Another season,another reason for saying goodness, this has come round quickly. It’s never been away, observed my lady-friend Miranda. You have been watching football all summer. That was running, jumping and throwing, pet. Or the Olympics, as it’s called.
Now we are well into it and the back-page doom merchants are saying it’s the end. Our top club, Man City, will all go to jail for naughty financial reasons. Real Madrid is again the best team in the world. And the Prem is on the slide. We have blown it. Our time has gone. We haven’t got the best players or teams any more. Hey-ho, on we go. And welcome to a wonderful new season…
Lee Carsley. Still not used to the camera focusing on this baldie-heeded bloke looking worried in the stands. Why are they doing that? Who is he? Of course, the new England manager. I swear he used to serve in the pub round the corner. No, hold on – he is our bin man. Blokes who look like Lee Carsley are everywhere. Will he be like the late Sven-Göran Eriksson, entertaining the nation with his lady-friends and heels?
Double Pep. I did a double-take when Man City played Chelsea, whose new manager, Enzo Maresca, looks just like Guardiola. Is it the same person managing both, or are they identical twins?
Hair today. Cucurella of Chelsea, him with the long hair, has his own chant, sung to the tune of “La Bamba”: “Cucurella, he eats paella, he drinks Estrella/His hair is f***ing massive…” What I don’t understand is why he keeps pushing it back. I know he grew it long as a wee boy so his mum could spot him on the pitch, but he’s famous now. He should get a hairband or grow a ponytail, like what I’ve done. Yes, I am growing a ponytail. I have done it mainly to embarrass my granddaughters.
Less Hair. Mo Salah of Liverpool has cut his short. I hardly recognised him.
Van the Man. Nor did I recognise the new Man Utd assistant coach: Ruud van Nistelrooy. He now has a beard and specs. And looks like a geography teacher.
Hair, hair. Adama Traoré, ex-Wolves, has popped up at Fulham after a spell at Barca. But he still has his hair. Now with extra added dinky white ribbons.
New Brighton manager: Fabian Hürzeler, aged 31. Youngest manager in the Prem’s history. This contrasts neatly with one of his players, James Milner, who is 92 and was playing pro football when I was a lad. Brighton’s one of the teams of the season so far. I hope they keep it up. Beating Man Utd was such a laff. Fair cheered me up.
New shirt sponsors. Still confused by them. What on Earth does SBOTOP on Fulham’s front mean? Is it the bottom line in an eye test? Betano on Villa’s tops – clearly a typo for Beano. Brighton’s shirt sponsor is Net88. Must be a fishing term.
Mason Mount is still alive and running around for Man Utd. Well standing around, looking well pissed off. Harry Maguire is still trying to excite us all. Waiting for
a free kick to be taken, he hoists up the left leg of his shorts to reveal a rather white pasty flabby thigh. Does he know, or is it some sort of twitch?
Ally McCoist. How I have missed his smooth Scottish tones and amazing insights: “I have to say, to be honest, tell you what, that was a smashing throw-in…”
Image of the season so far. Poor old Jordan Pickford, the Everton and England goalie. Against Spurs he gave away the silliest goal, letting Son take the ball from him when he was messing around getting his feet straight. So unlike him. It was what Jordan did next that surprised me. Instead of pointing at his full-backs, the ref, the turf, the sun, the fans, a plane passing overhead, a fly in his eye – he stood up tall, pointing to the badge on his shirt, pointing to himself. He was apologising to all his colleagues, admitting total guilt.
Most unusual – for a footballer, or most human beings. We all like to look for someone or something to take the blame when we mess up…
Hunter Davies’ latest book, “Letters to Margaret”, is published by Head of Zeus
[See also: The football club that data built]
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This article appears in the 28 Aug 2024 issue of the New Statesman, Trump in turmoil