FOR the very first time this tournament there’s been a spark of dynamism in the England camp.
Showing more flair than he has at times on the pitch, Three Lions captain Harry Kane ditched the platitudes and came out swinging during his latest press conference.
His response, when asked about Gary Lineker and Alan Shearer’s (very measured, largely accurate) assessment in a podcast of England’s Euros performance against Denmark (“s**t”) was brilliant.
Not because of what he said — in that, I disagree: Pundits, especially former England legends, should never self-edit — but because he was doing what an England captain should be doing.
Sticking up for his players, and showing some backbone.
It would have been very easy to not answer the question, but he did, articulately.
Harry played a blinder.
“The bottom line is we haven’t won anything as a nation for a long, long time and a lot of these players were part of that as well and they know how tough it is. It is not digging anyone out,” he added, digging out Gary and Alan.
Translation: “You boys won f*** all either, leave us alone.”
He continued: “I am sure they want us to win a major tournament, and being as helpful as they can and building the lads up with confidence would be a much better way of going about it.”
Translation: “Ditch your grubby, money-spinning podcast, boys, and let’s revert to a nice, state-sponsored, Pravda-esque form of sanitised commentary please so as not to hurt our feelings.”
Which is where his argument starts to crumble.
Gary and Alan — both former strikers and England captains — could not be better equipped to level criticism against a striker.
Alongside fellow Beeb pundit Rio Ferdinand, these men are hugely successful international players; they’re not beer-swilling, chip-munching armchair fans like you and I.
We don’t live in a communist or Orwellian anti-free-speech society.
These pundits are paid a lot of money to say something of substance, to say what we, at home, are all thinking. Not dish out bland platitudes.
Sure, Gary and Alan made their more inflammatory comments on a commercial podcast, not our national broadcaster.
(And yesterday, the canny duo hit back with another money-spinning episode, henceforth to be known as The Semi-Apology One, in which they doubled down by saying, “We don’t want to be critical but we have to be sometimes”.
Ohh, and a bonus “Q&A” fan section (kerching!)
As overpaid, multi-millionaire, pampered football stars, unfortunately criticism comes with the territory. There is no such thing as a free orange quarter at half-time.
If sensitive Harry can’t handle a few mean words off the pitch, how the hell will he cope with a two-footed sliding tackle against Slovenia tonight?
Weep? Ask for his mummy? Toughen up, man.
And let’s face it, a few straight-talking words from a few former pros is nothing compared to what his predecessors faced.
Former England goalkeeper David James was mocked up as a donkey after one abysmal performance.
Tony Adams faced the same, and had carrots thrown at him on the pitch. (He later said it made him stronger and play better in future games; that’s the spirit, Tone.)
In 1992, The Sun ran a headline “Swedes 2, Turnips 1” after we crashed out of the Euros. You didn’t see Lineker, who was substituted that game, later crying about being compared to a root vegetable.
These pundits have all experienced a lot, lot worse, and probably became better players because of it.
Indeed, when Gary was slammed for a poor performance at the 1986 Mexico World Cup, he went on to score a hat-trick against Poland in the very next game.
Now that’s class. Let’s hope the Class of ’24 take note.
BOOBS are back, apparently.
Sales of balconette bras are up 61 per cent, thanks to racy Netflix drama Bridgerton, starring Nicola Coughlan as Penelope Featherington, above – echoing the famous Wonderbra campaigns of the 90s.
Reading this last week was, well, triggering.
My first holiday romance, aged 15, saw me sneaking off during a family trip to Cyprus to go on an illicit, hugely exciting date with local waiter Andreas. We met by the pool and I choked on a Campari spritz. I was flying high, feeling oh-so-grown-up and sophisticated.
Until, that is, we started snogging (look away now, Mum and Dad) and in a moment of amorousness, the bewildered Andreas pulled out an interminably long string of stuffed tissue paper that I’d wedged in my bra.
On and on the tissue paper streamed, as I sat bolt upright, saying nothing.
If only I’d known about balconette bras circa 1998.
HEALTH warnings have been issued across the UK as we enter a short hot spell.
The nanny state has swiftly gone into overdrive, warning us all to drink more water, wear sunscreen and avoid the heat of the midday sun.
As if, without such sage advice, we’d all be bunking off work and lying in a field bathed in extra virgin olive oil, alternately doing hill sprints.
Once upon a time this lovely little hot spell would simply be known as “summer”.
AS a side note to the Big Punditry Debate, could we please see more Joe Hart, please.
The former England and Man City keeper has been faultless this tournament. Words he probably longed to hear as a player.
His analytical breakdown of Scotland goalie Angus Gunn’s performance after the nation’s second game managed to be insightful, not patronising, and he has the best posture of any man I’ve ever seen.
More Joe.
IT was only a matter of time, really.
Last week the BBC’s obsession with political correctness appeared to hit peak.
Desperate, it seems, to exclude absolutely no minority from the role of Assistant Producer, Audio North (Classical Music) up in Salford, bosses encouraged anyone who “identified as dead” (or neurodivergent, or disabled) to apply for the job.
Unfortunately, by the time I’d thoughtfully emailed the application form to my late grandad (dead a solid 27 years), via a medium, his heavenly hopes and dreams were shattered when the ad was swiftly corrected to “deaf”.
Still, one day.
LAST week a newspaper ran a deeply sexist piece headlined “Why Keir Starmer’s wife is being left off the campaign trail”, claiming Labour MPs believe the glamorous Lady Victoria would be quite the boon to would-be voters.
What absolute 1950s drivel.
This isn’t “Take your wife to work day”, this is 2024, where women don’t have to be seen and heard (in public) to have a voice.
For a party that has an undisputed woman problem – not one female leader in its history – by leaving his hugely successful, career-minded (an NHS occupational health therapist) wife to get on with her job and her life, Keir is making far more of a political statement of intent than were he wheeling her out like some sort of Stepford wife.
The Starmers have never publicly named their two kids, in an effort to protect their privacy, and they keep their family life – in a world of increasing public toxicity and vitriol – sacred.
For me, this is as big a vote-winner as any Labour manifesto pledge.
ONE of America’s most celebrated novels, Harper Lee’s wonderful To Kill A Mockingbird – staple of many of our GCSE/O-level English courses – has been banned by a school in Seattle, Washington.
Teachers have objected to the Pulitzer Prize-winning book’s romanticisation of a “white saviour” complex and “one-dimensional black characters”.
They reckon it makes pupils feel uncomfortable.
But isn’t that the very point of literature?
