John Terry leads from the front as his soap opera season rolls on

By Michael Calvin in Mirror Football Blog

Published 21:14 10/04/10

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If John Terry, Marmite Man, was made of chocolate, he’d eat himself and invite the faithful to feast on the leftovers.

He’s a winner, on the pitch at least. It’s the ultimate ­excuse, a universal ­character reference in a game that looks the other way when necessary.

On a mild sunny evening, when Chelsea reached the FA Cup final at the expense of Aston Villa, he led from the front.

He showed commendable dignity, circulating among stricken opponents before saluting his supporters.

He heard the acclaim, ­ignored the abuse from the few Villa fans who remained. Those extremes form the soundtrack of his life.

He’s the sort of player ­you’d love on your team, an ­obvious target when he is not.

A season that combines the gung-ho heroism of ­Escape to Victory with the theatrical misery of the ­Jeremy Kyle show will reach its climax when Terry ­returns to the national ­stadium on May 15.

He remains the central character in a particularly sad soap opera, and excelled, in the knowledge his father had just been charged with cocaine dealing.

Fate decreed he had to play a big part in the ­pivotal goal. His shot from Florent ­Malouda’s corner was going wide but fell perfectly for ­Didier Drogba.

Further goals from Malouda and Frank Lampard even backed up his suggestions that Villa are a tiring team.

The faithful smuggled the “Captain Leader Legend” ­banner in from Stamford Bridge. It’s their Turin Shroud, an article of faith.

They rose in salute, offered a wave of noise on which to surf. It didn’t matter to them that the domestic Double has gone from the ultimate ­achievement to an ­afterthought in a generation.

For Chelsea, it represents redemption, a repayment plan for football’s biggest ­mortgage.

You don’t need a bank, or building society, when you’ve got someone like Roman Abramovich.

All you need, to justify his generosity, is to provide ­diverting entertainment, and the odd bauble or two.

However, invite the world to watch a match played on an £800million allotment, and you will find yourself ankle deep in manure.

The white lie that European embarrassment is an ­insignificant indignity was exposed in a wretchedly ­refereed game on an ­abominable pitch.

It would have taken an all-convenient attack of ­amnesia to pass this off as the best club football that the world has to offer. Players from both sides lost their ­footing with the ­regularity of drunken Morris Dancers on ice.

Villa are in danger of ­developing a damaging ­inferiority complex.

They have a benevolent ­dictator as an owner, a ­manager of rare quality, and enough home-grown players to attract the attention of Fabio Capello.

But the sum of the whole is less than the sum of its parts.

If Ashley Young really is ­valued at £22million by ­Barcelona, Villa should take the money, and run.

Young has done little to ­justify his manager’s mantra that he’s world class. This was his audition and Capello ­probably decided England’s Got Enough Talent.

If Young’s chance of going to the World Cup is fading to grey, it ­remains a mystery why Howard Webb’s presence in South Africa is ­guaranteed.

Webb missed the shirt pull by Gabby Agbonlahor and turned a blind eye to the ­retaliatory foul by John Obi Mikel.

No wonder Martin O Neill was outraged. He’s a nice guy, who is growing tired of ­finishing second.

That’s a problem John Terry doesn’t have.

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