Here's what makes Peter Crouch so freakishly good, plus I'd rather have David Gill than Keith Harris, and no if and butts about Zidane's refusal to apologise to Materazzi

By Brian Reade

Published 22:32 05/03/10

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One of the most bizarre football conversations I ever had took place a decade ago in a Brussels Chinese restaurant.

It was lunch-time before one of England's utterly forgettable Euro 2000 games and Des Lynam was holding forth on why Kenny Dalglish was class.

"You know why nobody could get near him? His a*se. He had a huge a*se," he yelled, as a bemused Chinese waitress tried to put down three bowls of Singapore vermicelli. "He used to stick it out when he was shielding the ball and no-one could take it off him. All the greats had huge a*ses. Look at Maradona's."

Wayne Rooney wasn't dealt a small portion in the rear department either. He's yet another world-beater with the classic physique - chunky, bull-like, with thunderthighs and a low centre of gravity.

Construct a photo-fit of the opposite to that and you'd see a giraffe-like giant with famine relief legs that come up to his winger's nipples. In other words Peter Crouch.

A man permanently ridiculed by pundits and fans simply because he doesn't possess the body of your stereotypical footballer. A man who's been written off as a freak and patronised more than any other player England player in living memory.

And by dismissing him as freakish, we've also dismissed his international goalscoring record as freakish. Snipers claim he only scores against weak opposition and predict his flukey run will dry up.

But when you reach 20 international goals in 37 games, only 17 of which you started, it ceases to be a fluke. When you move two goals ahead of Dixie Dean's England haul and one away from equalling Mick Channon's and Kevin Keegan's, luck doesn't come in to it.

Two more performances like Wednesday and Crouch equals the man who earned a knighthood simply for scoring goals for England. Geoff Hurst.

So maybe it's time we gave him the respect he deserves. Time we stopped pedalling the myth that he's a one-dimensional striker (take a look at the classic hat-trick he scored against Arsenal three years ago) and realised what he brings to the team (take a look at his first goal against Egypt and you'll see how his long legs give him the ability to make over-hit passes look world-class).

Whichever way you look at his statistics he is unquestionably this country's second most important striker. It's not just the number of goals he's scored but the support he gives others. His partnership with Rooney has produced 1.64 goals every game, as opposed to Heskey's 1.02 and Defoe's 0.48.

But forget cold stats and look at Wednesday's evidence. As Fabio Capello, a man not used to handing out individual praise, said: "With Crouch the movement of the players was much more harmonic." In other words he brings the best out of others.

And Capello had good reason for the praise, because by single-handedly turning a very tricky game against Egypt, Crouch stopped a growing avalanche of negativity around Team England which could have snowballed all the way to Johannesburg.

Surely the giraffe with the famine relief legs is a nailed on cert for Africa. Because after Rooney, he is the Englishman who will cause most concern to foreign coaches.

And used correctly by a manager who reads the game like a world-class conductor reads his orchestra, Crouch could be the difference between England reaching the World Cup Final and not.

Freakin' obvious really.

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For once I am in total agreement with Manchester United's chief executive David Gill, when he labels Red Knights organiser Keith Harris a publicity junkie and questions his clout.

United are in massive debt due to opportunistic investors (without a pot to urinate in) using friends in the banking system to lend them the cash at a price: Ownership of the club.

Harris is an opportunistic investment banker (without a pot to urinate in) trying to persuade like-minded folk to cough up their cash, at a price: Ownership of the club.

Keith Harris is Michael Knighton with contacts. They'd be better off with Cuddles The Monkey in charge.

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In this era of plastic apologies thank Christ for Zinedine Zidane, who says he'd rather top himself than apologise to Marco Materazzi for butting him in the 2006 World Cup final: "If I ask him forgiveness, I lack respect to myself and to all those I hold dear with all my heart. I'd rather die."

Remember his honesty the next time you hear a disgraced player forced by his agent to mouth an insincere apology to keep his corporate backers happy. And try to keep your tea down.

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