As a player, I probably did not have too much in common with Dimitar Berbatov. Berba is more what you would call an artist, a Bulgarian or a lazy so-and-so. I was all action, a craftsman, toiling in the trenches, carrying the water, sometimes carrying the magic sponge as well. That said, I did once go to Bulgaria on a stag do, and let me tell you something it’s no wonder Berbatov always looks a bit sleepy and knackered. The women and the drink are top drawer, but to be fair my blood sugar got dangerously low because it was so hard to get anything decent to eat. By the end of the weekend I was as weak as a kitten and I would say that Ferige giving me the hairdryer treatment would be the absolute last thing I would of needed.

Berba’s been and left saying “thanks very much, respect to all at Old Trafford” but has not passed up the opportunity to settle a few scores with Ferrguson. Schoolboy error there from the Big Bulgarian. You want to save a bit of that for your first autobiography, that would set the cat among the pigeons. To be fair though I suppose your Bulgarians are not big readers. When I left Peterborough the second time I got a tattoo saying “Eff You Barry Fry” in Chinese but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t regret it in later life. Especially when I found out that my tattooist, Wang, had actually gone and wrote “I want bum-bum Barry Fry” on it in revenge for me having given him a bounced cheque when I paid him for my dorsal three lions.