Percy - Football Chat : Tuesday, August 8
Jimmy Hill And His Giant Can Of Worms

Right, I'd better start this rant by saying that I'm not old enough to remember the days of maximum wages and footballers travelling to the game on the bus alongside the fans but I'm beginning to feel that I should be.

I'm getting so cheesed off with the modern day footballer that the prospect of seeing people like Ashley Cole, Ronaldo and Frank Lampard in action this season is starting to make me feel nauseous.

Not because they're bad footballers but because of the way in which, in my opinion, they are bringing the game into disrepute. They are not alone.

The only place you should see or hear a footballer is on the football field. The only place you should see or hear a retired footballer is behind the bar of your local pub or newsagents, running the crappy little "doomed to fail" business venture they've invested their little money in having finished football.

There can be no question that the maximum wage was a bad thing, or at least the level at which it was set was, but how far the other way has it gone now? And how much worse has that made it? Jimmy Hill, you do have an awful lot to answer for.

The modern footballer undoubtedly has far too much money. After a couple of half decent seasons, or perhaps even a couple of half decent performances, he is able to negotiate a contract that means he will be able to retire three years later if he so wishes and never "work" again.

Of course he won't negotiate the contract, his agent will and they'll both get rich together.

Does all this money, the lifestyle it brings and the financial security make them better footballers? It has to be doubtful.

Losing games of football has to hurt, the bigger the game the more it should hurt. But does it hurt as much nowadays?

Surely the player who flies back to his sprawling mansion in his private helicopter to be met by his pop star wife to sip champagne by his olympic size swimming pool doesn't feel the pain as much as his 50's counterpart who had to travel home on the bus with the fans, sharing their disappointment and facing their possible anger, and going home to a house which probably wasn't much better than that of the man in the street.

Especially as they couldn't pick and choose their club so good players were equally distributed around the country. This meant that honours were harder to come by and if an opportunity came and went the players knew they might never get another chance. How much more did it mean to those players?

One fairly common statement that players often came out with when I was growing up was the one about "I don't care where I play as long as I'm in the side." That one seems to have gone out of fashion.

William Gallas isn't happy being an employee of Chelsea FC unless he can be assured he won't suffer the insult of being asked to play at left back.

Ashley Cole does want to play left back but is no longer prepared to do so for Arsenal FC. Apparently they have hurt his feelings by not being supportive enough when he was actively trying to negotiate a move away from them in the first place and then when he hurt himself last season. Poor dear.

Pascal Chimbonda learnt enough about the Premier League during his first season in it to know that Tottenham are a more fashionable club than Wigan, his employers, and thinks that he should now be allowed to play for them.

Ronaldo, and you've got to give him credit really, seems to have taken the most time, effort and cunning to engineer his "escape" from the hell that must be being a Manchester United player. So far all his scheming seems to have come to nought.

Scheming, to your 1950's footballer, meant making a chance for a teammate, not getting him sent off in the World Cup finals.

Even in the Championship it's going on. Jason Koumas thinks he should be able to play for Cardiff City even though he willingly signed a contract with West Bromwich Albion. Koumas has so much money in the bank that he can comfortably afford to stay away from training and forego his £20,000 a week wages while he tries to force the hand of his employer.

And further away from the football field there is no escape from the egos and the shameless money making exercises of our top footballers.

Fresh from letting us all down in the World Cup we are now being asked to fork out more of our hard earned cash to buy their books. I am certainly not going to buy or read any of them so I cannot be sure about the contents but I would wager one of Jason Koumas's weekly pay cheques that they don't blame themselves for being shite.

Personally speaking, as this column shows very clearly, I found it almost impossible to write anything after our World Cup came to its' depressing close. The players involved showed no such reticence.

Of course nobody pays me massive amounts of cash for doing so. If they did then perhaps I would have managed a message or two, or at least got my ghost writer to pen a few lines for me.

And lastly, right in the middle of his obnoxious dispute with Arsenal, we are treated to the truly awful national lottery advert in which Cole and his "delightful" wife appear in a stomach churning display of bad taste. I presume it's meant to be some kind of parody but it is far too near the knuckle.

