Old school? We can all learn from Colin

MRS Doubtfire. Colin W***er. And those are just the printable names Neil Warnock has been called over the years.

After joining QPR in 2010, the 67-year-old was asked whether he was worried about suffering abuse on his return to Crystal Palace.

“Why should I be worried about taking stick at Palace?” he laughed. “I take stick at every ground in the country!”

No manager in history has ever inspired the ire of supporters as consistently as the snarling, glint-eyed Yorkshireman.

His arrival at an opposing ground is akin to Donald Trump making an appearance at the Democratic Convention.

Warnock’s match day performance is a masterclass in sly provocation. Backhanded compliments, bitching at referees, a peerless and shameless ability to find a scapegoat for every loss.

Matched

When it comes to grace in defeat, Warnock clearly ascribes to the Vince Lombardi school of thought. “Show me a good loser,” said the legendary Green Bay Packers coach. “And I’ll show you a loser.”

And you know what? Cardiff ’s new manager is about as far from a loser as you can get. Seven promotions: a record matched only Graham Taylor, Dave Bassett and Jim Smith.

Then there was last season’s rescue mission at Rotherham, a remarkable triumph that arguably eclipsed anything in four decades of management. Dead, buried and utterly hopeless when Warnock arrived in February, the Millers went 11 unbeaten to survive with a game to spare.

For years now, we’ve been told that his methods went out with dinosaurs.

That tiki-taka beats team spirit. That the Gegenpress beats getting it forward. That flair beats fight.

Which is true if you’ve got players like Barcelona’s and Bayern Munich’s. Coachable if you’ve got a patient chairman and time on your side.

Cardiff have neither. Confidence is shot.

Their squad comprises a turgid, uninspired mix of post-prime players like Peter WhitGunnar tingham and honest but limited grafters like Tom Adeyemi. Pace and creativity are nonexistent. For all their solidity, the Bluebirds have netted just eight goals this season, and two of those were scored by Blackburn’s Shane Duffy. Such is life when your summer spending totals £1.7m in a division where Aston Villa sign strikers for £12m. Cardiff ’s place in the bottom three isn’t a shock. It’s par for the course. Long term, the Bluebirds need direction. Since the misguided appointment of Ole Solskjaer, chairman Vincent Tan has veered between old stalwarts and young blood with no apparent reasoning or logic.

At 67, Warnock is first to admit he isn’t the solution. His sole ambition, openly stated, is to clinch that record-breaking eighth promotion and ride off into the sunset.

Right now, though, his ability to wring great performances from average players is exactly what Cardiff need. He’ll put an arm round the mavericks. Ingratiate himself with the senior pros. Get back to basics.

Forget sports science. Cardiff ’s players are more likely to end up playing pitch and putt at their gaffer’s Plymouth pad.

Ice baths? Only if you count being chucked into the sea for losing a training drill. Philosophy? Get it forward, get stuck in, and make life miserable for the

opposition.

Old school? Unashamedly. Yet any ex-Warnock player – even those he antagonised – will attest that they found themselves, almost subconsciously, walking over hot coals for him.

Above all, Warnock will galvanise supporters. In an industry depressingly blighted by corporate blandness and empty soundbites, the former Sheffield United boss brings colour and passion.

Grudging

Yes, he’s an awful loser. His words can be bitter, even unpleasant. But they are real. He’ll dig out players, chat about his family, have a pop at all and sundry. He’s a human, not a robot. And, when he’s standing on the touchline at your club, you know unequivocally that he cares. Could Cardiff fans honestly say that about Solskjaer? Beneath the hatred and the jibes, every football fan has a grudging respect for the man they call Colin. And, in 20 years, when every manager has been schooled to sound like some bland copper reading out a statement, we may just yearn for his acid tongue.