Home Truths

Being a Manchester United fan has been relentlessly strange so far this season. It's fair to say it's been 'up and down.' Okay, mostly down, with one or two fleeting ups, notably at home to Arsenal and away to Leverkusen.

You see, we're not used to this. Not the sense that we might not be the best team, or have the best squad, in the country, as that has quite often been the case in recent years, but that, in spite of our obvious deficiencies, we might not win the league anyway. 

To outsiders, this attitude has reeked of arrogance and entitlement. As well it might, given that our attitude has indeed been one of arrogance and entitlement. Still, what do you expect, given the unprecedented success our club has enjoyed over the last two decades?

Such unswerving confidence isn't instilled through relegation scraps or occasional promising League Cup runs. It stems from the relentless pursuit and regular attainment of silverware, with which we United supporters have been spoiled rotten over recent years.

It comes, too, from knocking your greatest rivals 'off their fucking perch,' as promised by your manager when such a feat had seemed an impossible dream. 

Hence, after years of sneering smugly from the Premier League's summit at all of those below us, it is, inevitably, taking some time for us to get used to the unfamiliar sensations in our necks, from craning to gaze enviously at those that sit above us.

Thus far, the majority of us have consoled ourselves with gallows humour, finding some small degree of comfort in the novelty of self-deprecation. Yet, all the while, we have clung to the belief that things will surely come good; that the early stages of this season, without Sir Alex pulling the strings, were always bound to be difficult, but were certain to settle down.

Here we are, however, with Christmas looming large on the horizon, languishing in mid-table-anonymity, not so much hanging onto the coat-tails of our rivals as lying, drunk, face down in their muddy footprints, the feel of their coat-tails but a memory on our fingertips.

 

Just when we think we've turned a corner, be it with a last gasp victory at Sunderland, a hard fought win at home to Arsenal, or a slick, ruthless demolition of one of Germany's elite in their own back yard, we are subjected to abject displays in the following fixtures.

Nevertheless, with Sir Alex's parting words, urging us to show patience with his chosen successor, still ringing in our ears, the majority of us have resisted the urge to take up arms and join the 'Moyes out' brigade, laughing off such knee-jerkery with a withering wave of our hands.

Yet it would be lunacy on our part to blindly believe in the new man and refuse to ask uncomfortable and disquieting questions of his embryonic reign, simply because his predecessor told us to, given that, after fourteen Premier League games, we are slumped, like a weary boxer after a bruising fight, in the ignominious position of twelfth in the table.

Who among us, for example, didn't feel a pang of deep concern when Moyes instigated the wholesale clear-out of Sir Alex's back-room staff, with all their many years of combined, serial winning experience, over the summer? Yes, we could understand his desire to 'stamp his mark' on the club and bring some of his closest allies to stand shoulder to shoulder with him as he embarked on this new, daunting chapter of his career but, given that the club (not to mention the players) was already reeling from the upheaval of losing the formidable partnership of Ferguson and Gill, it seemed, even at the time, a frighteningly risky way to exert his authority.

Then there was the tragi-comic transfer window, during which Moyes and his sidekick, Penfold... sorry , Ed Woodward, made spectacles of themselves with promises emptier than Greece's coffers, embarrassing statements of shameless self-aggrandisement and attempt after failed attempt to lure some of Europe's finest players to the club. 

Ultimately, of course, and with an air of depressing predictability, the world watched on as United did the equivalent of a last minute, panic-stricken, Christmas Eve dash to a petrol station, with Marouane Fellaini the party-sized box of Celebrations, a forlorn, hastily tied piece of ribbon wrapped around it, all that they returned with.

(Still, I suppose we should be thankful they convinced/forced Wayne Rooney to stay. Like a new signing, that).

Then there are Moyes' training methods, rumoured to be rather brutal. Now, the aforementioned Rooney appears to be thriving on them, having shed the excess pounds that so infuriated Fergie, enabling him to run around inconsequentially until his heart's content. Other players, however, seem less enamoured, chief among them Robin Van Persie. Fresh off the back of the two best, injury-free seasons of his career, the Dutchman has been sidelined with worrying regularity this term, forced onto the treatment table by mysteriously vague knocks and niggles. 

Moyes' Everton were notoriously slow starters, often relying on a post- Christmas surge to rescue respectability from forgettable starts to their season. Are the travails of his new charges mere coincidence, or is it his training regime that's to blame?

Personally, I'm all for giving David Moyes time. He seems a nice chap, did a damned fine job with Everton, and was always bound to experience teething problems in his new post. 

Still, legitimate questions need to be asked, without being immediately shot down with childish, finger-pointing accusations of disloyalty to Ferguson who, after all, cannot remain blameless for the club's current plight, given that the holes in United's midfield, having been plugged with players like Anderson and Tom Cleverley, the equivalent of rolled up toilet paper, for many years, are finally being brutally exposed.

Yes, it has been a strange season for we United fans so far. Perhaps the strangest thing of all is the new sense of fear that is gradually, like a creeping fog, enveloping us, and that was laid bare by another home defeat last night; not only must we accept that we almost certainly won't win the title this season, we may even struggle to make the top four.

 

We'll Be His Wingman Any Time

Opinions, eh?! *applies comedy slap to thigh* They're everywhere. Everyone's got them. In fact, you can barely move round here for opinions these days. Just when you think you've got away from the buggers, another one pops up and stuffs itself down your throat.

Take Ryan Giggs, for example. Last Thursday started out as a simple, heartfelt tribute to a man who has contributed more than most to the two and a bit decades since the birth of Premier League football, on his 40th birthday. 

There were photos, YouTube compilations, quotes, tributes, reminiscences, and lots and lots...and lots and lots...and lots and lots...and lots (ad Infinitum) of statistics, all lovingly produced by those that wished to show their appreciation for Ryan Giggs.

Now, for Manchester United supporters, this was fine. We could, and do, enjoy revelling in hour upon hour of a particular individual's finest and most memorable moments, happily re-living their careers in a cocoon of nostalgia, blissfully unaware of the outside world.

Yet, these days, it is dangerous to forget about the outside world, for not a moment goes by that they're not watching, like hungry tigers, poised to pounce upon their prey and poop the party in midflow.

And so it was on Thursday, as all the millions of non-United fans grew tired of our eulogising and embarked on a cruel and savage hate campaign whose sole purpose was to besmirch the reputation of one of our greatest players.

The brutes took to their task with great relish, digging up long-forgotten dirt from the birthday boy's distant past and slinging it into our aghast faces. 

