Were there a device by which fixed smiles could be measured — a pressure pad, perhaps, to be placed between gritted molars — it would have been intriguing last week to determine whether the rapprochement between Lee Bowyer and Kieron Dyer concealed a more or less obvious loathing than that between Tony Blair and Gordon Brown.
The locales for these emblematic displays of togetherness may have been different, with Bowyer and Dyer opting for the Newcastle United training ground over a pink-backdropped Westminster podium, but the message was the same.
We’d better put it on for the cameras, ”mate”, or we’ll both be out of a job.
Two feuds, then, alike in dignity or lack of it, although the endlessly pathetic and destructive wrangling between the two most powerful men in the country should perhaps be viewed as far more shameful than the behaviour of a couple of imbecilic footballers. Of course, in recent months — years even — the bitterly co-dependent relationship between Blair and Brown has often assumed the character of the malevolent post-tackle assist, ostensibly reaching out to help your opponent to his feet while in fact attempting to relieve him of his armpit hair.
A quick pat on the back, and off the prime minister trots to resume play, leaving the chancellor in need of witch hazel and plotting exactly where he will plant his studs the next time the referee is not looking.
Of course, the comparisons between football and governments could go on. Those who run both have the power to make splendid improvements with the funds at their disposal, though both of course are prone to making shocking decisions — commissioning millennium domes, for instance, or spending lunatic sums on Juan Sebastian Veron. Unfortunately this is where the comparison stops.
Now it is not a sentiment I would have laid an awful lot of money on espousing but, watching the shenanigans at Newcastle, I found myself yearning for the marvellous accountability enshrined in the British electoral system. Well, the occasional sense of accountability, once every four years or so, if we are honest. The point is, wouldn’t it be nice, as a fan, if once in a while one felt one’s voice could be heard in a more formalised way than shouting something a bit rude from the stands or whining to a radio phone-in host.
I found myself dreaming of a strange and wonderful footballing democracy, where, at unspecified intervals — perhaps at the end of every season — each club’s supporters could pass their verdict on the entire first-team squad. The process, I fancied, would culminate in a traditional election-night special, screened on TV, though if possible not hosted by one of the Dimblebys. Des Lynam would be the obvious choice, possessing the right mix of gravitas and the ability to laugh wryly when the feed from St Mary’s loses sound. Peter Snow would be roped in, of course, to explain with manic visual aids how a 6% swing among Arsenal fans would leave Sol Campbell safe but Pascal Cygan contemplating a future of North American lecture tours.
But what could be more satisfying than having Lynam interrupt a piece of mordant psephological analysis by studio guest Glenn Hoddle with the words ”I’m sorry, Glenn — we’re going to have to cross right away to St James’ Park because I believe we’ve got a result”?
There is an agonising pause while the squad gathers on the platform and the returning officer taps the mic. ”Lee Bowyer,” he intones solemnly, ”you have not been returned as a midfielder for Newcastle United.” You do not hear the rest for the cheering. I am seeing Enfield 1997, seeing Michael Portillo’s face, but it is wearing a torn Newcastle United strip and it has a conviction for affray.
Wouldn’t it be excellent, on hearing Graeme Souness explain that Bowyer ”most definitely” has a future at Newcastle, to be able to respond, ”I rather think we’ll be the judge of that, Souey. Now go back to your constituency and prepare for whatever we decide for you.” — Â