Does the world really want a credible United Nations?

No more mediocrities for the post of secretary general would be a good start.

The post of UN secretary general is a prestigious but frequently thankless role. It also tends to be filled by men (it has always been men so far) who achieve their global status through their office, not on their own merit, and who appear to be wearing a suit slightly too big or too grand for them – they don't quite live up to the job, in other words.

In recent years we have had Kofi Annan – saintly, but ineffectual – and Boutros Boutros-Ghali, whose chippiness would have been amusing, were it not so serious. (He wondered whether British criticism of him, you will recall, was "because I'm a wog".)

And now we have Ban Ki-moon. Leave aside that he looks like the mild-mannered provincial bank manager of ancient stereotype. Here is what he's been up to recently.

Yesterday he opined of the elections in Burma, scheduled for 7 November, that unless the military regime released all political prisoners, "then there may certainly be some issue of legitimacy or credibility". Well, you don't say, Mr Secretary General.

Next he ended a trip to Cambodia after being ambushed by Prime Minister Hun Sen's announcement that the current UN-backed tribunal trial of four leading Khmer Rouge leaders will be the last. No more of Pol Pot's followers will face justice. Hun Sen – himself ex-Khmer Rouge – doesn't believe in turning over any more stones. You don't know what you might find underneath. Oh, and would Mr Ban mind shutting the UN's Cambodian human rights office while he's at it? There's a good fellow.

Where else has he been of late? Thailand, where, according to the Bangkok Post, he courageously declared that the country's long-standing and bloody confrontations between the Red and Yellow Shirts was really none of his business. That was "an internal affair and the Thai people must settle the problem on their own", apparently.

Regular readers will know that I'm not much in favour of western politicians jetting in to developing nations and giving them the benefit of their callow advice (cf: David Miliband in India last year). But for those of us who hope against hope that the UN can be a credible body and an influence for the good, the role of secretary general is crucial.

He – or maybe, eventually, she – has to inject the role with clout through the force of his own personality. The secretary general has to be so impressive that, in future, a Mandela, say, will consider the job an important one, and not a step down from having been chief executive of their own state.

If Ban secures another five-year term – his current one concludes at the end of next year – that day will be even further off. Until then, it's all hail the mediocrity-in-chief.

Sholto Byrnes is a Contributing Editor to the New Statesman
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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times