Fortunately, we northerners are made of damned stern stuff. We're used to biting winds and unforgiving frosts. Our days begin with bare-footed trudges to our places of work, over perilous precipices and through rocky ravines. We can skin a rabbit with our feet, blindfolded, from the moment we exit our mother's womb. So a few nasty words, however spitefully slung, fall woefully short of disturbing our equilibrium.

Nevertheless, 'Lay off Giggsy!' we beseeched. 'What's he ever done to you?' we cried, the scalding lava of indignation coursing through our veins.

For, whatever Ryan Giggs' off-field misdemeanours, he is, to many of us, a hero.

He is not, never has been, and never will be, a role model, however vehemently some would argue otherwise. He's just a man. A human being. Like all the rest of us. Only he has been blessed with a gift galaxies beyond the reach of we that have watched in wonder since his emergence, over two decades ago, when he burst onto the scene and made Lee Sharpe, who had seemed a revelation up to that point, look like a club-footed buffoon that wouldn't know a football if it slept with his brother's wife.

It's not that we don't understand people's objections to our putting Giggs on a pedestal. After all, we too are human; we too recoiled upon reading about the wandering mojo of the modern age's greatest yogi. It's just that Ryan Giggs has been a such a big part of our lives for such a long time, bestowed so many memorable moments on us, and then shared in so much of our profound joy, that we are prepared to defend him to the bitter end and overlook his indiscretions, as we would a best friend, brother or son.

Many outsiders no doubt accuse us of burying our heads in the sand, of a shameless propensity to engage in wanton self-denial. Well, so what? Who can blame us for wishing to remember Giggs solely as the magnificent footballer he has been, rather than the...I forget what dastardly deeds he's accused of.

For many United fans, there have been few more exhilarating sights than Ryan Giggs in full flow. Our eyes still glaze over when we think of him in his pomp, gliding over the turf with the speed and grace of a champion ice skater, fleet of foot and floppy of hair, the ball an extension of himself, leaving opposition players spinning in dazzled confusion in his wake. 

It's not that we excuse Ryan Giggs for his mistakes. It's simply that, for us, the good that he has done outweighs any bad so heavily, as to make it barely a footnote on his glittering Wikipedia page.

Wayne, Wayne, Go Away

He's one of the greatest players ever to have graced the hallowed Old Trafford turf. A true Manchester United legend, his name, famous throughout the world, is synonymous with the club's illustrious history and proud traditions, whose loyalty to the United cause, not to mention his incredible achievements on the pitch, serves as an inspiration to players and fans alike.

But enough about Sir Bobby Charlton. It's the man who looks increasingly likely to usurp him as Manchester United's all-time leading goal-scorer, Wayne Rooney, that has been occupying my thoughts.

Having woken, on the Monday morning after the Arsenal match, with that warm glow that comes only from beating one of your rivals over the weekend, in a potentially season-defining match, it didn't take long for the seed of dissatisfaction, sown as I sat in the stands of Old Trafford, to germinate into something altogether more sinister.

I racked my brains and searched my soul. All the doubts and fears of a first season spent without the familiar presence of Sir Alex Ferguson at the helm bubbled to the surface. Yet, it wasn't that. We'd won. We'd beaten Arsenal; the league leaders; the pace setters. Okay, we didn't do it in style, but we still beat them.

So why did I still feel so hollow?

Then it struck me, as I read match report after match report and the name, Wayne Rooney, leapt from the page, again and again, and was thrust down my throat.

I was there. So I can understand why his performance was praised so highly. He was, after all, one of our star performers on the day, having put in a quintessentially Rooney-esque shift, more working class than world class; tracking back with admirable tenacity; running himself into the ground, without ever setting the world alight with a moment of brilliance like, say, a Ronaldo or a Messi would do. Still, I even found myself chanting his name at one point, caught up in the moment, transported, momentarily, to a different time, long ago, when he had seemed another potential hero to me. 

I was there on his debut, you see, when he tore apart the first European opposition he'd come across in his career with the nonchalant brutality and fearless arrogance of a Killer Whale toying with a helpless seal. I was one of the thousands that watched from the stands as the Old Trafford floodlights became his personal spotlight for the night, this footballer-that-looked-more-like-a-boxer from Croxteth, who had crossed the divide from Merseyside to Manchester, his eyes glinting with the cockiness of youth, the flag of his steam-rolling England performances during Euro 2004 waving proudly in his wake.

We all chanted his name that night. We took him to our hearts. Even the doubters, myself amongst them, who had thought him little other than a jumped-up scally, quickly realised that we were witnessing the dawn of something potentially very special; something raw, dangerous and exhilarating. There was a fire and a fury about the young Wayne Rooney that spoke to our collective soul. Here was someone, like Cantona and Keane before him, who could grip a game by the scruff of its neck and change its outcome through the sheer swashbuckling force of his will.

Yes, we chanted his name, even labelling him the 'White Pelé,' a comparison to one of football's true icons that seems a little silly all these years later. 

We forgave him his occasional bouts of bull-like, mindless aggression, putting them down to youthful exuberance and reminding ourselves of all the other United greats that had been prone to such moments of insanity over the years, excusing his every petulant kick and scything challenge, and closing ranks whenever such actions left him otherwise isolated on the national stage.

Then he betrayed us. 

Now, I'm a fully grown, thirty two year old man. I'm not labouring under the illusion that anyone who pulls on the sacrosanct red jersey of Manchester United should be willing, nay happy, to give their life, unquestioningly, to the cause, not just content, but privileged, to devote every moment of their career to this great club. 

Still, flirting with City is unforgivable. 

Nevertheless, while perhaps not forgiving Rooney, the majority of us, over time, opted to give him another chance, convincing ourselves he'd been badly advised by the posse of parasites that have attached themselves to him over the years, with Paul Stretford chief-leech among them.

Inevitably though, it has never been the same. The days of our revelling in his glory are gone. We have been putting up with him ever since Sir Alex's famous press conference, when he came as close as ever he would to lowering himself onto bended knee and tearfully begging a player to stay.

We remember that day, we fans, when we watched, mortified, as our leader whored himself and our football club out for the sake of one individual, who was holding us to ransom in order to improve his own personal circumstances, recoiling at the realisation that we needed him more than he needed us.

Still, as I said, we moved on. We got over it and, after a time, we began to believe that, with Sir Bobby's goal tally in his sights and the acquisition of a truly world class, ready made goal machine in Robin Van Persie for him to play alongside, Wayne would surely see that staying at United was the best thing he could have done.

