By Russell Brand
Faith is a powerful tool in navigating us through life on our silly journey to inevitable death. Sometimes I believe in things simply because not to believe in them would make my life unbearable. I like to think that my cat, Morrissey, loves me and that his affection is not simply a tool to avoid starvation.
Apparently new-born infants affect the facial formation of a smile long before they understand what they're conveying just so they look sweet and their parents don't dash their brains out on the wall of the cave (this technique was pioneered by caveman babies when infanticide was more common).
If the sweet gurgling grin of a tot is up for question and even the loyalty of my cat how can I so blindly believe that Lucas Neill has joined West Ham for the honour of wearing the claret and blue shirt and not for the reported sixty grand a week he's being paid (I think that's what Paul Scholes gets, that puts things in too much perspective)? When it's suggested, as it often has been over the past few weeks that Neill snubbed Rafa Bénitez and the Kop because he fancied the cockney dollar I bristle.
Surely it's better to play your football in East London under intense pressure to avoid relegation than to faff around on Merseyside perpetually under-achieving (penalty shoot-outs aside) trying to recreate the boot room glory days. It is. It's much better and that's why dear sweet, noble Lucas has come to Upton Park. He likes a challenge and, as he said himself, Curbishley has a shopping list that made his goolies fizz.
I hope it's a sensible investment - admittedly West Ham's chief problems, atrocious refereeing aside, appear to be defensive and one queries how much impact even the most versatile and influential full-back can have. The Hammers legend Julian Dicks played on the opposite flank to Neill and were capable of dragging the team along with pure aggression and I suppose Gary Neville is a potent force at United but is he as important as Scholes?
The simple fact is West Ham need players and are in no position to quibble over trifling matters such as wages. If Nigel Quashie demands his income be supplemented by spending half-time with The Hammerettes (the team's cheerleaders) I think it ought be granted. In fact, if it can guarantee us Premiership survival, I myself am happy to troop out in the interval with the mascots - the hammer, the bear and the inexplicable dog in a blue nurse's uniform - and perform a humiliating sex dance for Luis Boa Morte, such is my desire to see those boys happy.
A friend described West Ham as a rubbish Chelsea, with our tin-pot, bickie rich, Kojak oligarch and unglamorous signings. But it appears the dominion of the blue flag may be on the wane. Jose Mourinho is, it seems, a rather quixotic character, a tactical troubadour only content to remain at a club for a couple of seasons before moving on. In fact he's like the littlest hobo - he does terrific work then clears off leaving John Terry with a frog in his throat cos' "there's a voice that keeps on calling him".
Guardian column
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment