Of course it’s banal to slate JT after his post-match conduct on Saturday evening, but – in addition to finding no one more self-servingly satisfying and easy to scribble about – there was something especially unsettling about a man prancing round Munich attempting to conceal racial prejudice in an Olympic year, declaring himself the most superior thing in Europe whilst all the while claiming to speak on behalf of other people.
“I’ve sat there and seen other players miss out on the opportunity to go and do what I’ve done.”
“The last thing you want to do is see players in suits and stuff like that,” he said, so wrongly in fact, that to even to contemplate correcting him would have been folly. In football parlance, “the last thing you want to see” is a phrase usually reserved for two-footed tackles bound for an Arsenal hotshot’s knee, flagrant diving, or a standard season ticket-holder at The Britannia. Needless to say, it enables the speaker to offer an unmistakable sense of sympathy or disgust on behalf of the collective. Who knows – had Winston Smith, upon entering ‘Room 101’, been forced to mingle with “players in suits and stuff like that”, I’m sure Nineteen Eighty-Four would have gone down as a great novel.
I for one did want to see JT in a suit. Admittedly one saturated with the wearer’s blood and perforated with bullet-holes, but just a bog-standard number would have sufficed. I suppose I’ll get my wish after the Euros, but as a nod to dignity, a sneak preview would have been much appreciated.
That he went to the lengths of donning shin pads in Munich speaks volumes (how long can this depth-plunging continue?) about the man, and I fear this will have a negative effect on the spirits during my rare jaunts around Northampton’s town centre. After all, I would propose that there’s no image with the ability to conjure warmth in the viewer so ably as little lads, usually seven or eight years young, dressed from top to bottom in their team’s replica kit. Prior to Munich 2012, if I saw a lad drinking from a Capri-Sun pouch, being carted round Debenhams by his feckless mother, I would have had nothing but the utmost respect for him.
But that affection resides no more, for in making sure that his shins were amply protected for something as non-penetrative as a Geoff Shreeves interview, JT has imbued those kids with: wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony; to name a few. I’d initially hoped it would go the other way, and that I could have viewed he himself with the admiration I had for aforementioned lads. But it hasn’t – and I regretfully find myself inclined to hate them. I’m sure JT would claim that he was “just setting a good example to the kids” in popping a couple of bits of plastic down his socks, but one has to wonder what lengths he went to that we didn’t find out about?
I’ve little doubt he made Di Matteo’s job at half time more arduous that it need to have been, but I’m more concerned with minutiae – for only in those can we appreciate the true meticulousness of JT’s awfulness. Did he get the referee to check that his studs were legal before running onto the pitch? Did he do ten minutes on an exercise bike, so as to be out of breath and perspiring at full time? Did he receive treatment for cramp during the shoot out? Anyway, with this in mind, I’ve decided to embellish my CV with a Champions League Winner’s Medal too, on the basis that: I watched the game in a tracksuit (was up North), was spouting nonsense after the game, and no one likes me.
Will he turn up to court in kit to answer his charges of racial aggravation, becoming smarter and smarter as the case progresses? The odds must surely be on a Savile Row tailored JT stealing thunder from the hands of Mr Fancy Dan Oxbridge QC on the steps outside The Law Courts.
“This is the best legal team I’ve ever captained. It’s a proud day for me and all the lawyers involved. The last thing you want to see is lawyers walking round in football kit and stuff like that. Haha! Look at this wig… it’s mental.”
Everyman David Cameron has been criticised for speaking about Terry, reportedly being caught on camera saying: “He’s said some bad things” to the German left winger Angela Merkel; provoking crudely contrived and opportunistic outrage from Labour MP Steve Rotherham – a man pathetic enough to rename himself after a dive in a bid to woo low-income voters.
“Somebody like David Cameron should know better. No matter what happens the trial has not taken place yet.”
Well Steve, therein lies the beauty of John George Terry: DC could have talking about almost anything to have ever slipped out of his trap.
In response to the disinterest in the manager’s job at Liverpool – and the fact that they haven’t been in the news for 37 seconds – the city’s newspaper is reporting that Bob Paisely has been offered the vacant position. Ronald de Boer and Didier Deschamps and numerous reputable others have passed the initial test, by saying that they don’t want the job; thereby paradoxically rendering them intelligent enough to be offered it. A good manager doesn’t want to have to answer the what-the-fuck-do-I-do-with-Downing/Henderson question; and one worries for Roberto Martinez’s credentials, as he appears to think it would be a step up from Wigan. Having said that, the interviews are apparently taking place in the States, so anyone putting themselves in the frame is clearly looking for an expenses paid holiday, and will do admirably well to hold a straight face when relaying their “Yeah I’ve got big plans for Andy C” lie to the bemused Americans.
Paisley, dead for 16 years, is yet to confirm his interest, but it’s believed he would be keen if the club made an offer. Unsurprisingly, the Anfield faithful are firmly behind the move.
“Yeah of course we’d have him back,” Idiot A said earlier. “I’m not convinced he’d want it, but his record speaks for itself.”
“I don’t care what happens,” sighed Idiot B, “as long as it’s carried out via our tangible modus operandi: The Liverpool Way.”
“Big club big club big club Europe Europe Europe Dalglish Daglish Dalglish,” reasoned another, simultaneously attempting to lick his own elbow.