I am in love with Jeffrey Schlupp. I like writing his name down. Photo: Getty
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Hunter Davies’ Half-Season Awards

Cheer up, Stevie! Go, Schlupp! And Pearson, don’t come down from the stands.

Stand by your beds for the Half-Season Awards, plus groans, moans.

Still with us Every back-page clever clogs had Alan Pardew of Newcastle down for the chop just half an hour ago. Now look at him, the saviour of Tyneside. For the next half-hour anyway. And Louis van Gaal, his demise looked imminent. Now Man United could win the League,
if their boring but fortunate run of play continues.

Also doing good Great season, early doors, for Southampton, West Ham, Swansea – but are they cute enough to keep it up to the end?

Cliché of the season “Cute”, according to all the commentators, no longer means “cuddly” and “appealing” but suggests an inner wickedness – an ability to do wrong and get away with it, to have the other player sent off, to con the ref, all of these qualities considered admirable in football, finance, politics, most things, really.

More clichés “Stepping up to the plate, going down to the wire”. Sounds like a contortionist. Some early spottings but the torrent won’t start until about Easter.

Sad face Steven Gerrard has always looked tired, older than his years, even when things were going well. Liverpool is now out of Europe, his career nearing its end, and yet he has won so much. Cheer up, Stevie. At least you are not playing for Spurs or Carlisle United, the two teams I have always supported. About which I don’t really want to talk. Next!

Sad body Oh, I feel so sorry for Yaya Touré. When he is not on the ball, he lumbers around the pitch looking for somewhere to go, to rest his aching, weary, old limbs. I know just how he feels. I wonder if, when in a sitting position, he says aloud, “One, two, three,” before eventually forcing himself up? My family hates it when I do that. But, my goodness, when he’s on the ball, you should see him zip around. What a worker, what energy and drive still at his age. Just like moi, actually.

Philosophical quote of the season “I just wonder how many goals he would have scored if he had scored more goals” – Michael Owen, speaking on BT Sport.

Haircut of the season For the first time in 18 years there has been no outright winner. Mad haircuts have gone out – pineapples and bird’s nests have disappeared. They are all roughly short back and sides with old-fashioned partings, the only novelty being the positioning of the partings and, oh, gel, loads of gel. Girls, girls, do try harder.

Most improved players Bony of Swansea has done good. Harry Kane of Spurs is trying hard. Connor Wickham of Sunderland shows promising signs of not being a total lump. Bolasie of Palace looks cute.

Going backwards Raheem Sterling of Liverpool, so exciting last season, seems
to be marking time. Ditto another promising youngster, Adnan Januzaj at Man United. Of the senior players who were doing well, Gary Cahill is looking dodgy and Joe Hart of Man City and England is not quite as good as he used to believe he was.

Manager alarm I do hope Nigel Pearson of Leicester does not give up sitting high in the stands. So sensible, so cool. Yes, his team is doing so badly. Is there a connection? I am sure there isn’t. I think. Can’t believe there is. Possibly. Maybe.

Schlupp Please don’t let Leicester go down. I am in love with Jeffrey Schlupp. I like writing his name down, then rolling it round my chops.

Striking images I can still see Mourinho’s lovely smile when Chelsea went two down against Newcastle – a beatific, angelic, rueful smile. But why? They went on to their first defeat of the season. Was he pleased the stress of it all was over?

Really nice image Wayne earning his 100th cap for England, bringing his two little boys on to the pitch. Klay, the younger, had “Klay” on the back of his England shirt while Kai, the elder, had “Daddy 100”. Coleen’s face was a study. Bless.

Worrying image All those gaps in the Aston Villa home crowd. Always a bad sign when fans who have paid for the season don’t bother to turn up, even just to boo. At least at Spurs there are no gaps yet. Booing does keep you warm.

Pointing Definitely on the increase. What you do when you have done something really, really stupid – such as let their star man run rings round you, give away a petty foul on the edge of the penalty area, balloon a clearance – is immediately turn round and point. Doesn’t matter where, or at whom. The very act of violent, agitated, imperious, pointless pointing is enough. Then you move on.

Barclays They are still at it, with their banal perimeter advertising, trying to personalise it the way politicians do. “Thank you, Joe Bloggs, for your passion for Swansea. You are the true spirit of the game.” The names at each ground always sound real but are they? Have the people been paid? Can they sue? Oh, I do hope so.

Crowd action During the Spurs-Partizan Belgrade home game, an intruder got on the pitch. The security men lumbered on, stumbled about, while the intruder ran rings round them and the crowd cheered. It happened twice again, by which time the players and ref – who suspended the game for a while – were getting really pissed off. Was it political or just pranksters? One was taking selfies, which suggested the latter. It was the best action and entertainment of the game. Perhaps all season . . .

Hunter Davies’s latest book is “The Beatles Lyrics: the Unseen Story Behind Their Music” (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, £25)

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 19 December 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Christmas Issue 2014

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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