BRENT A GOB: This week, Harry Brent’s going after Wolves for their crusade against bad language – and at football fans who celebrate players going on strike to force transfers to their club
Wolves have banned their fans from singing along to ‘The Liquidator’ – which has annoyed me more than women doing football punditry annoys Joey Barton.
Apparently, it’s now inappropriate to shout “F*** off West Brom” during a football match – a statement that carries the same logical weight as “Chelsea: world champions.”
Have we really reached such Andre Onana-levels of limp-wristedness that naughty words are being purged before shirt-pulling at corners and Gianni Infantino? What’s next? Banning fans from yelling “Wheyyyy” when a player slips over, or locking the turnstiles in case the crowd noise distresses a local hedgehog?
Newsflash: football matches aren’t fluffy safe spaces where sensitive souls should expect to be shielded from mild insults. They’re cauldrons of emotion, drama, and, yes, hostility – kind of like Rebekah Vardy’s WhatsApp history.
Calling for a ban on unpleasant chants might make you sound righteous and impress all your friends at the Surrey craft beer festival – but failing to realise the knock-on effect is about as short-sighted as hiring Wayne Rooney to save you from relegation.
Even if, like me, you think heckling rival supporters is a bit childish, the alternative is nanny-state regulation and a level of atmospheric suffocation that makes Covid-era football feel like Ally Pally on a darts night.
Molineux doesn’t have an awful lot going for it. It’s like Craig Bellamy: small and unappealing. And stripping away the hostile atmosphere on top of all that doesn’t civilise the place – it just turns an already dreary ground into a sterile concrete mausoleum of middle-class awkwardness.
Window pain
Transfer windows can be good fun – but, much like Richard Keys, they’re mostly just a giant pain in the arse.
Watching supporters get horny about a player downing tools and going on strike to force a move to their club makes my eyes roll faster than Neymar after a little clip on the ankle. They’re so blinded by the cheap dopamine hit of a shiny new signing that they ignore glaring red flags the way one-star kebab shops ignore basic food hygiene.
“Love the commitment,” bleat the blinkered simpletons on Twitter. What bloody commitment? The only thing that mercenary is committing to is the exact same stunt when Real Madrid flutter their eyelids at him in 18 months’ time.
It’s like celebrating when a girl cheats on her fella to sleep with you. Sure, you’ve scored now – but long-term, she’s about as trustworthy as Manchester City’s financial bookkeeping – allegedly.
They’re not doing it because your club is special, you self-absorbed twerps. They’re doing it because they like fat pay rises, and treat their contractual obligations the same way Cristiano Ronaldo treats his defensive ones.