Facing trial over allegations of child abuse, Jones had received the full support of his club. But something changed.

In January 2000 my court date came through. It was set for November, in ten months’ time. After weeks of few developments, it seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back as far as Southampton Football Club were concerned.

The chairman, Rupert Lowe, had always been very big on bonding among his staff and used to organise things for us like going shooting or to a spa. We had just been heavily beaten by Newcastle, 5-0 at St James’ Park, and to try to engender some team spirit we were all out go-karting when Rupert rang me out of the blue and told me he’d like to see me that evening.

I could tell from his voice that something was not quite right. He was normally very chatty, but this time he was cagey, almost distant.

As soon as Rupert said he’d like to see me, I got an inkling as to why that was. Wondering if I was being over-sensitive, I acted on my instinct by saying: “If you’re going to get rid of me, let’s do it at the office, not at my house.” He replied that this wasn’t the case, he simply had some good news and some bad news. He just wanted to discuss “a few things”.

The day before I had filled Rupert in — as I kept doing — about the latest meeting with my solicitor. He was always interested and appreciative of the updates, but on this particular occasion he had had to rush off. He said he was having someone to dinner, though he never told me who his guest was. Later, I discovered it was Glenn Hoddle, my nemesis, the man who ended up following me from club to club.

I called [my wife] Ann and told her Rupert was coming to the house. Immediately she said it was because he was going to sack me. Me, being me, I tried to play it down — after all, there was good news as well as bad wasn’t there? And he had said he was not going to sack me. That evening, Rupert duly arrived, accompanied by Andrew Cowen, the managing director. Ann gave them both a kiss, went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and was gone for no more than a minute when the s*** hit the fan. Rupert quickly told me they were putting me on gardening leave to allow me to concentrate on fighting my case and were going to appoint Hoddle as temporary manager.

I told him: “You don’t need to do that. And if you’re going to appoint Glenn Hoddle, just let me leave totally.” He said that was out of the question since they eventually wanted me to come back. “No Rupert,” I replied, “if you do this, I’ll never come back.” Just as I said that, Ann walked back into the lounge with the tray of drinks.

“Go on Rupert. Tell her,” I said. He couldn’t, but then he didn’t need to, his silence spoke a thousand words. In her anger, Ann knocked the tea over and uttered the immortal line: “You’ve just killed my husband. You’ve just stabbed him in the back.”

The good news, it turned out, was simply that Rupert and the club wanted me back after the trial was concluded successfully. Ann asked whether, if that was the case, the club could put in writing that Glenn Hoddle would then step aside, but Rupert hedged his bets and said that could only be discussed nearer the time.

All this while I was sitting in stony silence, seething with rage. I had no desire to continue working for someone who treated me like this. How could I? The trust had gone.

“Pay me up,” I demanded, “and let me go.” He refused, maintaining that the club would carry on paying me and that I should go away on a little holiday and that I could still go scouting for them since Glenn’s forte wasn’t really finding players. The more he spoke, the further I felt the dagger being pushed in.

Explore Football

• Premier League

• Football League

• Scotland

• European Football

• International Football

• TheGame

• Live Match Tracker

• The Fink Tank

• Fantasy Football