He’s the daddy; he’s the naughty boy; he’s the uber rascal; he’s the maverick’s maverick. Prettier than Tony Curtis, more saintly than Roger Moore; he’s the third goal in injury-time in a three-all draw. The Seventies were a decade for you or for me: they were just another uncared for possession for Stanley. He got pissed before Superstars and fell in the lake. He’s a profound moral lesson with the hips of a snake. He could pass a bookies, but he didn’t feel the need; he’s slower than John Robertson, but what’s speed when you can land a ball on the head of a pin? He is the only person who can wear his shirt un-tucked in the correct and appropriate correct manner. He’s the gilded signifier of beauty on any Rangers fan’s banner. Yeh, Chivers had sideburns, but they weren’t quite the real thing compared to Stan’s, as he effortlessly juggled the ball on the wing. They could not control him at Man City. So he’s Stanley to them, but he’s Sir Stan to me. He’s Shanks’s thoroughbred. He’s the playmaker, the risk-taker - he mixed it with Clough, and he could have played more often for England but didn’t really give a toss. He’s the one, he’s the only, he’s the true, the current, the future and eternal King of England.
He is officially QPR's greatest-ever player, voted by Rangers fans; he is the Manchester-born lad who found his spiritual home in Shepherd's Bush; he was (and remains to this day) the King of Loftus Road, stealing the crown from the man he succeeded, Rodney Marsh; but he didn't just take over the number 10 shirt, he made it iconic.
To Stan, With Love