THE oak-panelled door closed almost silently, a stealthy shuzz followed by a click as it sealed the two men in the plush office.

'Sit down', came the voice from behind the desk. If not a bark, it was a growl. But its recipient was far from intimidated.

"I'd rather stand, gaffer. This won't take long," he replied, well aware his white tracksuited figure topped by the blond-Afro hairstyle would ruffle the older man's fragile composure.

There were a few seconds of hush. At last, the 'gaffer' spoke.

"Now what's all this latest nonsense? I'd thought it was all done and dusted, that you were off to Spain or Italy," he said. "Now Kenyon tells me you've had a change of heart.

"C'mon David, what's going on? You've got the move that's been boiling up for months now, so how come I'm hearing ye gonna stay put?"

Mindful of the assertion he had gained since being given the England armband - provided it had not gone around the training camp block in his enforced absence - he countered: "Yea, it's true boss. I'm staying here another year, so I can go on a Bosman next season."

He felt the heat radiate from the Scotsman's face, but he was up and running now, just as powerfully purposeful as that May day in the Theatre of Dreams when he guided England to the World Cup with that unforgettable free-kick missile against Greece.

"I've 'fort about it a lot. We both 'ave. I wanna stay in England. I don't wanna go to Europe, let alone Spain or Italy. They're big clubs an' all, but none of them are bigger than Man U."

Before the glow of smugness was allowed to crease the interrogator's craggy features, he continued.

"I know, and you know, that I can't stay 'ere no longer. So this time next year I'm off to a club where I'll be fully appreciated, where I can be in at the start of summfink good. I'm going to York City."

The Scotsman's jaw almost hit the mahogany table. The facial movement did not end there. His face went through several colour changes of new away kit before a furious stuttering: "York City, York? What're ye on aboot? York? What fer? Why? And how are they gonna pay us? I mean we bought their training ground after we signed their young 'keeper Nick Culkin. They nearly went out of business last season."

The flaxen-haired one knew he had won. "If I'm on a Bosman they won't 'ave to pay," he enthused.

"It's a great little club and a smashing city. There's history an' all that, as much as you'll find in Barcelona and I don't like pie anyway.

"Remember, we were there the other season and a few years earlier when you had me play in that game at Selby Albion or somewhere.

"There's great schools for the boys. One of them's even called Bootham. My agents should be able to work out some new footwear deal for me and the kids. And there's plenty of posh shops for Victoria and some smart bars. They've even got a nightclub named after us - Ikon and Diva.

"Then there's the football club. They've got a boss younger than me, so that'll make a change not having to listen to someone from the dark ages banging on about the good old days when you played with a bag of rags tied up with some scrawny string.

"Okay, it's a little club, but there's plans for a new ground. Me mind's made up - it's York City for me."

The last five words echoed like studs clattering on a concrete

corridor. Then, a shake and a shout: "Gaffer, Gaffer, wake up. Brassy, wake up - it's time for the pre-season photographs."

Updated: 11:22 Tuesday, June 10, 2003