When Nigel Clough was playing under his dad at Nottingham Forest, there was never much danger of him getting special treatment. At the City Ground, Brian did not even call him Nigel. He was “Clough”, “Number 9” or “the centre-forward”, while Nigel called his dad “Boss”. Brian knew it had to be that way. Nigel was already dealing with opposition supporters shouting “Daddy’s boy” whenever he misplaced a pass, and the Forest dressing room had to know he was there because he was good enough. “I think he was harder on me than anybody else.” “He had to be.” That included the fines. “If it was £25 for the others, I took £50 from him.” One morning, Nigel and his dad had fallen out over breakfast before setting off from Derbyshire for training. Brian left in his Mercedes. Nigel went separately, only for his car to break down on the A52 on the way to Nottingham. He was stuck at the side of the road with training getting closer when a familiar car appeared in the distance. His dad’s Mercedes. Nigel thought he was saved. Brian saw him. And drove straight past. Nigel eventually managed to get himself to the City Ground. By the time he arrived, training had started. Brian fined him for being late. “No special treatment round here, son.” “Next time, don’t be late.” It was exactly how Brian had decided their relationship was going to work at Forest. He never dealt with Nigel’s contracts, never discussed his wages with him and made sure the rest of the squad knew his son was being treated exactly like everyone else. “That’s the price for being the son as well as the centreforward!” #football