At heart,Neil is one you can always trust

ACOUPLE of weeks ago, I sent Neil Warnock a text message asking if he could spare five minutes to preview the south Wales derby. He rang me back at 9.30 the following night. “Sorry, son,” he said. “I completely forgot. What do you need?”

What followed was classic Warnock. For a couple of minutes, we talked football. For the next ten, it was all about family. His wife and children. My young son.

How was he getting on? Was I enjoying parenthood? “Spend as much time with him as you possibly can,” he told me. “It all goes so fast.”

To me, at least, this has always been the ‘real’ Neil Warnock.

Warm. Relatable. A man for whom football is a part of life, not its central tenet.

I first spoke to him in 2009, during my first week at the Football League Paper. Stood up by

Paul Ince just 24 hours earlier, the experience had left me doubtful that a famous name like Neil would bother calling back to discuss a Carling Cup tie at Torquay.

But call he did, and told a complete stranger of his love for Devon, afternoons spent training players on Meadfoot beach and myriad other anecdotes that were journalistic gold. Ten years later, he has never ignored a text message or voicemail, at least wilfully.

Supporters, too, are treated with respect. Warnock is just as content holding court at a fans’ forum as he is in the dressing room at half-time. Autographs are invariably signed.

“I’ll always remember standing outside Bramall Lane as a kid,” said the boyhood Blade. “It was half past six, chucking it down.

I’d been there an hour-and-a-half when he came running out. I said ‘Please, can you sign my book?’. And he said ‘Sorry, son, I’m so late’ and belted across the road. I cried my eyes out that night and thought ‘If I ever get to that stage, I’ll never refuse’.”

By his own admission, Warnock has said and done things of which he is ashamed. He hasn’t always played fair, or treated people kindly. His better nature has frequently fought a losing battle with an all-consuming will to win – and to earn a few quid.

Age and wisdom have blunted that nasty edge, but the snarling, ref-baiting, player-goading touchline tyrant was always an alter ego - the malignant Hyde to his affable Jekyll.

Players instinctively sensed that soft centre. I have spoken to countless Warnock alumni, and not all of them enjoyed the experience. But they all said – to a man – that they couldn’t help wanting to run through a brick wall for their manager.

Because even if you disagree with Warnock’s politics, his style of play or his distasteful outbursts, he exudes a genuine humanity that is impossible to resist, especially in an industry plagued by whitewashed corporate fakery.

Esteem

That human side was obvious in Warnock’s delight at being embraced by the Cardiff fanbase following his appointment in 2016. To be held in such esteem was a rarity for football’s pantomime villain, and an experience that he cherished.

At the end of that phone call a fortnight ago, I told Warnock I’d visit south Wales before the end of the season; one last interview before a retirement frequently promised but perpetually postponed. “Let’s get through these four games first,” he said. “Then we’ll see.”

As we now know, he didn’t make it. For Warnock and Cardiff, an amicable parting at this stage is better than a messy divorce down the line. It would have been a shame to see him pilloried by supporters whose affection he held dear.

For football, though, it is a sad moment. Because if Warnock does finally make good on his promise to retire, the game will have lost a little of its heart and soul.