Ilove nothing more than to contemplate Andy Carroll’s man bun. I am fascinated by the bravado of Marcos Rojo’s “Pride” and “Glory” leg tattoos. I never fail to marvel at the transformative power of Jamie Vardy’s skinny suits (he cleans up well). Where others see reasons for mockery – a swishy sarong, a bleached mohawk, a camo-painted Bentley – I see mysterious self-disclosure, creativity, swagger and style. The unapologetic flamboyance of the star players is now an established part of football culture. This is the lens through which I view the world of footie. I am, therefore, less Fever Pitch and more Saturday Night Fever Pitch.
My footie journey began in my home town of Reading in the late 1950s. Back then Reading FC players were dubbed the Biscuitmen, a homage to the Huntley & Palmers factory that belched fumes on the horizon. You could see it clearly from the window of our lav. Extracting enjoyment from the rain-lashed terraces of Elm Park was challenging, with my view of any dynamic plays being frequently blocked by a wall of threadbare demob suits and filthy John Collier overcoats. Of all the Reading games I attended in my teenage years, one in particular, the Biscuitmen v Man City, remains lodged in the memory. I can still remember that horrible sinking feeling as the Man City lads scored goal after goal. The final tally was 7-0.
During the dying minutes of the game, I vividly recall my schoolmates doing something they had never done before: hurling vile personal insults at the opposing team. I remember a pal named Stuart ranting vengefully at Mike Summerbee – he scored three of the seven goals – about his legendary conk. Summerbee had something which I had only observed on our telly: he had glamour, charisma, celebrity and style. And I liked his big nose. But most importantly he was best mates with (and here we come to the real elephant in the room, the entire raison d’être of my raison d’être) the greatest, handsomest, most spiffily attired and most legendary footballing folk hero of all time: Georgie Best. Best – the Fifth Beatle, the bloke with the Jag and the swag – is, was and always will be the patron saint of footballer fashion. The year before the Man City debacle, “Buzzer” Summerbee and George Best had merged their talents in a manner which had blown my style-crazed mind. They had opened a boutique, together! These two extraordinary players from deadly opposing Manchester teams… they liked fashion, too!
For more read the full of article at The Guardian
