In the old days, it was simple: you didn’t trust anyone who wore a tweed hat or a beard. But Jimmy Hill muddied at least the more saline of those waters. And you just don’t see tweed hats anymore, except in Norfolk.
There’s nothing to rely upon anymore. Except that anyone who says Americans don’t get football is a rotter. Positively motherless if they combine it with etymologically incorrect observations about the word soccer.
We, on the other hand, are passionate about the game. Only, not this passionate, and anyway, who needs all this fancy stuff? Here are two properly passionate men, the voice of one, the lettered grief of the other, and a breath of a football culture utterly unlike our own:
The commentator sounds like Jabba the Hut. Imagine Mark Lawrenson summarizing for him.
Socrates, whose cigarette smoke you can smell from here now that our pubs have cleaned up, was a doctor of medicine at this point. He’s a doctor of philosophy now too. Tony Adams is an intellectual because he’s learning to play the piano.