Last autumn, after a 1-1 draw with Everton, Manchester City's Joey Barton made his way across to the disabled section of Goodison Park to hand his match shirt to a young supporter. As he walked past the home supporters he inevitably took a bit of stick. Smiling as he turned his back on them, he dropped his shorts and showed them his bottom.
Now, as witty retorts go, it's not exactly Oscar Wilde, but neither is it clambering into the crowd and leathering seven kinds of shit out of the track-suited scally responsible for the jibe. So why did several members of that crowd think it was a good idea to call the police in on Barton?
Did they call 999 when they grassed him up? I'm not entirely sure that Barton's buttocks warrant an emergency call. What would you say to the police anyway?
"Hello, I'd like to report an arse, please. No, no, it's not me."
How on earth did the policeman on duty manage to keep a straight face? What did he tell his boss?
"What have we got today, Constable?"
"Well Sarge, we've had a rape in the subway, a robbery at the petrol station, two happy-slappings in the park and, worst of the lot, this gentlemen has seen Joey Barton's bare bottom."
How can people stand there all afternoon, releasing volley after volley of abuse into the afternoon air and then go all coy when someone responds?
It's not just Everton fans either. I've heard reports of football fans across the country calling in the police when a footballer has given them a cheeky v-sign during the game. I don't know about you, but if I went out on the street and hurled bile at a complete stranger, calling his parentage and his sexuality into question and he responded by just flicking a couple of fingers at me, I'd feel like I'd got off lightly.
