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.
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.
We’re repeatedly told that their days are numbered. But will it be this season, before Christmas? Next year? Tomorrow?
All last season, according to Steve, everything was nice – nice goal, nice pass, nice cup of tea at half-time.
For the first time in 22 years, Haircut of the Season is not being awarded. Too many with the same razor slashes.
If NS columnist Ed Smith can select the England cricket team, I surely have the CV for sorting out football.