United Road Take Me Home

Can a football player ever be considered too highbrow? Not in the sense that he spends his spare time writing poetry rather than writing off brand-new Ferrari's or seeing to his blog via his laptop rather than seeing to lap dancers. Not in that way. But in the way that his appeal is limited to a discerning minority, a rarefied strata of supporters who consider themselves more refined than their lumpen red brethren.

For example I'm guessing that few match-going reds would be chuffed if they pitched up at the pictures to be greeted with a moody East European art-house flick in which nothing ever seems to happen and simply doesn't seem interested in pleasing them, when they expected some kind of high-octane chase-a-minute thrillathon with explosive climax after explosive climax.

Well I think we may well have signed the equivalent of that grainy art-house flick, and as one quite happy to fess up to many a lost afternoon in the Cornerhouse pondering obscure European cinema, I'm delighted. But I'm getting the impression this isn't the general view. Berbatov is a football purists dream. He is like the Citizen Kane of football, every shot a brilliantly thought-out, artfully composed masterpiece. And, like films of that calibre, his appeal seems destined to appeal more to the critics than the paying punters.

Languid is dismissed as lazy. Deft touches and an immaculate first touch are no substitute for racing up and down the pitch in pursuit of lost causes in the eyes of many at OT. Far better Tevez dashing aimlessly about the pitch than Dimitar dabbing a toe at the ball and directing it beautifully into Wayne's path. Such finesse is a precious rarity, but part of me feels that many of those in the ground would prefer to still have Alan Smith toiling up and down the turf.

Piece said, I'm off to read some Proust. Then watch Celebrity Big Brother.