Namby-pamby, overpaid, over here, WAG-touting, crap-tattooed, shaven-headed, Nintendo-obsessed, big-headphoned, brilliantly skilled, characterless, superfit greedy bores. We blame the players – the athletes – for all the game’s ills, as much as all the other care-nothing outsiders, the tax-dodging owners and the offshore venture capitalists, the dodgy agents and the money launderers, the scared-to-lose coaches and the endless middle-management bureaucrats and PR men who have taken over our game.
It might not solve all the insane contradictions that lead to a club like Rangers standing on the brink of liquidation, but at least it’d make us feel better about the impending death of a loved one…
Get the players running up and down the terrace steps. Jogging 300 times round the pitch. Skipping to the shipyard and back. Jumping up and down in the goalmouth until they’re sick. No practising set pieces or defending from now until forever. Tomorrow we dig up the plastic-fibre undersoil-heated lime-green carpets and we return to running up sandhills – in preparation for sliding around in mud.
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