I’m a man whose résumé reads like a mixtape of triumphs and embarrassments. I’ve managed clubs whose fans chant my name louder than a 3-minute pop chorus, I’ve coached a national side whose hopes were as fragile as a fresh-made crumpet, and I’ve flirted with the press in a way that would make a Bond villain blush.
I grew up in the tiny town of Torsby, where the most exciting thing on a Saturday night was watching the local band Lärkarna rehearse. My footballing education began in the back garden, where I spent more time perfecting my header than my homework.
I got my first professional contract with IFK Göteborg in 1975. I remember stepping onto the grass and thinking this is it, I’m finally moving from the backyard to the big league but I was more of a bench-warmer than a bench-sweeper, but hey, you’ve got to start somewhere.
My debut was a spectacularly timed sprain that left me limping off the field like a toddler trying to avoid a puddle.
As a player I was no great shakes but fast forward a decade, and I find myself in the sun-drenched stadiums of Italy, first as an assistant at S.P.A.L., then as head coach of Lazio. This is where my reputation for being a bit pervy really began to bloom, in the purely tactical sense.
I won the Serie A title in 1999-2000 with Lazio playing attractive football, we were disciplined, and I managed to keep my beard tidy while shouting tactical instructions in both Swedish and Italian and from that to the England Experiment when the English FA, desperate for a fresh voice, hired me as their national team manager.
The press loved it: 'Sven the Swede, the man who could bring order to our football chaos' however, I was about to discover the true meaning of order in a country that treats tea and weather as religious rites.
Euro 2004 and we reached the quarter-finals, beating the likes of France and Portugal and I still get goosebumps remembering the stadium roar after the final penalty. It was the first time in nearly three decades that England had truly competed on a European stage.
I’d switch formations mid-game like a DJ changing tracks at a rave. 4-4-2? Nah, let’s go 3-5-2. Oh look, a set-piece! Let’s do a short-corner!” The players loved it, the commentators loved it, the pundits loved it… calling me 'the Swedish Sir Alex'.
Then came the infamous Sex Scandal. Yes, the affair with Ulrika Johnson, a Swedish model and former weathergirl. It started innocently enough with a coffee in Stockholm, a whispered joke about sweating more than the players after 90-minutes and then… well, you know how the story goes.
The tabloids dubbed me the most highly sexed manager since… well, ever.
I’ll admit, the press loved it. The headlines read: 'Eriksson’s Off-side Affair.' I was on the front pages of The Sun, The Daily Mail, L’Équipe (in French), Bild (in German) and every interview becomes a potential episode of Debbie Does Dallas meets Match of the Day.
After being let go by the Football Association I tried my hand at a few other ventures which never involved a national anthem and became a football ambassador and returned to Lazio as a technical director.
Finally, I settled into my favourite post-career pastime of regaling audiences with tales of that one time we almost beat Argentina but if I had to sum up my contribution to football in a single sentence, it would be play the ball well, keep your tactics fluid and never underestimate the power of a well-timed wink at a blonde weathergirl.
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