A SAVAGE TESTING

WHEN I became a manager in the Premier League at Leicester City, I knew the players would try to test me. Matt Elliott and Gerry Taggart had already had a go – but my next examination came when my secretary Claire said an elderly lady was in reception at the training ground. “She won’t tell me what she wants,” said Claire. “It’s to do with Robbie Savage.” So the woman, well turned out and polite, was ushered into the office. “It’s Robbie Savage,” she said. “He’s almost killed me.” I’m trying to keep a straight face. “I was walking down by the training ground entrance, I crossed the road and this car came racing out and... and... I don’t know how it didn’t hit me .... and Robbie Savage was driving it.” I went outside, found my assistant Alan Cork and asked him to grab Sav. He walked into the office, looked at this woman, then at me. I said: “Robbie, this lady says she was walking down by the training ground and you almost hit her because you were driving too fast.” “She’s lying,” he replied immediately. “No, no, Rob. Look, all you’ve got to do is apologise and be more careful. All right?” I said. “No, she’s lying,” he repeated. “I’m not lying,” she said, “I’m not lying.” Sav said: “How does she know what car I drive? Is she sure it was me? Was I even in that day?” At this stage, I smelled a rat. “Sav, you drive a yellow Ferrari with the number plate Sav 8. Bit of a giveaway, wouldn’t you say.’ Eventually, Savage apologised – but not before he’d had a flea in his ear from this lady about the speed he was driving at. Footballers, eh?