Only, he didn't. Instead, he seemed to take the purchase of RVP as a personal attack on him which, in part at least, it probably was. After all, for years, Rooney had been United's go-to man for the big games, often carrying those around him. Now, he was being dropped or substituted on a regular basis, and had to suffer the indignity of Sir Alex publicly poking fun at his weight, seemingly revelling in his role being reversed from bullied to bully, and making it abundantly clear that he felt Wayne Rooney had now become eminently dispensable. 

Yet the new regime, with David Moyes at the helm, made keeping Rooney, this repeatedly disloyal, selfish, arrogant, self-serving, sulking, out of shape, self-styled-megastar, at the club their overriding priority over the summer, and they celebrated the achievement of it like they would the purchase of a new star signing, conveniently brushing over the fact that he was yet to actually sign a new contract and refusing to celebrate goals with his teammates, indicating that he was merely being held hostage.

I don't hate Wayne Rooney. He has given us some wonderful memories over the years. Likewise, I'm not so bitter that I can't appreciate when he puts in a genuinely world class performance, as he did last night, providing four assists in United's 5-0 demolition of Bayer Leverkusen. I just prefer it when someone else, like Shinji Kagawa, for example, takes the accolades, because then my joy isn't tainted by treachery.

I'm sick and tired of Wayne Rooney. I'm tired of his name. I'm tired of his face. I'm tired of his attitude. I'm just tired of him. 

As for Sir Bobby's record, the thought that we may see Wayne Rooney's name at the top of that list in the future would prove beyond doubt that there really isn't any justice in the world. I can only pray that David Moyes plans to offload the pretender to Sir Bobby's throne as soon as his 248th United goal hits the back of the net.

Marouane Testing the United Faithful

There was a Manchester United match, as the 2011/12 season drew towards its insane climax, that will live long in the memories of the Old Trafford faithful. It is a memory we dislike with almost as much intensity as that season's final, harrowing moments, for it was the slow, creeping gas that weakened our title campaign to the point of paralysis, and left it exposed to the ultimate, killer blow that was to follow on the final day.

Whereas Sergio Agüero's last-gasp winner against QPR provided the final, fatal strike that left United fans choking on their own blood and bile, it was the 4-4 draw, at home to Everton a few weeks before, that made the team so vulnerable to such an attack, and set the throes of death in motion.

That match was a desperately drawn out affair for the fans, the second half a form of torture, hope draining slowly from our hearts as we watched, helpless, the previous eight months' blood, sweat and tears evaporating before our eyes. We felt the colour draining from our collective face, as a seemingly unassailable, cruising 4-2 lead crumbled about our feet. It was so alien to us. These things didn't happen to Manchester United. Our players didn't succumb to the pressure of being pursued. 

Yet succumb we did and, though we were well aware that we could still, mathematically, be crowned champions, there was an undeniable sense of foreboding in the air as we trudged out of the stadium and back up Sir Matt Busby Way. The self belief was, if not gone completely, then at least mortally wounded.

It was a deeply troubling, unfamiliar feeling, the claws of our rivals puncturing our backs, their hot breath upon our necks. All the self assurance we'd come to know, and taken for granted, over the previous two decades, suddenly going up in smoke. In truth we knew, then and there, that it would take a miracle to recover from our capitulation that day.

There was one figure, in particular, that loomed large over the Old Trafford turf that afternoon, transforming the Theatre of Dreams into a Colosseum of Nightmares for the watching hordes. 

Marouane Fellaini, not for the first time, or the last, brutalised United's back four, bossed and exposed our midfield, and defended his team's goal with the valiance and determination of a great Homeric warrior, inspiring his comrades by his own example, particularly throughout the second half. 

He did it again, of course,  in the opening match of the following season, rendering Michael Carrick, deputising at centre back for the night, akin to a weedy teenager being pulverized by a gnarled and grizzled old pro.

It was understandable then, after two such towering performances (amongst many more against other teams), that stories of bigger clubs circling began to abound. Chelsea were sniffing around, scrapping with Arsenal over the Belgian's signature, with United, and many of their fans, also keen. After all, hadn't we been crying out for just such a bullying, bruising enforcer since Roy Keane's departure?

So why is it that Fellaini has struggled to find his feet at the club he tormented on these occasions? Why have United's supporters stuggled, thus far, to take him to their hearts? Why have some even begun to turn on him already, questioning his credentials to play for a club such as this?

Perhaps it's less to do with the player himself and more to do with the club's childlike meddlings in the transfer market over the summer. After all, we all knew, for months, that David Moyes had put Fellaini near the top of his list of definite targets, and that players need time to settle into a new club during pre-season; to meet their new team mates, familiarise themselves with their new surroundings and thus hit the ground running when the season kicks off. Poor Fellaini started the season still plying his trade for Everton, and was only parachuted into Old Trafford moments before the proverbial clock struck midnight, and his blacked-out Audi transformed into a pumpkin. 

Hardly ideal. It must be a dizzying experience, at the best of times, to make the transition from big fish in a small pond to minute plankton in a vast ocean, without the added stress of a high speed dash up the M62 in the dead of night, with your dreams potentially in tatters at the end of it.

Then there's Fellaini's price tag. Or rather the price United ended up paying for him, a cool £3.5m more than they needed to, had they not so arrogantly scoffed at his initial buyout clause. It makes him one of the club's most expensive acquisitions, a burden we've seen weigh heavily on the shoulders of many others over the years.

Perhaps some also feel that Marouane Fellaini, an obvious favourite of David Moyes, is also the on-pitch embodiment of the new boss, and they therefore direct any ire they feel towards the new manager onto the back of his most loyal henchman instead.

Or perhaps he just isn't Cesc Fàbregas, or Thiago Alcântara, or Ander Herrera. Or Roy Keane or Paul Scholes, for that matter.

It seems rather harsh, and premature, to write Fellaini off after just a handful of games in a United shirt, with all of the extenuating circumstances outlined above, none of which are his fault. 

Who's to say we won't see, over time, the marauding, monstrous Marouane Fellaini that regularly, whilst wearing Everton blue, struck fear into the hearts of opposition fans? Ourselves included.

Blood on the Tracks

It was difficult to focus on the Arsenal v Dortmund match the other night, with the brooding shadows of two Manchester United legends looming large in the night sky over the Emirates.

It was a good match too. Maybe not if you're a Gunner, given the result. Still, for us neutrals (Dortmund fans for the night), it was a pretty, entertaining spectacle of passing and moving and what not.

