Wayne's Enterprises

This is a real photo.

It is a sad truth that if Wayne Rooney had broken his leg at 23, like Paul Gascoigne before him, he would be more loved by the English public than he is now; on the verge of becoming our record goal scorer. It is a dark irony that if one cannot live up to the expectation the fans demand, and the perfection they themselves undermine, castigation will follow. Being very good but not achieving greatness is worse than being unexpectedly good when mediocrity beckoned. Because, as Harvey Dent tells us in The Dark Knight, “you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain”. Wayne Rooney is our flawed protector, a man destined for perfection who didn’t quite achieve it, but who still toils to save England again and again and hold us back from the abyss. On Saturday, earning his 100th cap, he dragged us back into the game against Slovenia. People laughed because he scored a penalty. He consistently drives us to tournaments we have no right of reaching. For this he is derided as a player who fails to perform at the very highest level. While Rooney, like Batman, is not perfect, he is the best we have. Yet our brute Wayne, like Bruce Wayne before him, will never be recognised as the hero he is. This is not his fault. It is ours.

Land of Hope and Glory

Fear can hold you prisoner. Hope is Wayne Rooney.

Halfway through The Shawshank Redemption Morgan Freeman’s Red looks up at the newly imprisoned Andy Dufresne. Driven to cynicism by his seemingly endless incarceration he drawls, in his inimitable way, “Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane”. It is an enticing philosophy: better to live in the emotionless vacuum of hopelessness than dream and have those dreams destroyed by crushing reality. Normally, I would agree. Normally, I revel in boundless cynicism, building barriers of sarcasm and pessimism which mean any event can be met with a wry smile, a knowing shrug. Yet maybe we live in a World which needs a little more hope. Once we had politicians who promised us the stars, dared to dream that we could build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land. Now they are preoccupied with the imaginary evils of immigration, haunted by visions of invading Romanians who never actually come, and seemingly we lap it up. After all, recent elections prove that about a third of us are racist – and according to UKIP the other two-thirds are Sharia espousing Islamic fundamentalists. Hope died in the elections last week. And now, the final straw, we are told we cannot even hope against hope for England to win the World Cup. The one misguided dream we all share every four years has been shattered by the incompetence of our players and a culture in which we fear the worst, rather than pray for the best. No more. The time has come to dispense with fear and seize the hilarious, naïve and misjudged hope which only football can bring. England can end the hurt. England can win the World Cup. Roar.

The Beautiful Game

"Football is the most beautiful of all the arts. Because it is art. Art is about spontaneity. The quest for spontaneity is fundamental in art and football expresses it best."
Eric Cantona

I suspect the reason I write at monotonous and pained length about why football is more than a game is because of a chip on my shoulder. While my friends discuss art, theatre and music I only really have the ability to talk about the nuances of the late 1990s Leicester City team. Maybe my desire to elevate football is because of my own inadequacy, my lack of ability to comprehend why van Gogh is lauded as a master while van Persie is disparaged as just another sportsman. Maybe I write about ideas because they don’t require any research. Or maybe, just maybe, I, like Eric before me, think football really is an art. Or at least that it gives me the same wonder and pleasure as more established arts give my more learned friends. It is, after all, the beautiful game; a semi-improvised theatre that captivates billions week after week after week. So, to borrow my favourite thing to say when lagging behind in galleries: It is magnificent, but is it art?