Schteve Enrols At Manchester Met: Imagining Freshers’ Week With Steve McClaren

In an interview published by the BBC on Tuesday, Steve McClaren revealed his hopes for the future. He spoke about his dismissal from Newcastle United, his ambition to run a football club, and his life outside the beautiful game. That would all have been interesting in itself, had he not also dropped the bombshell that he's recently enrolled at Manchester Metropolitan University. That's right, folks: Steve McClaren is now a masters student at the 59th best university in the land, and the British education system is never going to be the fucking same again.

Take a moment, and imagine Steve McClaren on freshers' week. Take several moments, in fact, and really immerse yourself in the glorious human awkwardness of it all. Now take in the news that McClaren has enrolled at Manchester Met alongside Kevin Davies, former England rugby international Mark Cueto, and Blackpool manager Gary Bowyer. They are a freshers' week dream team, a human whirlwind of receding hairlines, questionable fashion choices and affable, gregarious middle-aged angst.

We cannot possibly express our joy at the idea of accompanying McClaren on freshers' week in Manchester. Unfortunately, we haven't been invited, so we'll have to pretend to be there instead. In a parallel universe, somehow, somewhere, we are flies on the wall of Steve McClaren's freshers' week. Breaking things down on a day-by-day basis, here's how we think it's panning out.

Steve McClaren has just arrived in halls, and is dragging his suitcase up the third flight of stairs. He reaches the top, out of breath, and arrives panting at his new room. In the communal kitchen, just down the hall, a nervous-looking 18-year-old is making beans on toast. "Are you Simon's dad?" he asks querulously, having spotted McClaren fumbling with his keys.

McClaren jogs down the hallway, his Hawaiian shirt and 'FRESHER 2k16' cap flapping in the wind. "No, lad, no," he says soothingly, putting his arm around his fellow freshman. "I'm the best mate you're ever going to have in this place, and I'm going to teach you how to bloody live."

It is three in the morning on the dancefloor at Sankeys, and Steve McClaren is downing a small bottle of cherry brandy. Gary Bowyer and Kevin Davies have been forced to take Mark Cueto home, so he's flying solo on his second night. He is wearing beige chinos and a shirt with a winged collar, which he's unbuttoned almost all the way down. "DOES THE DJ DO REQUESTS?" he shouts at a girl with a completely glazed expression. "WHO'S IN THE MOOD FOR A BIT OF BLACK LACE?"

Steve McClaren is sitting in a big circle on the floor, in what is meant to be a bonding evening organised by someone's college mentor. He is boasting loudly about his time in Holland, and telling everyone in meticulous detail about a trip he once organised to the Twente textiles museum. He is pouring Costcutter white wine into plastic cups, and handing it out to bemused undergraduates. He has brought dips, so many dips, and three boxes of own-brand cheese swirls which have so far gone completely untouched.

Having polished off a couple of cups of extremely cheap Sauvignon Blanc, he starts spontaneously showing off his Dutch accent. People are edging towards the door, shifting across the carpet, and still he is going on about his pioneering use of 4-3-3. Half of the room have made their excuses, before he leaps to his feet and moonwalks over to the iPhone dock. Soon enough, Who Let The Dogs Out? is blasting from the speakers, and he's preparing the final few stragglers for a night out at Vodka Revs.

Steve McClaren is arguing with an Uber driver, who is refusing to take his mates home from Warehouse Project. Gary Bowyer has just been sick on the boot, and the guy is absolutely fucking livid. "WE – ARE – SORRY" Steve is shouting, annunciating each syllable like the driver is struggling to understand him, despite the fact that he's from Oldham.

In the end, Steve hands over £50, and they carry Bowyer all the way home.

Things have got a bit out of hand at post drinks, and Steve McClaren is swinging at a third year student who's just mentioned his disastrous spell at Wolfsburg. "It's wasn't worth it, Steve," says Kevin Davies, comfortingly, as they trudge back home through the cold, Mancunian night.

It is three in the afternoon, and Steve McClaren lurches out of bed. "You're too old for this, Steve," he wheezes, before drawing the curtains and seeing that Mark Cueto has passed out on his floor.

Freshers' week has come to an end, and Steve McClaren is filled with a profound sense of melancholy. He's made tonnes of new mates, had the time of his life, and yet the greatest week of university is now behind him. Here he is, in the prime of his life, having to face the reality of doing a masters in sporting directorship. It's just not where he thought he'd be at 55 years of age.

He was winning the Eredivisie six years ago, for Christ's sake. He's got a 38.8% win percentage from his time at Middlesbrough. He almost steered England to Euro 2008, and he's never received any thanks for it. Now, he's a student at Manchester Metropolitan University. It's fine, it's fine. It's just not where he thought he'd be.