Paul Scholes still scores goals

Scholes still scores goals!


Paul Flynn
Red Devil

I T’S 2012. Out with the old and in with the new. Unless you’re Arsenal or Yew-ni-ted. Our two midfields suck, therefore both clubs have, bizarrely, raided the ‘Locker Room of Time’.
Arsenal have re-commissioned the languid, bearded razor-salesman Thierry Henry and we have raided the attic and found some bloke who looks like a burst sofa, by the name of Paul Scholes. Who, apparently, still scores goals.           
Svelte basketball enthusiast Henry has managed to engineer a loan of his body to his Alma Mater whilst his ego remains the property of MLS team New York Red Bulls.
With a name like that it’s no wonder they call it the city that never sleeps. But against a gallant Leeds he scored the only goal with all the poise and intelligence a hesitant Arsenal lacked.
This fitful crop of Wenger’s should hold out their weedy arms and accept a booster-shot of Arsenal values from this wonderful Gunner. Remember how Henrik Larsson turned our season around in a mere six weeks three titles ago? I’m betting Henry does likewise.        
So, I put out the bins, fed and watered Simon and Garfunkel (my close-harmony ferrets), and settled down to watch the FA Cup slugfest: Manchester City versus some motley assortment of adulterers, axe-murderers and cheats who, for 45 minutes seemed to be awfully good at manipulating a ball into a net-type apparatus at the Colin Bell-End of the park, much to the delight of the boisterous United support and the chagrin of forty thousand moustachioed wife-beaters and their moustachioed wives.
Imagine my surprise when, with half an hour remaining, on came a bloke I recognised from old annuals and the odd testimonial game. Seen him outside Tescos in Oldham...the double chin, the bandy legs, the Jaffa cake overdose diabetes glare in the eye...Scholsey!
I don’t know who was more surprised, me, Rio Ferdinand, City’s manager or his own dear wife (whom I like to think is called Pauline).         
I swear to God, when he waddled onto the pitch, he had reading glasses hanging around his neck and a TV remote control tucked into his waistband. Game changer? Channel changer?
Quinton Fortunately, in the have-some-of-that-you-gobby-biffs defeat of the Stockport Neighbourhood Watch XI, our pass master, put in an honourable shift, steadied the lads, and even managed an assist. Ahem. Then on Saturday, who popped up to score just when Fergie was plugging in the half-time hairdryer?            
Yet for all the novelty and delight of seeing Scholes back in the red shirt, there’s still a meat pie-scented fug of desperation around the club. United’s midfield should be the workshop where world-class midfielders are forged. A hothouse of skill and guts. Not lately.
Would we be looking to Scholes and a 38-year-old Ryan Giggs to face down our challengers? What does this say about Paul Pogba and Ravel Morrison? One word defines our midfield: Car-rickity. As of now we have a weaker midfield than anyone in the chasing pack.
Scott Parker adds steel and brains to the flair of Modric and Van der Vaart at Tottenham. City are blessed with David Silva, Nasri and Yaya Toure. Mata and Miereles are on fire at Chelsea, Liverpool’s centre never let them down and Newcastle’s revival is down to the craft of Cabaye and Tiote, both of whom I’d have at United in the morning.
The mond biggles and the mind boggles. I’d even take Joey Barton, if only to be able to witness the world’s first two-footed penalty. The old guard are needed, that’s the uncomfortable truth. Whatever your allegiance, however galling your memory of gallic handballing, despite the sight of a Paul Scholes tackle now incoming but launched last May, we should salute two players who bridge the chasm between what we expect and what we dream of. Visionaries. For in football, as in literature, when the man is remembered, it is for the art.
But next week, if I see Bobby Charlton warming up on the touchline, throw a quilt over me and look after my ferrets.
Enjoy your football.