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Another Day, Another Blubbering Wreck 

By Finton “( Norley ) Boys don’t cry” Stack

 

 

Were these the tears of a mother who’d lost a son in the Burma cyclone? A father who’d lost a daughter in the Chinese earthquake? No. These were the tears of good old “Captain Courageous” because he’d lost a football match. Moreover, a football match where he & his team had been their usual petulant selves, snarling, slyly spitting & trying to intimidate the referee for 120 minutes before old Lionheart himself slipped on his arse & broke the hearts of the London media.

 

Truly, tis a fine line twix the 8 page “Hello” exclusive entitled “My European Joy – How I won the cup single-handedly” & “My European Hell – How my boot manufacturers betrayed me” conducted at the traditional mock Tudor atrocity, assuming he’s not on black bag week after yet another tabloid philandering allegation. Moreover, this is the man the London media are constantly touting as the rightful England captain. One question. Would Bobby Moore have wept like Barrymore watching “Ghost” if he’d lost a football match? No. He’d have dusted himself down, wiped his hands on his shorts & swiped a necklace from the airport to cheer himself up.

 

That’s the trouble with men these days. They just don’t build them like they used to. Moreover, crying in public isn’t treated with the contempt anymore. Anything but! Some blame Gazza for starting the trend but little did we know then he was a lunatic with a penchant for plastic parrots, c0caine & attempting to buy supercars a la Brian Rix. His tears looked genuine. Fast forward 16 years to David Beckham on the England bench lip all of a quiver. A man you wouldn’t trust to blow his nose without first checking there was adequate paparazzi & sufficient publishing rights. His tears looked like those of a man used to adulation, fearful it was all about to come crashing down. Just like JT’s ( to give him his full Talksh1te title ) on Wednesday. Just like he did when England went out the World Cup. Don’t forget – JT has previous!

 

Still, it’s not all bad. Tears provide great copy & offer the chance for public redemption for failings. Hey – I fuckedd up. But I’m only human. Look how upset I am. Love me, love me, love me. I’m just the same as you really. Go on – you can cry as well. Especially if you get relegated. & if you really go for it, you could actually fulfil your lifetime’s ambition of being featured on a Sky final day soft focus montage with its inevitable soundtrack of Oasis’ “Stop crying your heart out”. What’s that? The tears won’t come? Try harder – imagine of your loss of status round the watercooler or your application to go on the Soccer AM fans corner has been knocked back. That’s it. They’re coming now. I can see your face paint streaking. Oh, & don’t forget to keep buying the product!!!

 

Maybe it’s me. After all, I’m resolutely old school. Brought up in an environment where men just didn’t do public displays of emotion & there were strict guidelines about these things. Death of a close relative?  – Tears acceptable in a controlled manner behind closed doors. Birth of your first born or getting dumped?  – Tears result in a pint pot in the face in the snug at The West Ward Labour Club. Tears were for the alkies propping up the bar lamenting lost loves / giros ( delete as applicable ) & not for the likes of us. Certainly, when you compare the antics of old Braveheart with the dignity of Fat Frank who’s suffered great personal loss recently & Avram Grant whose relatives are actually holocaust survivors, you begin to realise just how big of a t**t Captain Marvel actually is.

 

Maybe I’m wrong altogether though. Maybe it wasn’t football that brought on the blubfest. Or the desire for public adulation. Maybe it was much simpler than all that. Maybe he was having flashbacks to all those rumours & banners bandied around Merseyside after the last World Cup.

 

After all, if the thought of half of Bootle allegedly going through a close female relative isn’t enough to reduce even the bravest of men to tears, then I don’t know what is.

 

Even on Norley.

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

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