Well done, Wayne

In case you missed it, which you didn't, but in case you did, Wayne Rooney became England's all-time leading goal-scorer on Tuesday night. 

As he thundered home his fiftieth goal for his country from the penalty spot, in front of a Wembley crowd who no doubt would have preferred to witness history being made with a fifty-yard screamer, we finally got to see how our nation would react to such a long-standing, long-inevitably-falling record finally being broken.

Rooney himself was clearly overwhelmed. Red of face and teary-eyed, he took in the rapturous appreciation of the crowd, presumably suppressing the urge to bow to all four corners of the stadium and request a microphone be thrown from the bench so that he could make a speech - that came later, with Football Association TV, in quite the televisual coup, securing exclusive behind-the-scenes access to the England changing-room, where Rooney received a hero's welcome from his teammates.

Meanwhile, the weird and wonderful world of social media was erupting. The football community, from Gary Lineker to David Beckham, Alan Shearer to Michael Owen offered their heartfelt congratulations, with many ordinary fans following suit. Yet there was another section of society, a dark, ungrateful underbelly, who poured scorn on Rooney's achievement. They were quick to point out his relatively abysmal performances at World Cup finals, choosing to omit unnecessary information such as the fact he's had to be wheeled off the plane on a stretcher just to take part in those tournaments; they belittled his accomplishment by suggesting that his goal tally had been massaged by friendlies, apparently not noticing that the man he has replaced at the top of the goal-scoring charts scored far more friendly goals than him.

Still, though these people's unpalatable views were largely drowned out, they do perhaps represent a more widely held opinion - he's no Sir Bobby Charlton.

If only someone else had broken Charlton's record before him, Rooney's achievement may not have been received with so much resentment in so many quarters. Had Lineker, Shearer or Owen reached fifty first, perhaps we would more readily congratulate Rooney. As it is, he has knocked a true legend, not to mention a true gent, off his perch. And this makes many of us angry. Charlton represents our glorious past, Rooney our bloated, mollycoddled present. 

Poor Wayne. It's not his fault he was born in the eighties, rather than the thirties. But he was, and times have changed. Where Sir Bobby would ride to Old Trafford on the bus with the fans on a match day, his freshly-dubbined boots around his shoulders, a flat cap on his head, a pipe between his teeth and a loaf of Hovis under his arm, Wazza turns up in an expensive car with blacked-out windows and a personalised number-plate; where Sir Bobby's unruly, faintly ridiculous combover is endearing, Wayne's own fight for more fruitful follicles is a source of mockery and derision; while Rooney holidays in Las Vegas, Charlton probably shivered behind a windbreaker in Skegness; and where Charlton would celebrate a goal with an understated hop and a skip, Rooney tear-arses to the nearest camera and tells millions of people to "Fuck off." 

Think about it, though. If Rooney were to get on a bus today, he'd be at best mobbed, at worst outright assaulted. Had the answer to a better head of hair been available to the young Sir Bobby, do you think he would have struggled on with just a comb and a pot of Brylcreem? Probably not. And, had Charlton become a multi-millionaire as a teenager, his face plastered over billboards and on the backs of newspapers around the world, labelled England's saviour from sixteen, his every move and misdeed revealed and dissected by the press, flocks of paparazzi not allowing him and his family a moment's privacy, who knows whether it would have led to the occasional angry outburst, the pressure and weight of it all spilling out in rare moments of spontaneous, un-media-trained frustration.

Rooney may not be the loveable hero we all think we deserve, he may be the footballing embodiment of middle-age spread, huffing and puffing his way to a place in the history books, a pale imitation of his younger self, and he may not be Sir Bobby Charlton, but he has achieved something remarkable in an era with its own challenges, a time so far removed from that of Charlton's that it is barely worth attempting to work out which of the two men is better than the other.

Why not just put envy and nostalgia to one side for a moment, for this moment, and simply say "Well done, Wayne."

An Evening with Greg Dyke

Picture the scene: Greg Dyke is throwing a dinner-party for a few of his pals. They're onto the dessert and el vino has flowed. Naturally, Dyke being the main man at the FA, the conversation turns to the desperate state of English football. There is a good deal of wailing and even some gnashing of teeth as the group bemoan nearly fifty years of hurt. 

