by Howard Johnson

There I was, gearing up to increase sales of paper hankies worldwide by spending this column going on about ‘I’m Not Really Here’, the spiffing new City-centric ‘snatching defeat from the jaws of victory’ autobiography by former Maine Road legend Paul Lake. And now I’m going to have to delay my fawning eulogy by two whole weeks.

Just before we change column tack, though, I have to declare an interest as a preface to next time round’s shameless arse-licking. Lakey is indeed an old mate of mine from the far-off days of 1993, when as a failing RCA Records press officer I sent him packages of fair-to-middling CDs to try to keep his spirits up as he battled to make it back from his debilitating cruciate ligament injury. And while those who say Crash Test Dummies are to blame for Lakey’s failure to come back and subsequent premature retirement are surely too cruel, nonetheless it’s a true mark of the man that we’re still pals some 18 years later. Whether we’re mates or not, though, does not alter the fact that ‘I’m Not Really Here’ might just be the best book about football ever written. We deserve to talk about it properly next time we meet...

But for now Lakey’s going to have to wait his turn. And if he’s after someone to blame, then he need look no further than Garry ‘G Man’ Cook, the talkative Manchester City Chief Executive until his resignation on September 9 in the wake of what will most likely now never be dubbed Onuohagate.

Trouble first brewed for Cooky when the British tabloids got hold of a story that he had supposedly sent a rather rude e-mail about out-of-favour City defender Nedum Onuoha’s mum and agent to his mucker, the club’s ‘Football Administrator’ Brian Marwood. The email somehow ended up in Dr. Onuoha’s inbox, clumsily mocking her awful battle with cancer, and she was quite rightly extremely upset by the callous tone.

At first Cook rigorously denied it was anything to do with him and it was claimed that the full forces of City’s internal affairs investigative team (the IT guy, perhaps?) had been unleashed like the hounds from hell to unearth definitive proof that this stupid, vile message was in fact the work of a malicious hacker.

Cook was the £1.8 million a year former Nike big shot who had led City’s off-the-field full-throttle turbo-bolt to footy’s top table after the injection of the Abu Dhabi cash mountain. But his tenure was littered with the kind of foot-in-mouthisms that are gifts from the gods to those of us who are three parts incredulous that such folk can really have made it to the top of the tree, and let’s be honest, two parts jealous of their pay packets. Yes, Cook did once get muddled up and call Manchester City Manchester United. Yes, he did think the fact that disgraced former Thai leader Thaksin Shinawatra was “a great guy to play golf with” really counted when it came to being a fit and proper owner of Manchester City. And yes, he does look like he could spear pickles out of a jar with his chin. But why on earth would any of this indicate that he’s remotely capable of mocking Nedum’s mum’s life-threatening illness? Well, maybe the chin thing might, but you get my gist...

In his resignation statement Cook admitted to no more than “an error of judgement in this matter”, while still sniping at the buggers who couldn’t stop sticking their nose in his business. The privilege of taking home £1.8 million a year was, so he said, offset by “the significant personal focus that has at times detracted from the magnificent achievements of those working at the football club.” What Gazza failed to grasp, of course, was that if he hadn’t acted like a Grade A plonker on so many occasions then we might have been a lot less interested in the nonsense he was up to. You might argue that former Sky TV presenters Andy Gray and Richard Keys, forced out of their cushy jobs for childish, sexist inter-blokey banter not so long ago, have a stronger case for feeling hard done by than the man whose downfall came about because of a genuinely nasty note. But I suspect G Man doesn’t really do self-aware.

Cook fell on his sword, hopefully minding his chin on the way down, and so ends another daft episode in the colourful history of Manchester City (perennial winners of ‘The Cup For Cock Ups’, let’s not forget). Roberto Mancini, a man not particularly known for his affection for his boss, may have forced out the words “I'm very sorry for Garry because I worked with him for two years,” but it’s hard to believe the manager is really losing any sleep over the departure of a man he rarely saw eye to eye with. Mancini’s star is rising at breakneck speed as City’s on-the-field performances captivate one and all. Cook’s is now inevitably in decline, despite the blow-softening wodge of cash that he clearly accumulated while confusing one Manchester football club for another.

G Man’s three years in charge will always be remembered as a time of massive progress at City. And you’d be as daft as he is if you tried to argue that Cooky Monster had nothing to do with it. But perhaps it’s worth pointing out that the phrase ‘pride comes before a fall’ exists for a reason. But then again, whenever did humility, money and professional football ever make for harmonious bed partners?