I AM of a certain generation, one for whom el clasico refers not to a fitba match but to the all you could eat breakfast at the Palma Nova Grande of the sunny seventies where the sizzling of ethanol leaving one's body was complemented by the aromas of cooking flesh, only some of it to be consumed.
The rest of said flesh belonged to me and was slathered in oil and left to stew before taking on the waiters in a beach football match that was the most bloody episode in Spain since the leaving of the Moors.
Barcelona v Real Madrid was as much interest to us then as the machinations of the European exchange rate. All has changed, of course. To not have a view on Barca-Real is akin to admitting that one is neutral about one's children.
The most captivating aspect of the Barca-Real rivalry is to declare whether one is a Ronaldo man or a Messi man. This is all harmless stuff. I cite the late and great Bob Crampsey who declared that once players were of a certain standing - Finney v Matthews was his example - that it was just a matter of opinion who was the better.
It keeps the male of the species chatting in pubs. It saves us knocking on about the uncomfortable aspects of life such as that unsettling fascination with the soft furnishing department at John Lewis, fear of commitment and that grisly lump that has appeared in an awkward area and strangely does not go away just because one ignores it.
But there are certain comparisons, certain observations about footballers that should be challenged with all the vim and vigour of "Chopper" Harris after being told the opposing winger has made love to his wife after slapping his mum. Or the other way around.
This personal anger has been prompted by the veneration accorded to Steven Gerrard, a footballer. A series of journalists have gone online to declare he is Liverpool's best player ever. That is, better than Kenny Dalglish.
Now the first observation has to be that the effects of concussion are not merely experienced by rugby players and these journalists have been dazed by a wilful butting against reality. There are some comparisons that are fun. There are others that are just plain silly.
To put Gerrard into the same category as Dalglish is as rational as putting JK Rowling into the same category as Zola, Emile or Gianfranco. To suggest that he is better, is akin to saying that the best pass to Jimmy Krankie is the highball to the back post.
Gerrard has played all his life for serial under-achievers, whether that has been in a national or a club jersey. He may not be to blame for all of that but he is part of it. His supporters will point to one night in Istanbul where Stevo won the European Cup for Liverpool. It would be rude to argue but it may be pertinent to point out that Dalglish won three European Cups and, crucially, six domestic championships.
The nearest Gerrard has come to a title is to hand one over to Chelsea by planting his bum on the ground in a vital match and leading a team winning 3-0 to a draw at Crystal Palace.
This - and last week's absurd sending off against United - all points to Gerrard as somewhat of a flawed player but it does nod towards his genius which is of a strange and wonderful sort. It is this: no matter what Gerrard does he is praised by sections of the England press.
He is part of a group of England players who were knocked out tournaments so often their travel agents booked them on off-peak day returns. Yet he was described as part of the Golden Generation.
He was and is the captain of a Liverpool side that considers it a triumph to qualify for the Champions League. Yet he is called Liverpool's best player ever.
He is the guy who is not considered good enough to start against Manchester United, comes on and stamps on an opposing player and is back in the dressing-room so fast that his entire performance can only be appreciated in slo-mo. Yet he agrees to tell a telly a man he is very sorry. He is then praised as if he has the honesty of George Washington.
Gerrard has thus managed to convince the world that he is not only a great player but one who carries his brilliance lightly and has the personality of the perpetual role model. Yet he fails on all counts.
His outstanding achievement has been in public relations. He is lauded as a great but is he, at best very good and, at worst, a bystander in the greatest moments of football plc. Yet there are those who put him in the same league such as Dalglish or Souness. There are the deluded who say he was better.
In this, Gerrard is a man of his time, a player lifted to the heights by the hype of the game. And there are no mibbes ayes, mibbes naw about that.
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