Out comes a delicious looking cheeseboard, its pungent aromas filling the room. A Brie de Meaux oozes and creeps, encroaching on the other cheeses like a bully. With watering mouths, the lads tuck in with good cheer, gobbling up the Gorgonzola and massacring the Manchego like men possessed. All that's left by the time they sit back in their chairs and loosen their belts is a forlorn-looking Cheddar that never stood a chance amidst such exotic company.

Dyke surveys this scene of devastation as he pours himself another glass of vintage port, the cheddar stirring something unexpected in his soul. Then, suddenly, 'Eureka!' He taps a stray spoon on his glass and springs to his feet like a man in the full flush of youth, which possibly has something to do with the port.

"By Jove," he cries, "I think I've got it!"

His guests are intrigued, if a little taken aback, by this sudden outburst. They puff on their cigars and await an explanation, which they feel sure will be good.

Dyke allows a pregnant pause for dramatic effect before excitedly exclaiming "Bloody foreigners, coming over, destroying English football!"

The dinner-guests, while somewhat confused, nod sagely. They respect Dyke and feel sure he's onto something, though what exactly he's onto remains far from clear. Unfortunately for them, their host fails to elaborate further and rushes out of the room. For the remainder of the evening, he can be found pacing the hallway, his glass of port in one hand and a dictaphone in the other. By the time the guests leave, he has hatched a cunning plan.

That plan was aired publicly this week. In case you missed it, it's similar to every other plan those at the FA have ever come up with. Essentially, blame the barren wasteland that is the English national team on foreigners. Not only that, but make it more difficult for the blighters to continue sabotaging our national sport by insisting that clubs must have more home-grown players on their books and making it trickier than ever to acquire a work-permit. He stopped short of demanding citizen-tests and ale-supping competitions for any foreigner who wants to play over here but that's probably next.

The problem with all this is that some of us quite like the foreign players we've seen infiltrating our game over the last couple of decades. Indeed, some of us believe that things have improved as a result. Okay, for every Eric Cantona you'll get an Eric Djemba Djemba but, still, Eric Cantona was pretty great and, what's more, he inspired and improved one of the finest crop of English players ever to emerge from the same club. The likes of David Beckham, Paul Scholes and Gary Neville all tell of Cantona's remarkable influence on them.

Quite why Dyke believes that forcing clubs to increase their quota of home-grown players will magically improve the England team is something of a mystery. Perhaps, again, it was the port making him all misty-eyed but, the fact is, England were hardly world-beaters prior to the foreign invasion. It could even be argued that the national side has, on the whole, improved since then - still rubbish but just that bit less rubbish. 

When you consider some of the players who have worn the three lions in recent times, they aren't all that bad. Beckham, Scholes and Neville were some of the best of their generation. Then there's the likes of Steven Gerrard, Alan Shearer, Michael Owen, Wayne Rooney and Rio Ferdinand, to name just a few who have somehow managed to rise above the rabble of imports and forge decent careers for themselves. 

Come to think of it, England probably should have done better in major tournaments than they have. But then, major tournaments are notoriously difficult to win. Bad management, bad decision-making by players on the day and bad luck all combine to thwart football teams, as well as simply losing to a slightly better side. 

Dyke's simplistic notion that foreigners are stunting the growth of potential England stars is predictable and deeply uninspiring. Great players inspire youngsters, wherever they hail from. Great players also improve slightly less-great players. Instead of increasing home-grown quotas, perhaps the FA should concentrate on improving facilities and coaching for kids, and pressing governments to stop ripping up playing-fields left, right and centre. You know, things that might actually bear some fruit in the long-run?

The cream will, more often than not, rise to the top. If an English player is good enough, he will be picked for his club. If he's not, that club should be free to find someone better, foreign or otherwise. Just like if you fancy something more adventurous on your cheeseboard than cheddar, you are free to go wild in the Waitrose cheese-aisle.

Fortunately, Dyke needs the Premier League to ratify his hair-brained scheme. I know what I'd say if I were them: "Go home, man. You're drunk."