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.