These people are national lottery winners, every week of their lives, and therefore they can hardly be expected to keep a sense of perspective.

Oh, and I almost forgot, how much did Mr and Mrs Cole receive for their wedding photos?

You've got to question their motives for everything. Does Cole really want to play for Chelsea or does he and his agent just want the massive signing on fee and wages such a move will generate.

Did Ashley Cole meet Cheryl Tweedy and fall in love or did their agents meet first and work out that if they arranged a marriage between their respective clients it would work out to be one big money spinner? Nothing would surprise me anymore.

Anyway, posted below is a fairly familiar e-mail which is rumoured to have originated from a Sheffield United fanzine. I must warn you that the language is extremely strong but it does seem to sum up much that is wrong with the modern day footballer.

And if it doesn't it is still funny.

"I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers, I know why they have gone all soft - It's because of poncy names. That's what it is. Remember in the old days, when football players kicked a fucking ball made out of ten pound of clay stitched inside a steel-reinforced leather shell with laces made out of piano wire?

Well, in them days players could only survive the rigors of the game because they were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. Fucking tough names for tough men, them were. And what do we have now? Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Jamie, Robbie. Fucking tarts' names, they are. Great big fucking puffs.

No wonder the ball's like a fucking balloon and shin pads is like slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy Wright with a puffy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks. Fucking shin pads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth.

Same with the jerseys. Fucking shirts with holes in now so they can breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can breathe and he doesn't get a chill. Fuck off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a fucking tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he fucking did.

No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes anywhere near them. And they never used to show their arses at one another either. Can you imagine what might have happened if Don Revie had flashed his ring at Nat Lofthouse during a City-Bolton Wanderers game? He'd have got one of them size 10 hobnail fuckers up his bastard chuff.

Fucking therapy for stress my arse! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counseling. What the fuck is that all about? In the old days it was expected for footballers to belt the old sow about a bit, specially after a bad defeat. And the women used to expect it, and so they should have. They were lucky to be married to footballers.

Ha! Trevor Morley got a kitchen knife in his back off his wife and was out of action for three month. Soft twat. Archie McShitt of Port Vale got run over with horse and cart one Friday night and he still turned out against Bradford the following day. And he scored two goals. That's cos his name wasn't "Trevor". Good old Archie. Broke his hip, both his legs, murdered his wife and buried her under the patio and still made the England team for the Home Internationals. Did he have any "stress counselling"? Did he bollocks!

And drugs? There was none of that in the old days. Oh, no. In them days it was a quick shot of morphine before kick-off and you were lucky if you got that. By half time it had all but wore off so they pumped you full of laudanum. None of this cocaine sniffing and shooting up class A narcotics.

Goal celebrations? Don't talk to me about goal celebrations. Crawling on the floor and thrusting their hips at the crowd. Huh! I'd like to have seen Cliff Bastin do that after a run down the left flank and crossing for Alex James to fire home a winner. Handshakes...and that was all you got. That and a wank in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wank...all man stuff. None of these puffy wanks between blokes that you get nowadays with players like Greame Le Saux and Stephen Gerrard. Allegedly.

In them days, there was nowt wrong with it cos it didn't mean nowt. They used to say there was a "gay atmosphere" in the dressing room after the match. But it didn't mean owt mucky. Just a bit of harmless spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen. Aye. I know. Me dad told me.

Sixty grand a fucking week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob Tommy Lawton used to get...a month! And Tom Finney still worked as a plumber four days a week when he was playing for England. It's true, you know.Fucking is. Players had to work them days just to make up their money. Not like today. Stan Pearson had to clean sewers and doubled up as Old Trafford shithouse cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some cunt had built a log cabin and blocked the U-bend. And that Eddie Hapgood was a male model...though he never liked to talk about it.

So I say we start calling kids real male names again. If you're having a kid, don't even consider puffy names and shite names like what people call their kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get in twenty years' time? The England team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and fucking Chesney. Fuck that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get the puffs out of the game once and for all.