David Foot: Warnock is never far from the headlines

David Foot column: No more about Neil Warnock... PLEASE! If only it was as easy as that, and the absurdities from Ashton Gate last Saturday had already receded as they headed for permanent obscurity.

Apart from being constantly contentious by nature, he's bold and impudent enough to say the sort of things that unfailingly earn him vast backpage space at the expense of far wealthier and more famous Premiership clubs.

Those of us who earn our living by reporting on his excesses go to the matches in which he is one of the managers with a sense of expectant drama, kitted out and prepared for a lengthy stay after the final whistle.

We simply know he will be treating us to a vituperative soliloquy of Olivier pretentions.

If we are wise, we top up with extra biros, notebooks and, for the more technologically inclined, cassette batteries. We are aware that he will be keeping us busy. The first time I was sent to interview him, at Plymouth before a cup tie, he introduced me to Charlie, his labrador-springer who sat attentively in the manager's office.

Warnock, who had succeeded Peter Shilton in charge at Home Park, didn't get on well with the Argyle chairman at the time, and the pair would communicate mainly by fax. It was the season when their goalkeeper, Bruce Grobbelaar, was awaiting a High Court hearing to answer match-fixing allegations and one of the other players, Ronnie Mauge, later with Bristol Rovers, was sweating on firearms charges – not the most relaxing dressing room atmosphere for any manager.

It's true that Warnock could be irritating as he found his way to the nearest headlines. But he also had endearing qualities, having Mauge to stay with him and helping with the housework as the midfielder remained on bail. The fact is that, over his colourful, self-regarding managerial career, Warnock's affected fury can be almost as enthralling as his team's football.

Last Saturday, Palace were unjustly treated. They should have been given a goal that the referee missed. And Palace were fully worth a draw.

It was understandably annoying for the arms-flailing manager and his chairman, both of whom bandied round ill-chosen words like "cheats".

It was equally fatuous to blame Bristol City for a goal wrongly disallowed by an objective official.

At least a scintilla of comedy could be detected from this miscarriage of justice.

Warnock, incandescent as he prowled the touchline, had by this time redirected his ire at Gary Johnson, who remained stationary and poker-faced, arms behind his back like an old-fashioned special constable.

It should perhaps be mentioned in passing that the two managers have had comparatively minor skirmishes in the past.

To avoid anything as embarrassing as this happening again, maybe the game's administrators might even consider positioning an official behind each goal. Warnock, who wanted City to donate a goal to even things out, wondered – clearly tongue in cheek – whether cushions should be put down to prevent any future rebounds.

He even seemed to be exhuming the spirit of erstwhile Corinthian Casuals in advocating that the Bristol players should have stood aside to concede a goal and ease the supposed lack of morality.

The famous amateurs, renowned for their ability, used deliberately to fire their penalties wide if they thought their spot-kick shouldn't have been awarded.

But a case for phoney actions? It's as bad as rugby these days. Once the purest of all sports, it now seems to go in for Greek tragedy inspired by Dean Richards and his lads.

Or, being charitable, is it merely a case of a bit of cross-dressing among the demoralised Quins as they splash the make-up on their lips?