Rio Ferdinand seems to think his "choc-ice banter" is a private conversation

Footballers, freed from the clutches of their media advisers, can become alarmingly interesting online.

Last week, Rio Ferdinand seemed to endorse the term "choc-ice" on Twitter in reference to fellow black footballer Ashley Cole. He laughed at the term and called it a "classic". Others on Twitter were quick to tell him it was racist. Whatever your interpretation, it was another glimpse into the fabled world of footballing ‘banter.’ Some call it light hearted and harmless fun amongst a self-regulating tribe of exuberant young men for whom pretty much no subject is off limits. Others say it’s cruel bullying by another name. Either way, when banter strays out of the confines of the football pitch or changing room and into the public sphere there is usually trouble. The consensus among footballers seems to be that they can say what they want amongst themselves. The problem is, what they say is increasingly uncontainable and seems to be seeping out into the wider world on a daily basis.

For years football fans longed for their heroes to say something, anything, of interest. Mocking their drearily familiar lexicon of clichés became a cliché in itself. It wasn’t that all footballers were really inarticulate or dull. They were just extremely cautious about media misinterpretations of their words. In no other field are the press quite so obsessive in their scrutiny and so relentless in their speculation. Every utterance of top-flight footballers is analysed to death then reconstituted into the dramatic soap opera plots that are ravenously consumed by millions of obsessive football fans. So, really, it was our own fault that our heroes were so boring. They had to be. Who knew that so many of them were burning with bright ideas, interesting vocabularies, fascinating insights and surprising opinions? They were just too paranoid and PR managed to ever express them. Then Twitter came along.

Footballers who make an art form of mumbled caginess in front of a journalist’s microphone can be the very opposite when engaged in the Twitter app on their smartphone. One minute they’re boring a newspaper with their firm intentions to "take every game as it comes" and the next they are posting pictures of their new hair transplant (as Wayne Rooney did last year), their thoughts on Morrissey and Nietzsche (Joey Barton’s stock in trade) or having a captivatingly ugly spat with a hack (as Rio Ferdinand did with The Mirror’s Oliver Holt last year) for the whole world to see. Twitter has showed us that footballers can be candid, controversial, opinionated and funny. But it has also given us the odd glimpse into the more complicated and politically dubious aspects of their banterish tendencies.

It was in the aftermath of John Terry’s racism trial that a fan tweeted Rio Ferdinand referring to Terry’s character witness Ashley Cole as a choc-ice. Ferdinand responded: "I hear you fella! Choc-ice is classic! hahahahahahha!!" When accusations of racism immediately flooded in, he defended himself by tweeting: "If I want to laugh at something someone tweets....I will! Hahahahaha! Now stop getting ya knickers in a twist!" And later: "What I said yesterday is not a racist term. It's a type of slang/term used by many for someone who is being fake. So there." In other words, it was harmless banter and everyone should get over it. But, as we well know, the internet has no sense of context or irony and takes everything strictly at face value.

We cannot, and probably should not, attempt to censor the rules of private banter, however unpalatable it might sometimes seem to many. But Ferdinand had temporarily suffered from the delusion that conversations on Twitter were sort of private. They couldn’t be any more public.

Ferdinand has more than three million followers on Twitter. More people see his tweets than read most daily newspapers, listen to most national radio stations or watch most terrestrial TV shows. But would he have made a similar remark through any of those more conventional mediums? Of course not. And not just because there’s no Manchester United publicist stood over his shoulder every time he formulates a tweet. Ferdinand is smart and experienced enough as a public figure to know what might cause controversy. And he is probably sensitive enough as a human being to understand what might cause offence. What he might not understand is that all the same rules apply on Twitter. These are not private conversations among a tight-knit community who "get" the rules of banter. It’s clear that he sometimes lapses into imagining that they are.

