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.
The perception of how men should act and look has rather moved on – if a bit slower in football than elsewhere.
The clubs are clearly struggling. I was shocked when they only managed to give retiring chairman Richard Scudamore £5m as a parting present. Cheapskates.
Almost one in five adverts during last year’s World Cup were for betting firms. Nearly 60 per cent of clubs in England’s top two divisions have the name of a gambling firm on their shirts.
In my day, the scorer got a quick handshake from the captain, then players returned to the centre. Now it’s like an orgy.
He is one of nature’s prefects. It’s hard to imagine him as young and daft and foolish, doing really stupid things.
Season’s greetings, bottle of wine, will you still need me, will you still read me, when I tell you what the season has provided so far?
Bobby Charlton, one of our greatest ever players, was too cool, too serious, too emotionless to create excitement.
In normal times, I only ever watch the game itself, avoid the build-ups and studio discussions. But now I am stuck in my chair, unable to move, captive.
Alan Shearer, his eyes tight, his forehead crinkled, is allowed to tell us exactly what it is we have all just seen.
They sat on their own at the back of the bus, considered either stupid or mad.
