Call Me Ishmael

We Europeans used to say that you could tell who were the English tourists; they were the bloated pink ones that fell over shortly after 11pm. However, with the advent of 24 hour indulgence, the inhabitants of the US Aircraft carrier Great Britain have reserved the right to fall over whenever they feel like it. In case we are no longer able to spot them they now make us aware of their presence by disporting themselves in that modern fashion icon; the replica shirt.

Now when I was a lad, wearing the colours meant sporting a bit of "knit one, pearl one" around your neck that your mum had knocked up for you. The skinheads took it a step further and tied a rather natty little silk job around their wrist. But since football has been sponsored by Mammon, middle aged men seem to feel compelled to deck themselves out in highly coloured polyester.

And why not? Everyone knows that 3 metres of synthetic Chinese fabric turns Moby Dick into a leaping salmon, and talking of salmon, anything in red is set off beautifully by cancerous pink skin especially when sprinkled with a dusting of peeling epidermis.

So are we missing a trick here? With footballing allegiance no longer limited to the local club by a fashion conscious youth, should we not get in first with a designer football shirt. Hugo boss came up with a very elegant little number for the Third Reich during their oh so nearly successful European campaign back in the forties or perhaps, with our Italian connection, Versace might like to Mussolini in on the act.

I'm off on holiday next week and though my heart may be claret and blue, I will not be wearing it on my sleeve or my expanding waistline! No chance of me getting into an argument with Captain Ahab.

el martillo