A smile floods his face when the name of Steven Pressley is mentioned. ‘Big Elvis,’ says Scott Arfield. ‘What a man, the most intense person I’ve ever met. The only guy I’ve ever met who takes a run-up to shake your hand.’
It is at this point Arfield checks himself, nodding to a clock on the wall which has just struck 4pm in a central Manchester hotel. ‘I better watch my time,’ he says upon the realisation that both he and Sportsmail have lost track of it.
Time has beaten us and is now of the essence.