Still, on that day of days, with the details of Sir Alex Ferguson's latest, and surely last, autobiography being first trickled in tantalising droplets, then poured in great deluges throughout every media platform going, the game at the Emirates seemed somewhat trivial; an afterthought. Which, I suppose, is just as Fergie would have wanted; one final (?) 'up-yours' to Arsene Wenger, reminding the Frenchman, nay, the world, that he's still as box-office as they come.

Yet it was not Sir Alex, alone, that succeeded in diverting the nation's attention away from the match. For another player entered the stage, shortly before kick off, having been prodded and provoked all afternoon.

There are few among us that would willingly disturb this particular beast. His fury is legendary, his wrath frequently fatal. Many have tried, and failed, to take him on, only to be crushed by his relentless force of will. Sir Alex is, perhaps, the one man that would dare stand up to Roy Keane, though it's hard, even now, to pick a winner from the two.

Yet, therein lies the point. Who needs to pick a winner? Who would want to choose a side? Who cares whether or not the two men like one another?

Granted, it makes for a good story. Yet, for Manchester United fans of my generation, who were spoiled like bloated children over the Fergie years, Sir Alex and Keane are simply two sides of the same coin, destined to be forever intertwined in the club's rich history.

Do we care whether they are now stabbing each other in the back? Would we prefer they were enjoying a weekly game of croquet on the lawn? No. We couldn't care less, because we adore them both, for the incredible memories they've bestowed on us.

Much has been said, and written, about Ferguson this week. And rightly so. If anyone has earned the right to hog the limelight, it is surely him. And he's become quite the master at doing just that.

Still, with the embargo on any revelations from his memoir having been lifted at 2pm on Tuesday, I found myself tiring of the media's feeding frenzy by around ten-past, bored and weary and strangely saddened by the rug of opportunity to read his account for myself, thus drawing my own conclusions and forming my own opinions, being pulled from under me, then defecated on by all and sundry.

Which brings us back to Roy Keane, whose relationship with his former manager had, predictably, been chewed over, cow-like, then greedily devoured, throughout the day. The fact that he was scheduled for a stint in the pundit's chair, that evening, added a hint of spice to an already blisteringly hot dish.

Keane didn't disappoint. He never does. As I watched his measured response to Adrian Chiles' inevitable enquiry as to his feelings regarding Ferguson's version of events, transfixed by this moment of raw, compelling television, I was transported far away from the impending football match, to a night in Turin, fourteen years ago, that remains the most profound and powerful footballing memory of my life, hitherto; an example of breathtaking loyalty and self-sacrifice, the likes of which I haven't seen in a sporting arena since.

Fear not. I'm not about to run through a minute by minute match report of that fateful night when we witnessed the Old Lady being ruthlessly ravaged in the sanctuary of her own home. We all know what happened. It's forever etched on our psyches and branded on to our souls.

It is what happened to Keane that night that struck me so hard, and has stayed with me through all these years.

He wasn't like a man possessed. He was a man possessed. The football player equivalent of the Army of the Dead in The Lord of the Rings, Keane was an unstoppable force, everywhere at once, sweeping all before him and providing hope to his comrades when all had seemed lost.

Keane's performance is made all the more remarkable when set in the context of the personal tragedy he suffered that night, receiving a booking that ruled him out of the match he had been working towards all his life.

Others would have wallowed. Not so, Roy Keane. It was as if his grief at seeing the tatters of his dreams strewn around the turf of the Stadio delle Alpi spurred him on all the more, as he dragged the team he captained with such pride and distinction, kicking and screaming, back from the dead, towards the light of a Champions League final in the Camp Nou.

That night, Roy Keane epitomised what it meant to play for Manchester United. As fans, we can only sit and watch, often wishing we could play some part on the pitch, for we know that, if nothing else, we would run to the ends of the earth, and shatter every bone in our body, just to make a difference. We saw that commitment to the cause in Keane's sinew-snapping, eye-bulging display.

He was playing, not for Roy Keane, but for Manchester United, the club; for Charlton, Law and Best; for Sir Matt Busby and all his magnificent 'Busby Babes'; for each and every one of the poor souls lost in Munich; for all those that saw Old Trafford destroyed by Nazi bombs, and who rebuilt it brick by brick; for the fans, past and present; for his team mates, who he would make damn sure would play in the final showdown in Barcelona, even if he couldn't; and, yes, for his manager, the yet to be knighted, plain old Alex Ferguson.

The truth is, we don't need to pick a side out of these two men. They are both too big a part of our club's rich history. This is one scrap neither of them can win. Which must be galling for them both.

Let them play out their futile feud for the circus-loving masses, while the rest of us continue to relish the memories.

And bare in mind, without each other, neither would have been nearly so great.

Northern Light

Despite being only eight games old, this season feels significantly longer in the tooth. The international breaks haven't helped. There have only been two, but they're so mind numbing that the nails-being-dragged-down-a-blackboard tedium they inspire makes it seem like there have been many more. 

These black holes of boredom have to be filled with something. In the past, Manchester United fans would, despite missing the cut and thrust of the domestic game, use the breaks as an opportunity to relax. More often than not, our club was sitting pretty at the Premier League's summit, or at least within spitting distance of the top. The break was an irritation, but no more than that.

Unfortunately, this season's early international interruptions have been spent in a state of agonising confusion, as United fans have filled the interminable hours poring over patchy performances and dodgy team selections, as we continue to struggle against the bubbling current of self doubt rising from within us since the retirement of Sir Alex Ferguson in May. 

This was particularly so after the win over Sunderland, at the Stadium of Light. An away win against struggling opponents, in the midst of their own managerial upheaval, has rarely felt so sweet, made all the more delicious by the emergence onto the football world's radar of Adnan Januzaj, whose Michelin starred volley broke Sunderland hearts and lifted United spirits in equal measure. 

A limp performance, rescued by a last-gasp winner, is something we've all grown accustomed to witnessing from United over the last couple of decades, but such had been their disconcerting scarcity in the early stages of this term, we felt entitled to lap this one up and drink it down with relish. It felt like a turning point, and suddenly we looked forward to our next outing with some of the confidence of old.

The party, however, was short-lived. For there was the next international break, knocking on the door like a frumpy neighbour at one minute past midnight, complaining about the noise and threatening to call the police.

Suddenly, instead of enjoying the mouth-watering prospect of actually going into our next game with a modicum of momentum, we found ourselves engulfed by the mindless musings of Jack Wilshere, and Roy Hodgson's breathtaking stupidity during a halftime team talk, with a couple of predictably bland football matches thrown in for good measure. 

