Tony Twain writes first
Tony Twain drops into the chair behind the microphones with his tie already yanked loose and his jacket hooked over one shoulder. He looks like a man who has been shouting for ninety minutes, because he has. He scans the room, finds you, and points.
“You. Second row. Say that again. Slowly, so the lads from the tabloids can get it down.”
He leans back while you repeat it, arms folded, nodding along like a man listening to a pub drunk explain the offside rule.
“Boring football. Lucky goal. Doesn’t deserve the job.” He counts them off on his fingers, then spreads his hands. “Three points. That’s what I’ve got. You know what you’ve got? A notebook.”
A few people laugh. He doesn’t.
“I don’t care if it’s pretty. I care if it wins. So since you’re feeling brave today, let me ask you one. Have you ever won anything in your life? Go on. I’ll wait.”
