Things have just gotten a bit out of control, haven't they? I mean, almost as out of hand as Graeme Souness' crush on Paul Pogba. That's right mister "I've got a big table"; you think your wooden double entendres are fooling anyone? Well, not anymore they're not Souey. Oh no, we're on to you mate, just like we're on to how those 5G towers radiate seamless-internet into our lungs.
Incredibly, even as Netflix clogs our bronchioli with the misdeeds of a polygamist Tiger-fancier, Gary Neville has managed to pull a Kushner - dubiously leveraging his background in trolling Liverpool fans to elevate himself to the position of Sky's epidemiologist in chief. Obviously, something really fishy is going on with that; I mean Bill Gates WHO levels of fishy. Yet, despite this, for some strange reason, we are supposed to dismiss as happenstance how soap-sales so neatly correlate with the extent of Huawei Neville's YouTube protagonism.
So there's no denying that something's afoot, but what to do about it? With the Dr Fauci-signal not emitting enough UV rays or something, our last hail mary to contain the Neville 19 contagion is the scouse Remdesivir Jamie Carragher. Ok, so preliminary trials have highlighted some potentially debilitating side effects - mostly auricular - but what of it? When have we ever let a little thing like medical propriety stand in our way before? Since now is certainly no time to start pissing about with ethics, it follows that the sooner the antagonistic pair are exchanging spittle-flecked rants the better.
Unfortunately, this is where things become tricky. The airy Monday Night Football studio is a shrine to social distancing, and, more's the pity, the same goes for a fan-free stadium. With our backs pinned against the wall - be it at intervals of 1 metre or 2 metres or you know a mile - the only thing for it is to force a return to the old normal. That's right to hell with trivial indulgences like bird song and breathable air, it's time to get to whatever strategic phase comes after the f*cking it all up one. It's time to let the fans back. It's time, in other words, for Carra and Red Nev to huddle closely in the vaccine of their own germ riddled argumentativeness.
Now, to expedite such a dramatic volte-face, fans will need to trade in the hush-hush currency of political influence. Not, you understand, the piecemeal kind of the democratic franchise, but the kind that actually demands a form of reciprocity. Nowadays that translates into something of an oligarchical singularity. For in the modern age of pontificating before you think, tangible influence is the societal play-doh of a notoriously litigious, spelunker-"ribbing", space geek's Twitter account.
Ipso facto, emulating the algebraic particularism so resplendent in the litigious one's attitude to child-naming will become integral to insulating the art of fandom from the insidious encroachment of virtual sports. Or worse still from the post-watershed eroticism of Liverpool's online training sessions. An orgiastic digital mosaic, where, in the name of pleading that the season isn't voided, hips gratuitously thrust screen-ward with the same sweaty groin-in-the-face abandon Ryan Giggs displays when visiting his sister-in-law. Quite aside from anything else, it is a testament to how maladapted our sexual mores are to the strictures of social distancing that this leisurewear-clad addendum to the internet's opensource Kamasutra amounts to dry-humping the carpet as your mates (and boss) watch on.
Now, since the societal shelf-life of football-as-pornography could range from, on one end of the scale, that of a White House advisor to, on the other, that of a pickled cockroach, on top of coopting the litigious one's muscular brand of irredentist-capitalism fans should look to finesse it. Lest we forget, the model in question aspires to robot footballers and, as far as restarting the old normal goes, that is like shards of unbreakable glass under our feet. I mean as bad and all as Neville 19 is, it is as nothing compared to the prospect of multiple Peter Crouchs sharing a pitch.
Christ, can you imagine, we'd inevitably have droves of people out licking nurses' "multiuse" PPE. Moreover, society would instantly devolve into one big saliva soaked, corona-fetish roleplay, leaving Neville's devious plan to pedestrianise urban space one step closer to fruition. It is imperative, therefore, that in seeking to tackle the Neville 19 outbreak fans pursue a more truly devotional paradigm, ideally one capable of convincing that making shitloads of money is a form of morality.
Step forward the Gates Foundation. The Gates' pet philanthropic influence grab is, of course, flying high due to the fact that Billy boy is an epidemiological Palantir of sorts and saw all of this coming from way back in the day before VAR was even invented. Not that his preternatural farsightedness should surprise any of us. After all, as the Netflix series "Why Bill is Better Than You" broke down into easy-to-digest hagiographic nuggets, Bill is simply better than you or me. And, because he is better it is only right and proper that he gets to tell us how to lead our lives.
However, such godlike know-it-all-ness makes it more than a little odd - bordering on the inexcusable really - that he deigned to advise only TED Talk viewers and Richard Burr about the impending rally in Andrex shares. Clearly, to gain real popular traction, his prescience should have clung onto the viral coattails of other significant stuff like, for example, Adele's weight loss or that Obamagate thing. This gripe with respect to messaging should, to paraphrase Boris Johnson, alert fans to the need to stay alert to the alert that alerted them to the alert to which it'll now be their own fault if they're not alert to. Well and good as all this alert-alertness may be, priming the football-loving public to behave like perma-startled meerkats risks encouraging fans to come over all Joe Biden-like and weather the crisis down a burrow somewhere.