Just like that, our momentum had been sapped. By the time we all re-convened for some proper, meaningful football, at home to Southampton, Adnan's balletic beauty seemed a distant memory, and the nerves had, once again, taken hold in the hours before kick off. 

'The nerves.' Not something United fans are particularly used to. At least, not for the visits of the likes of Southampton. We've tended to reserve such feelings for big European nights, local derbies, and title-deciding six-pointers, in recent years. 

Nerves can do funny things to a crowd. On Champions League nights, for example, when two managers pit their wits against one another in a footballing game of chess, and the stadium announcer reels off a list of household superstars, the turf a vibrant green beneath the floodlights, slick from rain or sprinkler, the crowd's nerves become a kind of electricity, pulsating through the stadium, transmitted through the cold night air directly into the players' thumping hearts.

Not so the nerves that currently slither, serpent-like, through the stands of Old Trafford. Far from creating electricity, these nerves give rise to tetchiness, each mislaid pass or scuffed shot eliciting irritated moans from the gathered hordes.

Put simply, we're worried. Worried that we've lost our aura. Not all of it, of course. But some. 

It is clear that opponents don't seem as fearful as they did, upon entering the fray at the Theatre of Dreams. Why would they? They scent blood.

Yet this was surely inevitable, given how entangled were the auras of the club and Sir Alex himself. After all, he had spent twenty six years moulding team after glorious team, and indeed, the very club itself, into his own colossal image. 

It would take any club, even a Goliath like Manchester United, time to repair the gaping hole left by a man and leader like Sir Alex Ferguson. Likewise, it will take David Moyes time to envelop himself in anything like the aura possessed by his predecessor. It took Sir Alex a lifetime.

So let us not allow nerves to get the better of us. At least, not yet. As fans, it is our job to, in the words of Ferguson himself, 'Get behind the new manager,' and the team, do our bit to restore Old Trafford to the fortress it has been these many years, and re-establish the aura that strikes fear into the hearts of those that long to see us knocked off our lofty perch.

In the White Corner: Roy 'The Lead Balloon' Hodgson

Is Roy Hodgson a racist? It's a tough question.

I think we can, unequivocally, agree that he's not a comedian. 

That may seem unfair. Perhaps he delivered his 'space-monkey' gag with such impeccable comic timing as to render the England dressing room a veritable cauldron of uncontrollable belly-laughter during his halftime team talk on Tuesday night. Still, his choice of joke was so abominably poor that I'd be willing to put my reputation (if I had one) on the line to suggest otherwise. 

Indeed, it seems miraculous that anyone managed to stay awake long enough to be offended by the, erm, 'punch-line.' Whether or not you find the joke's content offensive is almost irrelevant. The joke's length, on the other hand, and its paucity of humour, is criminal.

The question of whether Roy's a racist, or not, is much more problematic. Partly because I don't know the bloke, thus I can only go off what I do know about him.

Based purely on his halftime wheeze, I'd probably say he's not a racist. I should probably come clean at this point, and admit that I wasn't there. Yet it seems fairly obvious, from what I've read, and from the reactions of numerous players who were privy to Hodgson playing the clown, that it was simply a catastrophically poor choice of rib-tickler, given that he ended up comparing, however innocently, a black man to a monkey.

Yet Roy has a certain amount of history when it comes to issues of racism, and it is when his quip is set in this context that things get a little more fuzzy. 

After all, this is a man who chose to go and play professional football in the warm, white embrace of apartheid South Africa.

As I mentioned earlier, I'm not close to Roy, having never met him, even on a London Tube, but those that do know him well, almost to a man, speak of his being a thoroughly decent chap, whose biggest regret in sixty six years upon God's green earth is that very decision to nestle his head in that country's fervently, violently racist bosom, citing 'footballing reasons,' and blaming it on the folly of youth.

That's all well and good, I suppose. I don't doubt for a moment that Hodgson has wrung his hands many times during the intervening years. Yet I can't help but find the 'folly of youth' argument a little absurd. 

Which is unusual, given that the 'folly of youth' defence is something we can all generally relate to with ease. After all, who amongst us didn't make a few wrong turns during our younger days?

Still, I can't for the life of me think of a reason, even as a lad in his mid-twenties, for doing that; for going there. No matter how drunk he might've been.

Imagine making such a 'mistake.' I mean, picture the scene; a sweaty Roy opens his eyes, groggily gets up from the bare floor, wiping stale vomit from his chin, his mangled mind a total blank from the night before. 

"Urgh. Where the hell am I?" he wonders, retrieving his phone from his discarded-trouser pocket (I know there were no mobiles back then but, please, humour me).

And there it is. A text from his pal: 

"LOOOOOOL!!!!! You were SO wasted last night mate!! Can't believe you ended up deciding to go and play your football for a hideous, barbaric, grotesquely racist regime the rest of the civilised sporting world has turned its back on!!! You daft prick!! LOOOOOOL!!!!"

Then, of course, there was his decision to pick John Terry ahead of Rio Ferdinand for the Euro 2012 finals, for the heinous crime of being the brother of a man who was (allegedly) racially abused by Terry in the full glare of the entire world. Or was it for 'footballing reasons' again? I forget.

Hodgson even went a step further, solemnly declaring his support for Mr Terry. "John, hopefully," said Roy, "will be freed as he was freed in a court of law, and will carry on playing for England." 

Remember that?! Still hard to believe, isn't it? We can only assume Hodgson never saw that footage of the incident at Loftus Road, because anyone that did was so horrified by what they'd witnessed, they never wanted to see John Terry in an England shirt (even a replica one) again. Unless, perhaps, they were, well...racist?

I'm not saying Roy Hodgson is racist. I'm not saying he isn't. He genuinely does come across as an affable, likeable fellow, and I'm pretty convinced his space-monkey joke was just a terrible misunderstanding. 

Still, shouldn't a man of his age, experience, position and salary; a man whose biggest regret, so we're told, is relocating to South Africa during those awful times, albeit for 'footballing reasons,' be expected to show just a little more self awareness as to leave the monkey jokes for the gentleman's club after the match?

Poor Jack Wilshere

Poor Jack Wilshere. I bet he wishes he'd never got out of bed on Tuesday morning. He probably did so with a carefully memorised list of answers to the inevitable smoking-related questions he was due to be asked that day, during his now infamous England press conference. Indeed, that was probably the main reason he'd been chosen to face the gathered hordes of journalists, the media gurus at the FA seizing the opportunity for him to clear the air, so to speak, and offer a more credible explanation to the nation than the smoke and mirrors offered by his 'representative' the previous week.

