The modern game may have turned into a farcical parade of pomade scented male divas skipping about the pitch like an appalling herd of homosexual show ponies, but there are still one or two proper footballers around who remind us of how the game used to be played before it skewed off on a tangent that would make the game unrecognisable to generations of fans who grew up watching players hack each other half to death with no injury time ever required.
We of course have no time for stinkin' Argies on the blog, but credit where credit is due. Every twenty years or so a player comes along who you must acknowledge regardless of whether his DNA is laced with mendacity and skulduggery and his heritage one of chicanery and ill thought out invasions. Unfortunately this player for past two generations has been a stinkin' Argie.
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