He ran us like a corner shop, a personal cash machine every other Saturday at Maine Road.
It was jobs for the boys, a collection of scrap metal sharks, dodgy TV salesmen and wannabees.
A place to go to massage your ego, have a few drinks in the Blue Room and convince yourself you had made it in your own deluded kingdom.
And you know what, much as plenty won't have it, Bernard Halford was very much part of that equation.
Thousands can profess a love of City, but doesn't mean we would know the first thing about running a football club.
Swales sat at the top of a mahogany table in the trophy room, continuing to gaze and polish a silver galleon presented by Barcelona one year, deluded about where the club stood in the scheme of things.
I remember one occasion when he got egged and his missus was screaming, seemingly in concern for her beloved husband.
Nope, she had bought the suit the day previous and was gutted it would have to be dry-cleaned!
This is Swales and the club as we formerly once knew it to be.
Sit-com gold.