Terrygate just proves the best footballers are ones with the devil inside them; plus the irony of Mancunians idolising a Scouser

By Brian Reade

Published 06:02 06/02/10

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Thanks to John Terry there are many things I now know which I didn't a week ago.

There won't be a more unfortunately titled, or priced, book out this year, than the one just released by Blake Publishing for £17.99 entitled: "JT: Captain, Leader, Legend."  When Chelsea fans sing about five men, four men, three men, two men, one man and his dog heading to a meadow for some physical activity, we now know who, and what, they're talking about.

And there DOES exists a sure-fire way of England winning the World Cup. By ditching anyone who is squeaky-clean, and picking a squad full of womanisers, boozers and brawlers. Because if Terrygate has taught us one footballing lesson it's that the players with the most devilment are the winners.

Think of the names thrown out to possibly replace Terry as England captain: Rio Ferdinand (done for missing a drugs test and drink-driving); Steve Gerrard (admitted throwing a punch in a night-club brawl); Ashley Cole (womanising); David Beckham (alleged womanising); Wayne Rooney (old womanising); Frank Lampard (drunken carousing in front of devastated American tourists).

Now look at the candidates who weren't considered: Gareth Barry, Peter Crouch, Emile Heskey, Glen Johnson, Rob Green, Michael Carrick, Wayne Bridge etc. Take away a misunderstanding over a B&Q toilet seat and there's not a drinking, womanising, brawling charge to be found. And, let's be honest, not a minute's sleep to be lost if any failed to make the plane.

Terrygate has once again exposed an uncomfortable truth: the most creative footballers, the ones who push their talent into areas more cautious types don't, tend to do the same when they're off the pitch. The boring ones stay boring.

A quick glance at Britain's most successful team backs up the point: The finest Liverpool midfield ever, comprised Terry McDermott, Ray Kennedy, Graeme Souness and Jimmy Case. Men who, off the pitch, drank hard and fought hard as the odd black eyes testified. But, oh, how they played.

Best Manchester United players of the past five decades? George Best, Bryan Robson, Eric Cantona and Rooney. Squeaky clean would not be words applied to them.

Greatest-ever Celtic and Rangers players? Jimmy Johnstone and Jim Baxter. Now THEY were drinkers. Most talented England players since Alf Ramsey? I can't think of many better than human fishes Jimmy Greaves, Paul Gascoigne, and (I'm sorry to destroy the angelic myth) Bobby Moore.

We know to win a World Cup England are going to have to try something different to find that something extra, because we're not as naturally skilful as the Brazilians or the Spanish. So Fabio, let's play to our traditional strengths.

Let's clear the squad of Matthew Upsons and fill it with Joey Bartons. Let's ditch all this carb-controllled dinner and lights out at nine garbage and send them on afternoon benders like we used to.

Let's remember what Brian Clough believed was a captain's most important role: Opening the bottles of brown ale he occasionally brought into the dressing-room as a pre-match lifter. En route to winning two European Cups.

Think on it Fabio. And while you're thinking, let the words of England's greatest modern-day philosopher Alexandra Burke wash through your brain: "Even though I know they're no good for me, it's the risk I take with the chemistry, because the bad boys are always catching my eye."  That Maradona wasn't bad either.

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So that's Footballer Of The Year sorted, with few complaints.

Unless Wayne Rooney is crocked he's nailed on. Not merely because of his goals, attitude and all-round play, but because he's almost single-handedly kept what has been a sub-standard Manchester United in contention for three top honours. It's an astonishing achievement which gives rise to an even more astonishing reality.

Who would ever have imagined that United fans, half of whose chants declare their pathological hatred for Scousers, would find themselves supporting a one-man team. Of Scousers.

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There Avram Grant was, sitting in the Israeli sun, happily living off a legacy of being one fluffed penalty away from the first manager of a London team to lift the European Cup.

With his reputation intact, he had plenty of time to watch managers at top clubs across Europe get the chop, and wait for the phone to ring.

But when it did it was the Pompey chimes. And he couldn't resist. So he goes there, and when he's not getting shafted by the cub's owners, he's getting shafted by the owners of his local Asian massage parlour, who blab about his visits.

Which means he's either going to go down as the unluckiest manager ever. Or the thickest.

Either way, he's going down.

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