All radio phone-in callers start their tirades in the same way. They pledge allegiance to their team, usually in an accent far removed from the locality of the stadium, and then proceed to stick the knife in. Martin Jol, a man who implausibly led Tottenham to the brink of the Champions League, is now derided on-air by sections of the White Hart Lane 'faithful' as a tactical simpleton. Nine months ago, if the squad hadn't been forced to play West Ham in between extended toilet breaks, those same fans would have clamoured for him to be knighted.
David Beckham is the prime example of the rampant stupidity that plagues our game. In the early part of 1998, he was the shining light of English football. One ill-advised kick later and he was fleeing the country as effigies of him were being slung over lampposts.
During the following years he gradually won back the hearts of the England support and, when he cracked his metatarsal, they flocked to buy newspapers printing prayer mats with pictures of his foot on.
By 2006, his star had waned again and he resigned the national captaincy to widespread relief from the masses. These would be the same masses who, prior to his injury in March, were desperate for him to be recalled to the England squad. Crazy, isn't it?
Still, the important thing to remember is that we’re all not treacherous social-inadequates allowing our affections to shift with the wind. Try to remember that over the coming months as I shine a light on the grubby nature of the people singing or cursing your name on a Saturday afternoon.
Oh, and enjoy your next meet-and-greet with the fans, won't you?
Words by Iain Macintosh