Poor Jack Wilshere. He had, no doubt, been prepared for the good humoured baying of a pack of hyenas, only to find himself emerging, a few minutes later, having been viciously ravaged by a pride of lions.

Yes, poor Jack Wilshere, who, in a blisteringly short space of time, has gone from being heralded as England's saviour and future captain-elect to, in some quarters at least (i.e. Twitter ) a full-blown xenophobic, right-wing, Hitler youth-type racist.

What wretched timing for poor Jack, too, his quotes coming, as they did, barely twenty four hours after EDL co-founder, leader and poster boy, Tommy Robinson, had managed to, once again, shoehorn his way into the headlines by falling on his flick-knife, renouncing far right extremism, and quitting, in order to pursue a new career writing Richard Curtis-esque romantic comedies starring Hugh Grant. Or something like that.

Set in this context, poor Jack's quotes about 'keeping England for the English' and what-not, seemed doubly controversial, and invited the wrath of the blood-thirsty press, not to mention those typically frenzied Twitter-folk.

Speaking of Twitter, poor Jack even attempted to clarify his remarks, via that medium, the following day, by essentially repeating himself almost word for word, thus clarifying nothing, while pointing accusatory fingers at those pesky journalists who had cunningly tricked him into it.

Is Jack Wilshere racist? Probably not. Is Jack Wilshere a young chap, cocooned from the real world, who simply struggled to get his point across about a troublesome issue when asked about it out of the blue, in the glare of the cameras? Probably.

The thing is, we always need something to talk about in the run-up to an England match, because England matches, and all that goes with them, are so terribly, terribly dull. If it hadn't been Jack, it would have been one of his teammates, or his manager. We would have spent the week inserting amusing captions on photos of Wayne Rooney's latest hair transplant, or heartlessly abusing Roy Hodgson for having a barely perceptible speech impediment. It just happened to be poor Jack's turn this time.

International breaks have become a hideously tedious chore to be endured, but not enjoyed. Much of the nation fell out of love with international football long ago. Seeing a player of Paul Scholes' genius labouring on the left wing, in order to squeeze the square pegs of Gerrard and Lampard into the round hole of an effective central midfield partnership, or a man of John Terry's highly questionable moral fibre, the captain's armband squeezing his bicep, barking orders from the back, put pay to most people's patriotism long ago. 

England matches, themselves, have become so miserably mundane that you find yourself vividly imagining gruesome ways to murder the England band, or scribbling heartfelt, pleading letters to TV companies like Sky and Virgin, begging them to invent a fast forward option to go with their pause and record services, in a desperate attempt to take your mind off the drab spectacle being played out on your screen.

Whether you agree with Jack Wilshere's opinion on the likes of Adnan Januzaj being courted by the English FA or not, at least he had the good grace to step up and offer us all something to talk about, other than what form of 4-4-2 England will adopt against our great rivals, Montenegro, on Friday evening, or whether and why good old, dependable work-horses like James Milner will be preferred to exciting young whips like Wilfried Zaha.

The most exciting thing about England matches, these days, is the opportunity to watch Roy Keane silently seething when one of his ITV colleagues has the audacity to disagree with his views, knowing he'd give anything to square up to them, as in days of yore, all bursting veins and bulging eyes, rather than sit, quietly biting his tongue and gripping his chair in white-knuckled frustration.

Good boy, Jack, and thanks. Now, who's up next? I wonder what James Milner's views are on American foreign policy and the War on Terror...

Crisis-Talk

It is a question oft-asked by football's chattering classes, but rarely, if ever, resolved. When does a blip become a crisis?

Why, this season alone, which remains in its infancy, barely out of nappies and still prone to occasional accidents, we've been subjected to numerous blips and countless crises. From Arsenal's crisis against Aston Villa on the opening day, that calmed into a blip with the capture of Mesut Özil, to Joe Hart, who continues to be given special dispensation to enjoy the longest-running blip in the history of football.

Manchester United, though, are a strange case. We've got used to them experiencing the occasional blip every season under Sir Alex Ferguson. Yet we've also grown accustomed to them treating such periods with the glowering contempt of their then-manager. They'd lose two or three games on the trot, or suffer a particularly uncharacteristic, heavy defeat, leading to predictable headlines regarding their imminent demise. Then, quicker than you could holler "Fergie out," the team had shrugged off their torpor, like a soldier shrugging off a few hours of dreamless sleep when woken by a shower of enemy shells.

This season's Manchester United, however, with David Moyes in the swivel chair, is a very different beast. We know the players, of course. Indeed, they're the very same players, with the addition of one of Moyes' most loyal and dependable henchmen from Goodison, Marouane Fellaini, that won last season's Premier League without breaking sweat, who had it all but wrapped up by March, and went about the final few weeks of the season with a palpable air of meh-ness, nonchalantly conceding goals, barely even turning up to give the crowds their money's worth.

Yet now, things are not so straightforward. Where United fans would laugh knowingly at headlines suggesting a crisis at their club in the past, now they aren't so sure. The majority of them have, thus far, spent the early days of the season in a  strange state of good-humoured terror. Desperate for David Moyes, the 'young Fergie,' hand-picked for the job by the man himself, to succeed, they are like someone who wakes up to find themselves on an unfamiliar rollercoaster ride on which they would never have agreed to embark had they been awake. Terrified of heights, they are forced to endure a wretched, nauseating experience, where blip and crisis merge, with painfully disorientating results. 

Having thrashed last year's 'everybody's second favourite team,' Swansea City, on their own turf, the watching world nodded sagely, at one in their assessment that the transition had been so seemless, the squad bequeathed by Ferguson so brimming with serial-winning talent, as to be barely noticeable. 

With that performance in mind, the like-watching-paint-dry spectacle against Chelsea was seen as a blip, an off-night, something to forget, if only we could remember any of it in the first place. 

Until, that is, they arrived at Anfield. The performance at the Liberty Stadium seemed a distant memory within five minutes. Liverpool looked all verve and pace and telepathic, ball-on-a-piece-of-string passing, that left the befuddled champions chasing shadows for most of the match. 

Still, "Bah!" came the cry from the United faithful. "We never play well at Anfield and, besides, we'll put Crystal Palace to the sword next time out." So, still a blip. Only the team didn't stick to the script, labouring against the newly-promoted Londoners, a worrying lack of imagination the running theme throughout. 

Nevertheless, three points had been gained, and the 4-2 victory over Bundesliga high-flyers, Bayer Leverkusen, brought about by a performance of relatively slick movement and swift counter attacking play, seemed to suggest the dawning of a brave new world (or, at least, a familiar, Fergie-like world). No blips or crises in sight.

