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The Last Word: The new breed who have no idea what loving a club means, John Terry vs Yaya Toure and Rio Ferdinand is in our thoughts

What do these new club owners represent? The answers, in short, are nothing,  no-one and no idea

Michael Calvin
Saturday 02 May 2015 18:52 BST
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Blackpool supporters protest in the centre circle which forced the game against Huddersfield to be abandoned
Blackpool supporters protest in the centre circle which forced the game against Huddersfield to be abandoned

Sir Bobby Robson is the patron saint of Newcastle United, the friendly ghost of St James’ Park. His is the hallowed voice of a Geordie generation whose fathers crawled, on hands and knees, to hack coal from the bowels of the earth before an afternoon’s respite at the working-class ballet.

Bobby’s legacy is spiritual and financial. The charitable Foundation established in his name before his death has raised more than £5m for cancer care. In football terms, no-one will ever improve on his reflection of the humanity which should underpin any club worthy of the name: “What is a club in any case? Not the buildings or the directors or the people who are paid to represent it. It’s not the television contracts, get-out clauses, marketing departments or executive boxes.

“It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your city. It’s a small boy clambering up stadium steps for the very first time, gripping his father’s hand, gawping at that hallowed stretch of turf beneath him and, without being able to do a thing about it, falling in love.”

Mike Ashley might own Newcastle United, just as Karl Oyston controls Blackpool, Francesco Becchetti purchased Leyton Orient and Massimo Cellino became Leeds United president, before the Football League took a dim view of his dispute with Italian tax authorities.

Newcastle owner Mike Ashley.

What does this gang of four represent, other than commercial expedience, feudal ignorance, inexhaustible vanity and perverse pugnacity? Who do they champion, apart from themselves? Why should they be tolerated? The answers, in short, are nothing, no-one and no idea.

They are modern club owners, prepared to accept and even relish the toxicity of their presence. They may give the impression of emotional engagement, but theirs is a cold, loveless marriage of convenience, to be annulled without cost or consequence.

Ashley is a brilliant businessman, enjoying a bar-code bonanza. Oyston affects the indifference of a Victorian mill owner. Becchetti and Cellino have imported the dehumanising principle of presidential infallibility from an alien sporting culture.

Blackpool owner Karl Oyston

The clubs of which they are custodians have been playing professional football for a combined 480 years. They are community assets, cherished institutions. They are memory banks. They matter to their followers on a deeply personal basis.

Their legends are precious; that is why Blackpool fans were so angered by the club’s decision to remove Stan Mortensen’s statue from its plinth ahead of yesterday’s protests which forced their game to be abandoned. Gallowgate folk heroes like Alan Shearer assume exaggerated importance as spokesmen for the cause.

Orient, a penalty kick away from the Championship last May, will probably be relegated to League Two today. Fans question whether Fabio Liverani is a football manager or a film extra, selected for the reality TV show being shot at the club for Becchetti’s Agon channel because of his familiarity as a former Italy international.

Liverani is their fourth manager of a shambolic season. Cellino divested himself of Brian McDermott last summer and, after sacking David Hockaday and Darko Milanic, seems content to leave Neil Redfearn to spin in the wind.

Massimo Cellino has resigned as Leeds president

Redfearn, like McDermott a distinctively decent man, has been demeaned and undermined, apparently from within. His plaintive cry before yesterday’s game against Rotherham was both poignant and pertinent: “All I’m doing is fighting for the club. If that’s a crime then I’m guilty.”

Ownership issues bring the game into disrepute with far greater gravity than a manager’s anger or a player’s petulance. The FA’s duty of care occasionally requires draconian action; Oyston, for instance, has no place in the game if an independent panel finds against him in a case involving alleged abuse of a Blackpool supporter.

The much-derided “fit and proper directors’ test” requires revision, to enshrine the principle of supporter representation. The gang of four, and their like, are barren souls, who will never understand the simple joy of shared allegiance. They have outstayed their welcome.

Terry v Touré – no contest

The scamps on social media can stand down. This time, assuming Chelsea complete the formalities of winning the Premier League, there is no need to go photoshopping.

John Terry will not have to change into his kit to lead the celebrations. He will be a chest-beating, rebel-yelling, champagne-spraying, badge-kissing force of nature.

John Terry (left) and Gary Cahill celebrate after the draw at Arsenal

His revelry might be as discordant as aspects of his character, but it will be fully deserved. At 34, he remains, on form and reputation, England’s best central defender.

He is the leader Yaya Touré could and should have been for Manchester City – consistent, urgent, forceful. He does not pick his matches; he has played every minute of Chelsea’s League season.

Touré’s delicate hamstrings ensure he misses City’s visit to Tottenham today. His fragile ego dictates he will deflect his fair share of blame for a desultory title defence.

At his best – powerful, technical and influential – he would be an adornment to any team in the world. At his worst – muted, sloppy and indifferent – he is a transfer saga waiting to happen.

Manchester City midfielder Yaya Toure

The subterfuge of supposed yearning for a new challenge is already underway. A four year contract at Inter Milan is on the table.

Touré will not leave a trace at City. Terry will never be forgotten at Chelsea. There’s a moral there somewhere.

Rio is in our thoughts

The news, when the call came Saturday morning, was numbing. Rio Ferdinand’s wife, Becky, had lost a short, intense battle against cancer in the Royal Marsden Hospital in London. Three children under the age of nine had lost their mother. It takes such tragedies to put football, and life, into its proper perspective.

Ferdinand has announced the sad death of his wife, Rebecca Ellison

Ferdinand can, like his former partner and adversary John Terry, be a polarising personality. He made a mistake attempting to prolong his playing career at Queens Park Rangers, yet such conjecture is meaningless, compared to the challenge which lies ahead. Football is a small, overheated village, in mourning out of respect and sympathy. He is in our thoughts, and prayers.

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