easily have stepped into my boots, it was always going to be beyond him to tie the laces. But no one could have been more behind him when he decided to enter the dodgy internecine world of the football agent. Come on, lads. We're all at it!
Ferenc's a people person. I've always cocked a deaf 'un, so to speak, when he's boasting of having the ear of a dozen Premiership managers. How does he know two don't belong to the same bloke ... ho, ho ... we're an asymmetric bunch! Couldn't he just go bird-nesting?
Ho, ho! Thicker than water, isn't it? But you won't find Ron Manager taking a back-hander in a sleazy hotel. I've taken some right-handers though! Ho ho, only joking! Er, Mrs Manager took a couple of coat-hangers once.
But bungs, isn't it? ... not Ron Manager. As a player, I played for 20 different clubs and nobody made a bean out of me. Not tuppence! Not even half a sixpence. Tommy Steele, wasn't it? Ho, ho! What a picture, isn't it? Bung on the big bass drum, wasn't it? Er, um tiddly um pum pum pum pum. Stick it in the offshore bank account. Marvellous!
Ron Manager was lying to Donal McIntyre. Also present were Paul Whitehouse and Jim Reilly