Hello children and
Daily Mail readers, I’m Martin Samuel yeah? YES.
It’s an anagram of ‘Menstrual Aim’ and “Maria Men Lust’, but I’m still ALL MAN.
A couple of weeks ago my bearded gaze was drawn like a moth to the 60w bulb of the Champions League final. This got me thinking – at least that is what my therapist said that grinding sound was – is Lionel Messi the greatest player that ever did grace this stage, how does he match up to the superstars of the game’s history? The past few years anyway, I’m on a fackin deadline.
I thought about this for three whole days. Poured through weighty tomes about the history of this marvellous game, scoured archive footage and then processed this information through the filter of the ever evolving state of the modern game, advances in training methods, the improvement in defence and a whole kaleidoscope of socio-economic factors that make it difficult to do direct comparisons between different eras. I then walked into the street straight in front of the No.34 bus, my insight being smashed from my brain as my beardy face rebounded off the windscreen. As I writhed in agony still warm insight dripped to the floor, washing away into London’s sewers. I then dusted myself off and began writing.
Ray Wilkins would undoubtedly say of him “My word, he is an exceptional young man” and though I agree he is talented, those words come from a man with precisely zero hair.
His play over the last years has truly been scintillating, up there with the greatest and redefining the role of the centre forward itself, as a “false nine”. But what is wrong with being a “false eight”? Frank is the falsest player I have ever met.
However, in my view Messi cannot be considered the greatest of all time until he grows a beard better than mine…. and until he changes his name to Jr Frank Lampard Jr. The Second. Listen to that name – strong, British, sonorous syllables – it just rolls off the tip of my beard, like gigantic King Edward potatoes into a trough of gravy.
Oh, ‘Aural Men Mist’. That is a better one.
Wayne was born with one particular natural advantage. His nationality. He is as English as the bawdy “Confessions” movies. In fact it wouldn’t take a great leap of the imagination to picture him in the role made famous by Robin Askwith. Thus it is hard for me, as a member of the English press, to look past him. Admittedly that is mostly due to his weight. But if I crane my neck I can just about make out the glorious figure of Frank Lampard Jr, in a see-through nightie. Blimey!
I see a lot of myself in Frank… And before you ‘bluggers’ on your ‘internatter’ make some joke about him being a tad hefty, then go off and check the ATP line-up, I will stop you there. As I was saying! I see a lot of myself in Frank; namely my ears. The last time I interviewed him, he got confused and ate my ears, thinking they were Percy Pigs.
Ronnie once told me “please don’t call me that, and stop calling here otherwise I’ll have to take legal action”. Heh heh heh, always playing the lark that Ronnie, and you have to give it to him, he commits to a joke – I was served with papers last week – classic banter!
He does go and let himself down with his fancy name – I have proposed Christiank Ronpard – as much as his fancy play. It’s all well and good breaking the La Liga single season scoring record. What’s wrong with casually covering ground for 70 minutes before popping up to score a deflected winner, or to convert a soft penalty before getting taken off at half-time?
I’d also like to suggest ‘A Manlier Smut’.
Bit of a sneaky tip readers – this boy is one to watch. Now you, not being a well-paid football journalist, may have missed this, but my sources tell me that a promising young midfielder – from a place in the north-east called Sun-dee-larnd – has moved to the world famous Liverpool on what my sources tell me is a bargain deal. But never fear: even minor transfer dealings like this don’t go under my hairy radar.
Having watched Jordan at the UEFA European Under-21 Football Championship in Denmark, I can see already that he is the keeper of the flame for England’s midfield. He avoids the age-old problems we have with giving the ball away, or blazing shots over the bar, by never going anywhere near the ball. The future of those proud words: “6/10: subbed, 63 minutes” are in safe hands. Let them ring out.