The great footballer Pat Nevin, as fluent, funny and intelligent an ex-player as you are likely to find, tells a wonderful story about using the word ‘equidistant’ to a referee when they were lining up a free kick. The players looked at him as if he was an alien and the referee nearly booked him for swearing.
One of the reasons why, notwithstanding the manly virtues and short back and sides of Bobby Moore’s World Cup heroes, for pasty, middle-class fans like myself who grew up when a footballer with an O-level was regarded as a freak (so much so that they were all nicknamed Bamber by the newspapers), the arrival of a player like the wondrous Brazilian midfielder Socrates was heaven-sent. He was middle-class like us, he liked Camus and looked like Che Guevara, he trained to be a doctor, he wore a bandana saying ‘NO TERROR’, he had great hair, and he smoked and drank.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in