Don’t bother watching those gazillion-dollar TV prequels to The Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones. Who needs gratuitous nudity, multiple dragons and surprise beheadings when the real Nordic legend is bang in front of us, his mighty frame squeezed into the light blue of Manchester City and devouring the grass of the Etihad? (Though not literally, yet.) He is an outlandish–looking creature from the far north, clearly designed by some dotty scientist, faster, bigger, stronger and more ruthless than anyone else in football and effortlessly leaping higher too.
Quick to smile, often at awkward moments, he moves effortlessly with that curious stiff-armed gait as he outruns everyone else on the pitch. He is more or less the perfect creation apart from a tiny bug in some computer’s language programme that means his English is slightly awkward, a bit otherworldly, unlike most Norwegians who speak English better than you or me. And his manners can be too good: the other day he was filmed neatly rolling up his training top and handing it to the kit man, rather than just chucking it on the ground as all the other City players did.
A deadly weapon delivered to the richest club with the best players and the most gifted coach in the world
Erling Haaland is like nobody else in football, and now he has stitched up the English Premier League: a deadly weapon safely delivered to the richest club with the best players and the most gifted coach in the world. Is there any limit to what he can do?
It’s a pity we won’t see him in Qatar but he’ll have had a month’s rest when the season resumes, so he could be even more terrifying than he is now.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in