Seems the world has decided it’s time to fuck with my head once more. Where once was certainty, now is confusion. Up is down. Cats aren’t tossers to poor lovely dogs. Bournemouth is exciting. I am rich. The world: it’s gone head-mental.
I think I like a football pundit. And it doesn’t stop there. Not only do I like a person in one of the worst professions in the world – at least from a skill level perspective (I mean “they’re all shit”) – but it’s… sigh… Gary Neville.
Tell no one.
He isn’t perfect. He stumbles over his words a bit, he fumbles and repeats filler phrases, he still looks like a rat-faced paedo ((c)Jack Cooper) and he’s still Gary Neville. But in this world of Alans, Liverpool players and more Liverpool players he is a shining light. He discusses things you are less likely to have picked up than the elements brought up by many other pundits – where Shearer will say “the lad done gone got ball done got lad ball net”, Neville will, as evidenced a few minutes ago, point out what a defender is actually saying to another defender at a particular point.
It’s the sort of insight these ex-players should be offering. You know what it’s like on the pitch, so fill us in on the things we’re probably going to overlook. Give us that extra bit of knowledge. Justify your role as an authority on the subject. Earn your wage.
Gary Neville does that. And I like him for it. And it confuses and sickens me. I don’t know what to do with myself, I don’t know what to think, or do. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.
Oh wait, Kenny Dalglish is still a prat. Order is restored. I can rest easy, back to the aimless mind-wandering and making up arguments in my own head that get me genuinely annoyed even though I’m the one making the points and the counter-points and that’s definitely not an insane thing at all.