Which lasted all of five days, when a potential crisis of epic proportions darkened our doorways, as we watched the footballing equivalent of witnessing our spouse enjoying unfathomably long, rampant, noisy sexual intercourse with a rich, young, handsome, virile neighbour.

Yet still we told ourselves this was just another blip, and allowed a tepid 1-0 Capital One Cup victory over Liverpool to assuage our growing fears.

The defeat to West Brom, though, on our home soil, and conceded with barely a whimper, meant we could no longer keep the talk of crisis from bobbing its gruesome head from beneath the surface. Grimacing, we joked about relegation scraps and trips to Bournemouth in the coming years, as it finally dawned on us that our star may have waned with the passing of the guard.

Going 1-0 down in the first five minutes at the Stadium of Light, on Saturday, was hardly the tonic we craved. And, as woeful cross after woeful cross blazed high into the grateful hands of the leering Sunderland supporters in the stands throughout the first half, our crisis appeared to be descending into full-blown melt-down (and perhaps would have done so, were it not for a David de Gea save of impossible-to-describe magnificence).

Until, that is, a young Belgian-Albanian-Englishman (pah!) by the name of Adnan Januzaj batted away the thunderclouds with Zeus-like authority in the second half, a beacon of light and hope in a darkening world, and a potential new hero for United's fans to worship for years to come (assuming he isn't whisked away to Bayern Munich with all of football's other players).

Hang on, we're still no clearer as to when a blip becomes a crisis. Never mind. Chances are they're both just things dreamt up by the story-hungry press, and seized upon by an insatiable public. 

Ask supporters of clubs such as Leeds United, Portsmouth or Coventry City what constitutes a crisis, and they'll no doubt suggest something rather different to a few hilarious Joe Hart blunders or the most successful team in the history of English football sitting six points from the Premier League summit after seven games of a predictably unsettling season of flux and upheaval. 

Though, if United don't beat Southampton after the international break, I'll be checking Bournemouth hotel reviews on Trip Advisor, just in case.

A Tale of Two Davids

 

Remember when David De Gea turned up between the sticks for Manchester United? Of course you do. We all do. We all recall the regular horror shows we were subjected to in those first few months, as he was bullied and buffeted by bulging-veined opponents who preyed upon his glaring weaknesses and painful weediness. The memories of his hands, flapping inconsequentially through thin-air, still cause us to shudder. The cruel image of his anguished expression, as he turned his comically bum-fluffed face from his position, prone on the turf, to watch,impotently as the ball travelled beyond him and into his net, remain etched on our mind's eye.

This poor boy (for he was but a boy, back then), in a foreign land, amongst a crowd of strangers, thrust into the full, unforgiving glare of one of world football's biggest clubs. Each week, nay, each day, brought fresh, brutal scrutiny from the country's media, who circled like hungry sharks, twitching with unconcealed glee at the tantalising prospect of another error, then converging on him in a savage feeding frenzy when one was made.

Even many of the club's fans began to harbour doubts about his suitability to the role. Some vociferously voiced these concerns, while others whispered their fears in hushed tones in the pubs and bars of the city.

We'd seen it all before, of course. Who can forget such pretenders to the throne as Fabien Barthez and Mark Bosnich, not to mention the ludicrous Massimo Taibi? They had all tried, and failed, to replace the irreplaceable Peter Schmeichel. De Gea, for his part, was charged with the unenviable task of taking over from another United legend, the magnificent, serial Champions League finalist, Edwin van der Sar. Such a challenge would cause the knees of a far older, more experienced man, to knock and buckle under the weight, let alone one so raw.

Like De Gea, David Moyes is discovering, the hard way, what it means to replace a retired United legend. Only he is replacing Sir Alex Ferguson, arguably the United legend.

So far, Moyes has had a rocky ride. When he put pen to paper during those heady days of early summer, it must have seemed like all his footballing dreams had come true. He must have had visions of unending success, trophy-laden Mays, and limitless transfer funds. 

Then came the fixture list, and his ill-advised descent into conspiracy-mode. Followed by the most farcical transfer window escapades in United fans' collective living memory.

This would all have been swiftly forgotten had it not been for a series of drab performances, including a whimpering loss at Anfield, a 0-0 draw at home to Chelsea so mind-numbing it led one to question the very point of life itself, culminating in a deeply humiliating thrashing at the hands of United's noisy, and worryingly stronger, fitter, quicker, more skilful neighbours.

Cast in the light of all of this, Moyes has begun to lose some of his authority, at least in the eyes of the fans. He's seemed to visibly shrink in physical stature, taking on the air of a supply teacher who's frightened to make a wrong move for fear of the class descending into anarchy, subconsciously  apologising, in both his body language and his words, for not being Fergie.

After United's 1-0 League Cup victory over Liverpool on Wednesday night, he even informed the gathered press that people had been 'telling' him about Javier Hernàndez's qualities as a poacher of goals and tormentor of defences, as if he'd discovered the player  in an Old Trafford broom cupboard, covered in dust, a relic from a bygone age, and was unsure who he was or what was to be done with him.

 

David Moyes needs to realise that he is no longer manager of Everton, where it is, perhaps, acceptable to line up against the 'big boys' with play-it-safe, reliable grafters in the hope of grinding out backs-to-the-wall, bruising stalemates. He needs to 'bulk up' and grow into his new role, and remember that he was hand-picked by Sir Alex himself.

Just as a young Spaniard by the name of  David De Gea has done so admirably since those early days of his Manchester United career.

Tangled Up In Blue

For Manchester United fans, like myself, yesterday's 4-1 drubbing at the hands of Manchester City was a miserable and worrying ordeal. Ever since Howard Webb blew the final whistle, we have been staggering around in a daze, like survivors of an earthquake, gingerly climbing from the rubble, blinking in bleary-eyed confusion, terrorised by the atrocities we've witnessed, and unsure as to whether we can, or even want, to continue living in such a cruel and unforgiving world.

I've witnessed maulings by Manchester City before. I was at Old Trafford when they tore us a new one two seasons ago. I recall, as if it were yesterday, turning to my brother as the sixth goal went in. His face was ashen, his skin pallid, his wild, staring eyes desperately searching my own for some small crumb of comfort, some shred of solace or explanation. I knew that my own face bore the same corpse-like complexion as his because, looking around the Theatre of Dreams that day, every face I saw was a picture of shock and disbelief, except, of course, those in the away section, which were all gurning in monstrous glee.

