Late one warm Mediterranean day more years ago than we cared to remember, before the fog of football’s cruellest affliction began clouding one of the game’s most brilliant intellects, Terry Venables slipped into Barcelona’s hottest nightclub.
By chance, the then heir to the throne of Monaco was among the great and good in attendance. No sooner had the drinks been served than a tall, slender lady sashayed across the floor to say: ‘Monsieur Venables, I have come to take you to the Prince Albert.’
‘No, thank you,’ came the typically quick-witted reply. ‘I can’t stand going to fake English pubs when I’m abroad.’
The willowy beauty stood there in shock and bewilderment. ‘Don’t worry,’ he chuckled as he got up. ‘Just our weird British sense of humour.’ After the best part of an hour in animated conversation about football and life on Monte Carlo’s billionaire shores, His Highness asked: …