JULIE BURCHILL ON FOOTBALL DEGENERATION - THE END (Part 3)

These were the broken boughs of working-class British manhood who cast their battered shadow over the childhood of David Beckham. As he learnt to walk and talk, they had certain style, after a fashion; they were healthy, high-spirited young beasts, which is never without its charm unless you live next door to it.

But, frankly, they were always somewhat preposterous, in their three-piece suites, matching ties and clashing cravats, forever peeking cheekily out from under deep fringes.

The trouble was that they all appeared to have based their act on that of Jack Wild as the Artful Dodger in Oliver!, a popular film of the time, ignoring the fact that he was about 12 years old. Thus they were totally lacking in anything approaching dignity – that which the fortunate athlete has in lieu of brains.

And even on the frivolous front – hmm, the new pop stars? The friends of pop stars? What pop stars would these have been, precisely? Brian Poole and the Tremoloes? Marmalade? Whatever, the idea of even George Best marrying one of the ace face poptresses of the day – Marianne Faithfull, say – is unthinkable. He had Miss Worlds instead; today, it’s very likely that a really top-class footballer wouldn’t date a Miss World, believing it to be naff.

They’d be saving themselves for a pop princess. You might shag a Jordan when you were half-cut, but you’d laugh about it with your mates afterwards, and you’d hold out for a Louise when it came to marriage.

Like banking with Coutts, suddenly these barely educated little guttersnipes ‘instinctively knew what was right’, to quote the old sherry ad.