The world of football was stunned last night when, tired, stressed and under pressure, a football manger made a slightly one-eyed and ill-judged comment.
Bill McBain, who had just seen his team lose two points in a crucial relegation battle following a decision, that to be fair him could have gone the other way, initially remained calm, if terse, when some jumped up little prick thrust a microphone into his face within two minutes of the end of the game, but after the guy repeatedly asked him the same question, as if he thought he was fucking Jeremy Paxman or something, he did actually snap, and somewhat irritably, did perhaps suggest that the referee had it in for him and his opposite number trained his players to dive.
Whilst anybody with an ounce of sense immediately recognized that a disappointed, adrenaline filled man whose job might well be on the line may in fact occasionally drop a bollock when pestered to death by some tit, that horde of pillocks who hang around football grounds making a living off crap like this seized on it eagerly, and by Monday the world was full of so much pointless blather you could puke.
Between endless replays of the incident, endless replays of the interview and endless cuts to Sky reporters standing outside the gates of a deserted football ground, by Thursday there was so much shite being talked that Fifa felt duty bound to wade in with their share.
McBain, 58, who left school at fourteen to play football, spends most of his time thinking about tactics, players and signings, only really feels happy on the training pitch, and has never once thought about, let alone courted, interviews, is constantly surprised that he is contractually obliged to stare like a startled badger into a camera and mumble inanities every weekend.
Equally, most football enthusiasts, whilst they have a sneaking regard for his tactical nous, find him in person rather dour and monosyllabic, and would rather not have to sit through a five minute interview with him every week, prefering perhaps to watch footage of people kicking a sodding football, which they would like to point out, is what they actually like about the game.
However, an influential group of journalists have pointed out that unless fuckwits like Guy Mowbray are allowed to harrass inarticulate middle aged men, the public might notice that there is absolutely no need to talk and write so much utter bollocks about football, and they'll all be out of a job.