Hello children and Daily Mail readers. I’m Martin Samuel. Yeah, Martin Samuel. Two first names. Two more than you, you plum.
This week, my beardy eyes have been caught by the Steven Gerrard story. As usual, British justice has moved with the speed of a me, and an incident that took place not even a whole year ago has made a late sprint into court to get on the end of a cross. Like the rest of you, I am sure that you have been on tenterhooks to see justice served. It’s a terrible example to children to see a role model acting like that. I’m sure I speak for all of us – and I invariably assume that I should – that growing up we all looked up to Southport businessmen din’t we? How does this rotter think he can get away with it?
More than anything, the case has focused my mind as to the solution for the national team. The problem is that at international level they both attack together, meaning that they are out of position when defending an opposition counter attack. Its all well and good in the amateur game, but they would be out of their depth at international level brawling.
Everyone knows that Lampard is best when fighting slightly behind the Liverpugilist. From this position, Lampard can occasionally peer out from behind his teammate, shaking a quivering fist at a fallen Andorran and saying “…yeah. And don’t come back“. Attacking from deep also means that Lampard can attempt one of his trademark long-range punches, which often deflect off one fighter and knock out another one entirely.
Now, while David Turner QC did describe Gerrard’s attack as having the “style and speed of a boxer”, he did not specify which one; given Gerrard’s all-action style and his Herculean refusal to give up on a lost cause, I would imagine that they must have meant this Spartan warrior. Gerrard may have thrown a flurry of punches, but admittedly only one connected. That’s a poor ratio; his lack of accuracy is the only thing criminal abaht this case.
Now, if I were to assay the same prizefighting comparison for Lampard, some internet joker would doubtless call Frank a ‘heavyweight’. Then laugh spitefully into his cardigan. But no; to compare Frank to a base pugilist would be a more frightful indignity than the time I ate one of my thumbs mistaking it for a cocktail sausage. Frank Lampard is more than any boxer: he is graceful, powerful, disciplined.
Like a sumo wrestler. Spraying passes of salt around.
And sometimes wearing a nappy. If I ask him nicely.