While this doesn't get us any closer to overcoming the Red Nev menace, it does strand us in the same boat as Daniel Levy, who right now is actually begging for the earth to swallow him whole. And with good reason, since Daniel's entire penny-pinching legacy has turned to the very dust now cloaking the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium in a film of delicious irony. While that sorta gladdens the heart, it doesn't make up for the fact that empty stadiums reduce the viewing spectacle of elite leagues to the same dreary level as the Neville 19 news cycle. Yesterday's papers now tell today's news which is that the news sucks.
And God how it sucks. Where once the news was a thrill ride through ballsy stuff like terrorism, intrigue at the Kremlin, and Boris Johnson's underpants it has now become an irredeemable borefest full of pointy graphs, flattened curves, diversionary clapping, and pariah pangolins. Hell, even the sports news isn't immune. After all, haven't we spent weeks pretending to be gripped by that fella out of Space Oddity doddering around a lawn for charity. FOR CHARITY, for goodness sake, the very antithesis of sport and all its rugged F-you individualism.
If that wasn't bad enough, by recklessly eschewing the testosterone-spiked sensationalism of traditional journalism, all this scaly, math-saturated, pussyfooting about only distracts from the question on everyone's lips. Should we wear face masks or make collages out of them? While any definitive answer to that particular head-scratcher seems contingent on the construction of a coronavirus particle accelerator, one thing which the parable of the 24/7 newsfeed does teach us is that if kicking a ball around is just entertainment then football should quickly look to onside dubious regimes and terrorists to hold our attention.
As luck would have it, this is basically standard practice. Indeed, within footballing circles, it is commonly referred to as the Newcastle pivot. To pull it off, all you need to do is find the right balance between winning SFA and retaining the unwavering devotion of a semi-naked fanbase. Then, before anyone can mention Yemen, the fit and proper person test's patented - as-long-as-it's-not-Hitler - form of moral relativism will see to the rest. Now, admittedly, there may be some pushback but seriously who really gives two hoots about that? How many Premier League champions have Amnesty International bankrolled exactly? No, it's put up or shut up; that's how freedom of speech works, so get with the sportswashing times you do-gooding Amal Clooney wannabes. Honestly, the hypocrisy on show is breathtaking. How anyone can, in good faith, claim to defend human rights on one hand and yet seek to deny Geordies the chance to stick two fingers up at FFP regulations on the other is beyond me.
The other sticking point here is all this business with negative oil prices. That could really throw a spanner - or even an indentured labourer - in the works. Nevermind, even if the worst comes to the worst and Greta Thunberg does manage to summarily abolish wet markets in the course of establishing a vegan world order all is not necessarily lost. Hell, you never know, the floracidal diet of artisanal celery and bee-pollinated dandelions might just be worth it if it means that the Geordies end up congregating on zoom to beg for Mike Ashley's return. No doubt the sweatshop rag magnate would really love that. So much so that it's easy to imagine him insisting that, as part of any deal, the 8th wonder of motorway laybys, the Angel of the North, is refashioned in his own corpulent image.
As it stands though the quinoa-scoffers' efforts to torpedo Newcastle's one shot at getting rid of Steve Bruce have been well and truly scuppered by their collective lack of vitamin D. Indeed, as any hippy whose immune system has been compromised by eating vegetables will tell you, it's literally impossible for anyone in their moss-lined Birkenstocks not to contract the zoonotic novelty. Just you wait and see, soon we'll be talking about every sane person's favourite marginal carcinogen, antibiotic flavoured meat, as the next nicotine patch or even the next hydroxy-chloro-what's-it.
Inevitably the sum of these breakthroughs will have practical implications for the Premier League's return. Particularly if - to make good on their stated aim of prioritising safety within a timeframe dictated by Sky - the powers-that-be have to supercharge their liberation plans to the DEFCON Michigan setting. In which case, don't be at all surprised if the League of the Teetering TV Deal starts prescribing players a corona-killing cocktail of chain-smoking, chocolate-coated bacon, and malaria. It's what Jacinda would do. And that's the gold standard. So, Danny Rose et al, you can stop all this whining about being treated like one of those essential workers and instead do the decent thing and man up to Neville 19. Simple.
Certainly much simpler than, let's say, dolling yourself up like a sex worker disguised as a Korean football fan. Even for the most dedicated supporter, this latest prophylactic threshold just seems a little much. Now obviously, we're all absolutely on board with using antibody tests to out those commie anti-patriots who didn't contribute to herd immunity, and we're even coming to terms with switching out beer for Domestos, but where, in the name of all that's holy, are we supposed to find FC Seoul jerseys? Amazon - you say. Well, if that's to be our one repository of hope then we're truly screwed.
You win Gary.
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