King of the jungle still has what it takes to be dugout hit
Harry Redknapp’s ability to charm and connect may give chairmen in Premier League food for thought, writes Jim White
What was to fear from snakes and rats? He met plenty in the boardroom at Portsmouth
Clutching a pint-size totem pole, a small bush perched on his head and wearing a characteristic look of mild bewilderment, on Sunday night Harry Redknapp emerged from the jungle as champion of I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!
Despite accruing no votes in the Southampton area, he won the kind of majority in the phone-in plebiscite of which Theresa May can only dream. Reunited with his wife Sandra (Rosie the dog was clearly detained elsewhere, perhaps checking the balance of her Monaco bank account), Harry had done what he always enjoys doing: he had won.
What is more, this was a contest he won with aplomb. Sure, he had advantages. It helped, having never seen the programme, that he had no idea what he was letting himself in for. Also, when faced with his first bushtucker trial involving the forced consumption of putrid offal, he was probably delighted he has no sense of smell. Plus, what was there for him to fear from snakes and rats? He encountered plenty of those in the Portsmouth boardroom.
In truth, Redknapp’s victory had been widely predicted. From the moment his agent booked him into the competition, the bookies had installed him as favourite. My own view was that his quixotic temper – still visible on Youtube in a renowned clip when he erupted after being hit by a wayward ball during a television interview – would inevitably emerge to scupper his hopes. But I was wrong.
Calm, relaxed, untroubled, he was the most chilled contestant the competition has seen in years. Full of crinkly charm, a constant source of wry anecdotes, he beguiled camp-mates and audience alike. What we have seen in the jungle has been vivid demonstration of the most crucial requirement of his profession: he is an expert in knowing how to get along with people. Never mind the age gap, never mind that he would not know his Instagram from his kangaroo’s anus, Harry deftly assimilated with his young fellow competitors. They loved him. In the unlikely event of this collection of soap actors, social media influencers and reality TV stars forming a football team under his management (with Noel Edmonds in charge of putting the cones out at training), you could imagine them running through brick walls for the man.
It is a characteristic he shares with other golden oldies enjoying an Indian summer in the Premier League. Like him, Roy Hodgson is 71. Claudio Ranieri is 67, Manuel Pellegrini 65 and Neil Warnock has just turned 70. In an era when the young, smart technocrat seems to be in growing ascendancy, when the future looks increasingly Eddie Howe-shaped, there is a reason all of them are still current, still pertinent, still engaged: age does not wither the most important requirement of their job, the ability to connect.
In the unlikely event I were a Premier League club chairman, watching Harry giving such public exhibition of abundant reserves of empathy, I might be tempted to give him a call and see if he could apply it to motivate the young millionaires failing to spark in my dressing room.
And if Redknapp were to find his way back into the game on the back of this victory, it could be the start of something big. After Harry’s game, we might look forward to Alan Pardew, Mark Hughes, David Moyes and Sam Allardyce lining up to take their turn chowing down on emu intestine. Anything for a job.