Yet, even in the midst of such gut-wrenching agony, there was one monumental difference to what we felt yesterday, as the players trudged forlornly off the field of play. Namely, Sir Alex Ferguson. His presence on the touchline that day was, to us, the equivalent of a mother's warm bosom to a new-born baby. He was our comfort blanket in times of fear, our father figure when we sought calm assurance, our leader through the fog of war. Even after such humbling and humiliating defeats, we trusted him to lead us once more into the breach, and victoriously out the other side.

Yesterday was different. I'm no doom-monger, and I certainly have no time for those amongst our ranks already calling for David Moyes' head on a stick. The poor bloke needs time. He must have felt utterly wretched yesterday, without the added calls of 'Moyes Out' ringing in his ears. Still, the performance was bafflingly abject, whereas the performance in the 6-1 was more farcical than anything else.

Of course the loss of Robin van Persie was keenly felt, as it would be by any team. Yet it seemed his absence was more a psychological blow than anything else. The team chased the City players' shadows with an air of do-we-have-to sullenness, all puffy cheeks and childish finger-pointing as pass after woeful pass went hopelessly astray.

Then there was the reaction, or lack thereof, to the carnage unfolding on the pitch. We all watched, aghast, as Tom Cleverley stripped off. He was hardly the saviour we'd been hoping for, especially while Kagawa and Nani, two players capable, on their day, of moments of defence-unlocking brilliance, remained seated on the bench.

Marouane Fellaini's first big test as a United player was a stark reminder of the calamitous summer we've just endured in the transfer market. Oh for a Mesut Özil, or a Cesc Fàbregas, or anyone with a modicum of guile, pulling strings between midfield and attack. It's early days for Fellaini, and a huge step up from big-fishdom at Everton, to big pond-dom at United, but he was made to look weedy by Yaya Touré and painfully slow by Jesùs Navas.

Not that I wish to single out Fellaini. Other than the unhappy, want-away Wayne Rooney, the entire team were woeful, with Ashley Young knocking another few million pounds off the price we'll get when we come to sell him, which we surely will.

Yet the final blow to our collective dignity was made by Moyes himself, when he exhumed his fixture list conspiracy theory during his post-match interviews. Who knows, other than the man himself, why he chose to dredge this feeble argument up again? Perhaps he was trying to deflect attention from his players. Still, from where I was leaning, head in hands, it simply served to pile further embarrassment on an already sky-high pile of embarrassment.

David Moyes deserves our patience. It can't be easy replacing one of football's true Goliaths. It will take time, perhaps years, for him to grow into the role; to 'bulk up.' Yesterday's defeat though, and the manner of it, left United fans up and down the land feeling justifiably concerned about the future. Which is a deeply unfamiliar feeling after a quarter of a century with Fergie at the helm.

Football Tied Up In Knots

 

There’s been quite a furore about rainbow laces this last week. Not a big furore, I grant you. Nowhere near as vociferous as the furore over certain players refusing to don ‘Kick It Out’ t-shirts last season. Not even close to the furore that greets every incorrect goal-line decision, offside, handball or penalty claim made, in split-second-impossibility by referees, then dissected cruelly by couch-dwelling pundits . Lower, also, in the furore stakes, than one player viciously biting another. And certainly a fraction of the furore caused by a club’s star player reportedly itching for a transfer.

Come to think of it, perhaps ‘furore’ was a poor choice of adjective. Give me a moment. ’Outcry?’ No. ‘Inquisition,’ perhaps? Definitely not. Ah! I’ve got it! There’s been a (barely audible)…

…’Whimper!’

Right. I’ll start again.

So, there’s been a barely audible whimper about rainbow laces this last week. Indeed, you could be forgiven for failing to notice the story at all, so buttock-clenchingly apologetic the coverage has been. It’s come as something of a surprise to me just how childish the world of football is when it comes to the issue of (whisper it quietly and, please, feel free to snigger) homosexuality in the game.

We all know that there must be countless gay footballers playing the game professionally, many at the highest level. And we know this, not because some bespectacled nerd in some far-away office has crunched some numbers, correlated some figures and produced a set of statistics that prove that it must be the case. We know because we live in the real world, where homosexuality, to the overwhelming majority of us, is as natural-a part of our everyday lives as our morning brew. We know and like and love gay people, be they friend, family member, colleague, fucking milkman… who cares? We go to same-sex marriages and civil partnerships and experience the same joy and happiness as we would attending ‘conventional,’ heterosexual ceremonies. We drink in gay bars and revel in gay villages and enjoy gay festivals and listen to gay musicians and admire gay actors…I could go on.

The point is, to all but a few strange, stagnant, seemingly shit-scared people, who continue to harbour the delusion that they, and they alone, are keepers and protectors of the delicate strands of society’s ‘moral fibre’ (whatever the fuck that is), homosexuality ceased to be a big deal, or even a deal, many pink moons ago.

Which begs the question, why does football continue to dwell in the dark ages?  

Common answers tend to revolve around football’s ‘lad’ culture. Yet this strikes me as being woefully inadequate. Are we expected to accept that football’s history as a hooligan’s haven prevents it from, not promoting, for God’s sake, but at least accepting the existence of homosexuality within its ranks? Are the crowds that flock to bear witness to football matches up and down the land, week after week, made up solely of lagered up louts these days? No. They include women, children, old, young, black, white, Asian, Christian, Muslim and, yes, gay.

Then there’s the suggestion that ‘normal,’ heterosexual players, or real men, if you will, would feel uncomfortable if one of their team-mates came out. ‘It would alter the dynamics of the changing room and drive a stake into the heart of a team’s spirit,’ so the argument goes. Now, I know that footballers aren’t, generally, the sharpest tools in the box. But are they really so shallow, so ill-informed, so paranoid and vain, as to feel mortally threatened by a team mate that happens to fancy boys, as opposed to girls? I mean, really? Because, if so, they really are being paid too much. Yes, of course, there will, as in wider society, be those amongst them who have difficulty coming to terms with such a radical development; who will assume that the moment their hairy back is turned, they’ll find themselves being brutally rogered by a primal, demonic, insatiable queer but, surely, we have pandered long enough to the repressed fantasies of these mindless few?

Whether you describe the footballing world’s reaction to the rainbow laces debate as a furore, a whimper or a farce, the very fact that we’re fumbling about with such pathetic gimmicks in 2013 is a shameful and damning indictment on the world’s most watched and most popular sport.
I
t’s called the ‘beautiful game.’ Surely it should be enjoyed, and played, by all.