Peter Crouch came out with one of the wittiest football lines. When asked what he thought he would have been but for football, he replied: “A virgin.”
Sport, especially English sport, has a blind spot about intelligence.
Miraculously, three out of our four fab, toppermost, world-class, all-time, multitrillion-pound clubs have managed to crawl into the next round in Europe.
Gary Neville will be bossing around his younger brother, Phil, at Valencia, now that he has become manager.
If the BBC were to take seriously its commitment to diversity, then it should make the Sports Personality of the Year shortlist 50:50 women and men. Fewer thugs, more brilliant sportswomen.
When Mourinho described Wenger as “a specialist in failure”, it was not cruelly accurate but sadly false. It showed the limitations of Mourinho’s world-view.
The judge ruled that the athlete did, in fact, murder girlfriend Reeva Steenkamp.
“Helicopters and fleets of Mercedes limousines,” says Jon Holmes, “now ship bands of Thai supporters who come up from the metropolis. They are even selling gourmet burgers on the Upperton Road bridge.”
Modern players are not just super-toned and super-fit but super-fast. Slowcoaches are weeded out at birth.
Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.
As a continent reels politically from the refugee crisis and emotionally from the Paris attacks, football must find a new, confident voice.
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