THE PROBLEM WITH FOOTBALLERS
THE PROBLEM WITH FOOTBALLERS
I don’t get the David Beckham thing. I really don’t. Maybe I’m mad – after all, I’ve never really got football at all - so to me, the deification of a footballer seems perplexing and odd.
What is a footballer? Well, in his bluntest form, a footballer is a bloke who kicks a ball around. And there is some sense of physical beauty in the agility and grace of a footballer, but no more beauty, no more awe, than in the agility and grace of a shark, or a butterfly, or a beautiful woman. Something in which to recognise the beauty, and possibly, briefly, admire, but certainly not to obsess over.
Footballers are horrendously overpaid atheletes, who often take salaries of over £100,000 a week, who are often seen being flash, ostentatious bastards who can seemingly fuck any woman in the world, never have to return anyone’s calls, and drink themselves to death using other people’s livers. Selfish twats, basically.
Nonethless, in some ways I’m jealous, and in others, I’m not. Who would want to be a person like that? Sure, you’ll have lots of fun, but you’ll die old and alone. Though thinking about it from a French point of view, don’t we all die old and alone?
I’M WITH STUPID
The national obsession with footballers is confusing. I’m not stupid, despite what some people and that famous shirt from the Seventies might tell you. I know we need our heroes, we need icons to adore and inspire and fill the void in our lives, but why these people? Why not people who actually add something to the world? Who make us know more about ourselves and the world around us, instead of people who don’t give us any insight into the human condition?
Even for all I might dislike him, I know that even H from Steps has added more to the world that Paul Gasgoine.
So, when I see the newspapers full of headlines about how dreadful it is that BECKS GOES TO SPAIN, I really really don’t care. In fact, I do care (if I didn’t, I wouldn’t’ve written this at all), because the further away he is from Britain the further away he is from me, the further away this dimwit with bad taste in women and childrens names is from me. Which can only be a good thing. Especially if you’re as grumpy as I am.
DYING FOR A PINT
My only other wish is that George Best dies. Not because I believe he’s a bad person, or that I believe that anyone should die (though the world would be a better place without some people in it), but because he should serve as an example to the rest of the human race.
I observe the fact that an alcoholic has a long, hard walk out of hell, faced with temptation at every street corner, and subterrean self-esteem in every mirror. But I also face the fact that adults need to take responsibility for their actions – and that I have to resist temptation in a similar fashion every time I walk past a CD shop. At least buying CD’s is a victimless crime ; it’s not as I need a liver transplant if I overdose. I might need to sell a liver if I overdose, but at least I don’t need a liver transplant.
But I also observe the fact that alcoholics really shouldn’t drink, and that if they do drink themselves to death, it’s a choice. Honestly. Nobody forces them at gun point, not even their inner demons, to take another drop of alcohol.
I don’t know about you, but I know that, for me, if I was going to have a liver transplant as a result of too many nights down the pub, I wouldn’t go down the pub again. Or the off-licence. Or ask a grown-up to buy me a can of cheap Stella Artwat.
You’ve got to get some perspective. Take some responsibility. About a year and a half ago I had to go to the dentists a lot in a short period of time. Seemingly every other week I was having a tooth removed, or a filling added, or something done. Whatever happened, some bugger was sticking drills, needles, and artificial padding in my mouth and I always came away bleeding. Chocolate does terrible things.
I never had sugar in tea or on my breakfast ever again. I drastically reduced my salt intake, started eating greens and vegetables, brushed my teeth regularly, cut down on chocolate, even did exercise. I was a beautiful and unique snowflake. There was no way I was going through that again, and I didn’t even have to have anything transplanted.
So if anyone with half a brain is going to have to have a liver transplant, then I’m fairly sure that it’s either going to stop them doing it again, or - if they’re as thick as pigshit - they’re going to go to the pub, have a few more drinks, and drop dead. Whatever happens, its not a great loss.
If I was the guy that donated my liver to help others, and all it did was help George Best drink himself to death, I’d be furious. All round the country there are people dying for a liver, and George Best is using his to drink himself to death. Alcoholism is not a disease, it’s a choice. He deserves no sympathy. George Best is just a sad fuck drinking himself to death – he won’t be missed.
In case you didn’t notice, Footballers are twats. Not people who like football, nor people who play it, but professional footballers. I’ve never understood the national obsession with people like that, the deification of the dumb, the kingdom of the blind.
In the kingdom of the drunk, the sober man is King. I AM YOUR GOD NOW!
© copyright Mark Reed, 1991-2003 except where indicated