Poem for Sir Alex

I was 22 when you became the manager close to Yule.
That Boxing Day I was at Anfield, saw you beat Liverpool.
It was a bit of trek,
And the Kop sang break Whiteside’s neck.

I was 35 when you bagged the treble and couldn’t stop winning.
On Chester Road the trophy bus went past with you grinning.
For us it was a very short walk.
On the way back we had a game in Seymour Park.

I’m 46 now and you’re still, thankfully, hanging about.
The papers say Carlos Tevez might rejoin to help you out.
Here's a bet,
I wouldn't regret.
I’d ask you that question direct for a fiver.
Because I really want to know if you use a hairdryer.

Hernando Fernando, despite his long years in Manchester, has never fully mastered the language. He left Mexico as a teenager seeking fame and fortune. He’s currently living in extreme poverty in Stretford. He might be illiterate but Good God he’s cheap. Carol Ann Duffy is the Manchester-based Poet Laureate. Apparently she's never heard of Hernando Fernando.