Footballers, just like everyone else, are still in the preliminary stages of learning how to use social media. Just because it can be controlled directly, invites whimsical, train of thought expression and often carries with it a prevailing air of lawless frivolity, it doesn’t mean that your comments won’t be scrutinised with the same intensity as they are elsewhere. Or have the same impact. No one can stop Rio Ferdinand finding the term "choc-ice" funny. But he can spare everyone else his public LOLs over it.

 

Can Rio Ferdinand spare everyone else his public LOLs over the term "choc-ice", please? Photograph: Getty Images

Sam Delaney also writes for The Guardian, The Big Issue and numerous others.  He is the author of two books: ‘Get Smashed – The Story Of The Men Who Made The Ads That Changed Our Lives’ and ‘Night Of The Living Dad.’ He has written and presented documentaries for the BBC and Channel 4 and is a host on talkSPORT radio.

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A swimming pool and a bleeding toe put my medical competency in doubt

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Sometimes the search engine wins. 

The brutal heatwave affecting southern Europe this summer has become known among locals as “Lucifer”. Having just returned from Italy, I fully understand the nickname. An early excursion caused the beginnings of sunstroke, so we abandoned plans to explore the cultural heritage of the Amalfi region and strayed no further than five metres from the hotel pool for the rest of the week.

The children were delighted, particularly my 12-year-old stepdaughter, Gracie, who proceeded to spend hours at a time playing in the water. Towelling herself after one long session, she noticed something odd.

“What’s happened there?” she asked, holding her foot aloft in front of my face.

I inspected the proffered appendage: on the underside of her big toe was an oblong area of glistening red flesh that looked like a chunk of raw steak.

“Did you injure it?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

I shrugged and said she must have grazed it. She wasn’t convinced, pointing out that she would remember if she had done that. She has great faith in plasters, though, and once it was dressed she forgot all about it. I dismissed it, too, assuming it was one of those things.

By the end of the next day, the pulp on the underside of all of her toes looked the same. As the doctor in the family, I felt under some pressure to come up with an explanation. I made up something about burns from the hot paving slabs around the pool. Gracie didn’t say as much, but her look suggested a dawning scepticism over my claims to hold a medical degree.

The next day, Gracie and her new-found holiday playmate, Eve, abruptly terminated a marathon piggy-in-the-middle session in the pool with Eve’s dad. “Our feet are bleeding,” they announced, somewhat incredulously. Sure enough, bright-red blood was flowing, apparently painlessly, from the bottoms of their big toes.

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Often, what patients discover on the internet causes them undue alarm, and our role is to provide context and reassurance. But not infrequently, people come across information that outstrips our knowledge. On my return from our room with fresh supplies of plasters, my wife looked up from her sun lounger with an air of quiet amusement.

“It’s called ‘pool toe’,” she said, handing me her iPhone. The page she had tracked down described the girls’ situation exactly: friction burns, most commonly seen in children, caused by repetitive hopping about on the abrasive floors of swimming pools. Doctors practising in hot countries must see it all the time. I doubt it presents often to British GPs.

I remained puzzled about the lack of pain. The injuries looked bad, but neither Gracie nor Eve was particularly bothered. Here the internet drew a blank, but I suspect it has to do with the “pruning” of our skin that we’re all familiar with after a soak in the bath. This only occurs over the pulps of our fingers and toes. It was once thought to be caused by water diffusing into skin cells, making them swell, but the truth is far more fascinating.

The wrinkling is an active process, triggered by immersion, in which the blood supply to the pulp regions is switched off, causing the skin there to shrink and pucker. This creates the biological equivalent of tyre treads on our fingers and toes and markedly improves our grip – of great evolutionary advantage when grasping slippery fish in a river, or if trying to maintain balance on slick wet rocks.

The flip side of this is much greater friction, leading to abrasion of the skin through repeated micro-trauma. And the lack of blood flow causes nerves to shut down, depriving us of the pain that would otherwise alert us to the ongoing tissue damage. An adaptation that helped our ancestors hunt in rivers proves considerably less use on a modern summer holiday.

I may not have seen much of the local heritage, but the trip to Italy taught me something new all the same. 

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear