In my eternal quest for an increased online readership, I’ve been researching buzz words other than Man United and Ferguson that Guardian website readers key into. A poll of up to a dozen readers revealed these key words to be (in no particular order): naked, lesbian, action, lesbian action, money shot, porn, cross-dressing, Chomsky and Barbara Windsor.
Which leads seamlessly to the perversely erotic (both minor buzz words in their own right) relationship we have with our sporting heroes. Many years ago when nowt but a little lad, as David Blunkett would have it, I used to find myself profoundly moved in the presence of Evonne Goolagong. More recently I’ve been stirred by the charms of the triple-jumper Ashia Hansen, the heptathlete Kelly Sotherton and the Amazonian Serena Williams.
One can argue that the chief delight of such sporting heroes is that they are perfect physical specimens at their peak of their athletic achievement. You could. But, if we’re being honest, we like to ogle them because they are fit in the buffest sense.
Now our sexual relationship with sporting heroes gets even more complicated when it comes to fellas and football. My friend Ritchie recently provided me with a definitive list of favoured players. ”I didn’t know you were into football,” I said.
”I’m not, I just fancy the pants off them,” he said — or would do if he got the chance. What surprised me was how seriously Ritchie took his fancying — so much so that he had a quite detailed knowledge of relatively obscure players. Herman Hreidarsson! He didn’t watch football as a rule unless one of his fancy men was playing.
Here’s Ritchie’s first XI — they lack a bit on the defensive side but what lookers: David James, Jamie Redknapp, Joe Cole, Freddie Ljungberg, Danny Murphy, Gary Neville, Egil Ostenstad, Michael Owen, David Beckham, Alan Shearer, Herman Hreidarsson.
Ritchie is gay, so it’s not surprising that he has the hots for footballers. What is surprising, though, is that he could probably have exactly the same chat with most straight blokey blokes who follow football.
For me, it was Colin Bell. King Colin. Beautiful he was. I remember the thrill of seeing him take a wee once from my friend’s bedroom window. (Actually, that thrill was only superseded by seeing Peter Barnes and the aptly named Willie Donachie in the showers when I was lucky enough to visit the Maine Road changing rooms one day). I kissed pictures of King Colin when he’d done the business and kissed pictures of him when he hadn’t to make sure he would do it the next week.
Is there a sexual nature to our attraction to football icons? Of course there is. How could there not be? Let’s face it, we’ve probably had pictures of the men in question on our walls for years, styled our hair like them, worn clothes like them and tried to walk like them. We’ve fetishised our footballers in every sense.
Today, happily hetero and into my 40s with two children, a regular topic for me and my good mate Briceyg on the way to matches is who our best-looking players are. A better-looking team gives us credibility. A pug-ugly team makes us a laughing stock unless we get all ironic about it. Briceyg and I have spent hours discussing Darren Huckerby’s hair, Ali Benarbia’s cuteness, Paulo Wanchope’s supermodel legs, Richard Dunne’s eyes, Sylvain Distin’s general gorgeousness and David James’s Herculean physique.
And then there’s that other perennial — which players are well endowed. Interestingly, it appears to be a manager rather than a player who is the Fidel Castro of football. Even more interestingly, it is the unprepossessing Jim Smith who appears to get the nod. Our City legend is Alan Oakes — famous for not getting booked and being well trousered.
Now I know this is a difficult issue in the macho straighter-than-straight world of football. But you cannot try to tell me that Nick Hornby has never whiled away a pub hour debating whether Freddie or Thierry is the cuter.
And so to my confession. Last Saturday at Fulham, Jamesy pulled off a half-decent save. It was early enough in the game for optimism.
”I love you, David James!” I shouted out into a roaring silence. Half the City end turned to me. A couple of men pointed and laughed. I felt embarrassed, humiliated and peeved. I know I’d broken a taboo, but sod it. Footie fans have always loved their heroes. So why shouldn’t we say so? — Â