Scandal no distraction when everyone’s at it

Dan Jones
8 Sep 2010

Rooney scores again! Wahey! Get in, son! Well, it would be a great headline, wouldn't it, only didn't someone use it for John Terry about six months ago?

Yes, of course they did. That's the beauty of the word scored', if you're a mischievous headline writer. Not only does it mean thumped the leather into the back of the reticule', it also means enjoyed a spot of extramarital rumpy with some bird who fancies she'd fit right into Nuts magazine'. Put the two together — as tends to happen with some frequency these days — and you've got a pun to be proud of.

It was fairly likely that Wayne Rooney would score a goal for England last night. Partly because he is getting back to form and fitness after an ankle injury and fatigue had run him into the ground this summer. Partly because God still occasionally smiles on sub-editors. And partly because life is just like that.

The whole build-up to England's European Championship qualifier was dominated by talk of Rooney and the contents of his trousers — £200 packs of fags and all. Questions raged. Is his mind shot? Should he be shot? Did he have a clap shot?

Everyone had an opinion. It was quite distracting. As I cooked supper for my harem of well-paid mistresses last night, I listened to the build-up to England v Switzerland on BBC Radio Five Live. Everyone was lining up to have a high-minded chunter about Wazza's Shame.

Alan Green was in full cant mode — the sort of form which makes you understand why Sir Alex Ferguson would like to belt him one. “Frankly,” said Green — and you know he's going to have a good lengthy rant when he starts off like that — “I couldn't care less what Rooney's done in his private life.”

Green said this, of course, like a man who categorically, definitely could care. Who had probably been poring over the tabloids last weekend with a diamond loupe in his eye and a squidgy stress-ball in his hand, cursing and squeezing and moaning benedictions, and working out the best possible way in which to be both outraged and utterly dismissive, all at the same time.

Being a talented broadcaster, of course, he nailed it. Green trotted out the perfect pundit's line. He claimed he didn't care what Rooney got up to in his private life — and in fact, quite resented the intrusion. But he felt it was important to establish whether these allegations were, in fact, the root cause of Rooney's apparent mental disintegration during the last six months.

He got his answer pretty much straight away. Barely 10 minutes of the match had elapsed before Rooney timed a run to the box, slipped onto the end of Glen Johnson's cross and side-footed home to put England 1-0 ahead.

It was a classic Rooney goal, of the type he bagged in sackfuls last season. It was thoughtful and instinctive, powerful and delicate, all at the same time. It relied almost entirely on hurtling full-pelt towards the penalty spot at the moment that would make life most unpleasant for the opposing centre-backs. It did not seem to display any signs of mental torture.

Rooney's goal — and indeed his performance in both of England's qualifiers this week — belied all the gumpf that had been written about his fragile state of mind beforehand. His goal celebration was muted – he didn't smash the corner flag to bits with his fists, for example.

But that was all. Otherwise it looked like this was a bloke who was just getting on with playing football and ignoring all the speculation around him.

How so? Well, it strikes me that the footballer who couldn't play properly because he was worried about the repercussions of doing the dirty on his WAG (or rather, on his W with his G), would very soon find himself playing in the Sunday leagues, rather than the Premier League.

The sort of thing that was splashed about Rooney this weekend has now been written up about virtually every senior member of the England squad. (Or if it hasn't, Justice Eady down the High Court knows why.) If I'd been busted for illicit bunk-ups, the place I'd expect most solidarity of all would be an England camp.

In the end, footballers are footballers. They do their thing with chicks in clubs and everyone has a jolly time. Everyone's at it. Everyone's always getting caught. Everyone's always having to look grim-faced for the paps. It comes with the territory.

What the wife or the papers say is neither here nor there. And us pundits huffing and puffing in the stands is just rustling in the wind. The show must go on. And, of course, it does.