Slipperduke
The Camden Cad
There's no room for sentiment in football. Alan Wiley should remind himself of that this morning when he hauls himself out of bed and trudges to the mirror. He'll suck in his gut and puff out his chest, he'll flex his arms and stiffen his chin, he'll even do that thing where you try and lift your jowls up by tensing your neck muscles. And then finally he'll relax and the awful, flabby truth will sag back into place. This is how eating disorders start.
Just two weeks ago, in the last moments of the incredible Manchester derby, Wiley and Sir Alex Ferguson had a thing going on. Two star-crossed lovers thrown together by circumstance. One, a gritty Scottish football manager with a need for goals and the other, a pudgy fourth official with the gift of time. They made magic together, but it all seems so long ago now. Back then, Ferguson wouldn't have dreamed of insulting his tubby companion, not while he remained in possession of the stoppage time board. Now he's out there making cruel jibes about Wiley's fitness, mocking him in public. Comparing him with those younger, flighty foreign types. How could he be so mean?
It's projection really, isn't it? That's what Wiley should keep in mind. People like Ferguson, consumed with their own short-comings, will always seek to divert the rage at those around them. He was angry, that's what it was. After all, Wiley wouldn't have had so many problems keeping up with the play if Manchester United had managed to go more than two minutes without giving the ball away and kickstarting yet another Sunderland counter-attack. You can't expect a middle-aged man to keep up with Darren Bent's runs all afternoon. Andy Reid, maybe, but not Bent.
Oh, but it's the inconsistency of the barbs that must wound him the most. Ferguson wasn't moaning about a failure to add a minute on after every goal two weeks ago, was he? Michael Owen's 96th minute winner was followed by a time-consuming pitch invasion by the kind of loathsome individual that we thought we'd eradicated from the game years ago. Yes, Wiley eventually convinced Gary Neville to sit back down again, but the damage was done and the clock ran down.
It's hard for a referee to make friends, on or off the pitch, and that must make it even harder to take when they lose one. Wiley's reflection will stare back at him, in all its fleshy glory, and command him to take the only action that will soothe the pain. It's time to hit the ice cream, it's time to hit it hard. Cheer up, Alan. If they don't love you for what you are, they don't really love you at all.
Just two weeks ago, in the last moments of the incredible Manchester derby, Wiley and Sir Alex Ferguson had a thing going on. Two star-crossed lovers thrown together by circumstance. One, a gritty Scottish football manager with a need for goals and the other, a pudgy fourth official with the gift of time. They made magic together, but it all seems so long ago now. Back then, Ferguson wouldn't have dreamed of insulting his tubby companion, not while he remained in possession of the stoppage time board. Now he's out there making cruel jibes about Wiley's fitness, mocking him in public. Comparing him with those younger, flighty foreign types. How could he be so mean?
It's projection really, isn't it? That's what Wiley should keep in mind. People like Ferguson, consumed with their own short-comings, will always seek to divert the rage at those around them. He was angry, that's what it was. After all, Wiley wouldn't have had so many problems keeping up with the play if Manchester United had managed to go more than two minutes without giving the ball away and kickstarting yet another Sunderland counter-attack. You can't expect a middle-aged man to keep up with Darren Bent's runs all afternoon. Andy Reid, maybe, but not Bent.
Oh, but it's the inconsistency of the barbs that must wound him the most. Ferguson wasn't moaning about a failure to add a minute on after every goal two weeks ago, was he? Michael Owen's 96th minute winner was followed by a time-consuming pitch invasion by the kind of loathsome individual that we thought we'd eradicated from the game years ago. Yes, Wiley eventually convinced Gary Neville to sit back down again, but the damage was done and the clock ran down.
It's hard for a referee to make friends, on or off the pitch, and that must make it even harder to take when they lose one. Wiley's reflection will stare back at him, in all its fleshy glory, and command him to take the only action that will soothe the pain. It's time to hit the ice cream, it's time to hit it hard. Cheer up, Alan. If they don't love you for what you are, they don't really love you at all.