My drinking companion Brian Clough (From Times Series)

My drinking companion Brian Clough

9:18am Wednesday 25th March 2009

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ITV1 screen a documentary on Brian Clough. The controversial film, The Damned United, about his turbulent 44 days in charge of Leeds United, is due for release. And Amazon e-mail me with an offer of 'Provided you don't kiss me; 20 years with Brian Clough" for £6.25.

The Daily Mail devoted two pages this week to 'The crazy world of Old Big 'Ead' and my old football writing colleague Jeff Powell wrote about a 36-hour booze bender with the 'Sherriff of Nottingham'.

As the great Jimmy Durante used to say: "Everybody wants to get in on the act". So here goes.

I first met 'Old Big 'Ead' Clough on Boxing Day, 1965, when Brentford, where I was the general manager, drew 2-2 away to Hartlepool United. I had spent the previous weeks in print castigating a computer system that paired a London team with one from the frozen North East at Christmas.

From memory Cloughie, the 30-year-old new boy on the block in his first managerial role, called me "Young man" (although I was years older than him) when we met and gave me a dressing down for the headlines suggesting that no-one wanted to travel to Hartlepool at Christmas. The following day, as Hartlepool won the return game 3-1 at Brentford, Cloughie wound up the crowd to the extent that he was booed off the pitch and away from the ground.

It was part of Brian establishing himself as a larger than life character many reckoned should have had the chance to manage England.

He always remembered our first meeting and when we saw each other regularly over the years at games or at hotels prior to games he would always greet me with "Come and have a whisky young man" and insist on telling his companions that I was one of the powers of a Fleet Street sporting Mafia who wrote exclusive but rubbish stories in The People under cover of a made-up by-line. I gave up explaining that I wrote for the News of the World for 17 years under my own name.

We clashed publicly once when he suggested that the football writers more often than not chose the wrong guy as Footballer of the Year.

I stood up at the annual dinner and rattled off the names of a few winners ... Tom Finney, "nearly got it right that year, Brian", Stanley Matthews, "surely even you could argue a case for him", Bobby Moore, "what did he do but win the World Cup?" and so on.

Cloughie was often a law unto himself. When QPR sent Stan Bowles to meet him at Nottingham Forest with a view to signing, Radio 5 Live announced that he was en route.

The Forest chairman, unaware of the transfer, hurried to the ground ... only to be banished from the room.

Mrs S and I organised a series of tribute evenings at The Savoy to mark outstanding contributions to football. When Cloughie was the recipient, Nottingham Forest organised two tables and arranged for their party to travel together by coach to London.

Just before the dinner Mrs S found Fred Reacher, then the Forest chairman, looking lost in the reception area. "You should be in the VIP room", she told him. "I haven't got a ticket", he replied. Cloughie, it turned out, had given the chairman's tickets to the coach driver and his wife.

My There are dozens of Clough anecdotes over the years. My personal favourite concerns an evening when Reg Drury ,my friend from the News of the World, and I went to The Valley to see Cloughie's Forest play Charlton Athletic.

We were in the passage when Brian appeared at around 6.30 p.m. pushing the skip. "Come in the dressing room", he ordered.

He asked us about the pitch and insisted that we joined him for an inspection. Happy with that, he announced: "I want to buy my friends a drink - where can we go?"

I indicated a room I thought was suitable, but someone inside told us that we shouldn't be in there. "I only want to buy my friends a drink", boomed Cloughie.

An attractive lady rescued us and led us down the corridor and into another room. She, it turned out, was the Charlton manager's wife and she had taken us into the ladies' room.Cloughie produced what is still the largest wad of money I have ever seen and insisted on paying for the drinks for his two pals.

Enter the Charlton manager, who insisted that we had no right to be in the room even though we had been invited in by his wife who was, at that stage,pouring us drinks.

We finished up in the corridor outside with the two managers eyeball to eyeball against a wall and Cloughie repeating incessantly that all he wanted to do was to buy a couple of drinks. I often wonder what I would have done story-wise if the managers had abandoned harsh words for drastic action.

At that stage the Charlton secretary appeared and said that we could use his office and, yes, there was a bottle of Scotch in the bottom drawer on the left.

He led us to his office in the forecourt of the ground, produced the bottle, three glasses and a jug of water. Brian sat behind the desk and said: "Cheers, not easy to get a drink here is it?"

We chatted about football. At 7.20 p.m. Reg and I suggested that he might need to go and give a team talk. "No, they know what to do", he replied.

At 7.30 p.m. we pointed out that the teams were out and the game was about to commence.

We only got out to see the game by promising to join him in the dressing room for "one for the road" afterwards.

I won't hear a word against Cloughie. He's the only football manager I've met who was prepared to fight to buy football writers a drink.

Cheers, Brian.