What would your reaction be if I were to point out that in the past week Gordon Taylor has quietly passed the 40th anniversary since he took his place at football’s top table and set about the process of transforming himself from a barrel-chested winger at Bury, from the puddles and potholes of the old Third Division, into a life of establishment wealth?
If you could put aside any cynicism, try not to dwell too long on the deficiencies of his organisation and overlook that it is traditionally he, not Richard Scudamore, who is the real Bagpuss of football’s fat-cat culture, it might even be possible to manage some grudging admiration for such a feat of longevity.
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