Now Rooney’s got hairs, he’s rediscovered his graces

So far, what do you think? So far, I am missing the Women's World Cup in the summer, oh they were so skilful, strong, clever, never argued with the ref, yet could get stuck in, pass, shoot, head and had great skin, great hair styles, great looks, great - where was I? - oh yes, compared with our lumbering male heroes.

Wayne at least does look much better now with his hair growing, though for some reason it makes his face look fatter, his body heavier, but it has certainly brought back his confidence. He is not getting upset as much, doing stupid tackles. I see a great season ahead for him and Man United.

Hair matters. What else have the poor petals got to think about during those long, empty dreary hours in their hotel room but look at themselves in the mirror and think, hmm, wish I looked like Becks, the bastard. Or, what about another tattoo?

Wayne's hair op has clearly worked, compared with poor old Ed Miliband's adenoids job. He sounds worse, if anything. I do hope Gary Neville does not use the same expert when Sky tells him he'll have to have his voice fixed, and his hair, and his suit, and his posture. Apart from that Gary, you is doing great.

I did fear that Ray-oh-my-word-Wilkins would never improve, not even a tad, that we would be stuck with his banalities for ever, but to my amazement he has already told me something I was not aware of. He was commenting on the Chelsea-Stoke game, after yet another Rory Delap long throw, and he said that Carlo (Ancelotti) had always told Petr Cech to stay on his goal line for the Delap throws. But now he was coming out for them, obviously given different instructions by the new Chelsea manager. Until then, I had not noticed the difference. Well done, Ray.

I still have not got my eyes attuned to Ashley Young in a Man United shirt, or Gaël Clichy in a Man City shirt, Shay Given not sitting for 90 minutes on a bench or Sam Allardyce prowling the touchline at er, God, forgotten already where he has landed, oh yes, West Ham. Players, we are told, take ages to bed down, but it is just as hard for fans when players change their natural habitat.

Aguero looks excellent at Man City, though David Silva is still their best player, but they have acquired so many excellent players recently it is hard to look at the bench and recognise who the waiting stars are. Compared with Arsenal. Dear God, what is going to become of them, shrivelling before our eyes.

Wenger had a form of seizure during the Liverpool defeat, violently attacking his scalp. Is it a form of psychosis, suffering a psychological blow so you inflict physical pain upon yourself, self-harming out of imagined guilt? That'll be five guineas.

No-trick pony

Theo Walcott, what a lovely boy, you would be pleased if your daughter wanted to marry him, or your son, let us not be sexist, but he does not seem to have improved in the past couple of years. As a winger, he has no tricks, can't dribble, can only beat the fullback with speed. As a striker, which he appears to fancy himself as, he can't score, well not often enough. It could be his youth and tendency to prematurely ejaculate, getting over-excited, too hurried, rushing at things. Calm down, dear heart.

Tom Cleverley of Man United is one of the new kids, risen through the ranks, not bought at the international supermarket, so we hope he does well. Still a bit nervous, and no wonder, having to go through life with that surname, boring school teachers and idiot coaches always making the same corny jokes. What a burden. However, it didn't stop George Best, Frank Swift or Robby Savage being handicapped by their nomenclature. It all came true.

Two new mohicans been spotted: Ping Pong, I mean Frimpong, at Arsenal, and Meireles at Liverpool, while Gervinho, the Ivorian who has arrived at Arsenal from Lille, what is he wearing? Is it a beard, is it a bird? Is it a hat, is it a herd? Only two weeks into the Premiership and it looks as if he is a stone wall, nailed-on cert for Haircut of the Season. These things matter, oh yes.

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 29 August 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Gold