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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.
Our commentators, too, act as if there is only one sodding United.
They were on something called Amazon Prime Video. What the feck is that when it’s at home?
Poor English managers, Turkish transplants and watching rude words on catch-up.
The FA banned the women’s game from its members’ grounds in 1921, when doctors warned it could ruin women’s child-bearing organs. Women’s football went to sleep, until 1993.
A whole new industry has arisen that processes football data from around the world – including the contribution of each player – and sells it to clubs.
Crowds can be witty and spontaneous, but also elliptical and complicated, booing players for sins committed ages ago, or for ancient quotes attributed to them.
From 35 onwards, for most of our stars, then and now, their purpose, position and pleasures in life are over once they retire.
With lesser clubs, we just say they are playing rubbish.
Commentators pick on any passing trivial incident in a desperate attempt to turn it into a running story.
Managers work round the clock, they are never not managing. A player’s life, by comparison, is easy. They train from ten to 12 each day and that’s it.
