A job for resting Rio
MICHAEL HENDERSON
Rio Ferdinand, 'the world's most expensive defender', which does not of course make him the best, began his eight-month ban from football this week, though he hopes to have the sentence reduced during the course of it. Effectively he is playing to the gallery, proclaiming, 'I'm a good boy at heart, please believe me.' It is a course of action fraught with danger. The Football Association panel that heard his case liked neither the cut of his jib nor the aggressive tactics of his legal representatives. Manchester United, for which Ferdinand plays, came out of the case very badly indeed, as one or two people within Old Trafford now seem to recognise.
So, eight months on paid leave —yes, Ferdinand is a fully paid-up loafer. Just think of all the things he could do. He could read the whole of Proust (no, sorry, he can't read). He could have piano lessons (whoops! he prefers 'house' music, though it may just as well be shithouse music). He could learn a foreign language, scour the shires for interesting churches, or develop an interest in paintings. He could do any number of things that might take his mind away from the punishment he must serve, but he won't do any of them because he's a 'star' footballer; in other words, a thick°.
Consider the way he dresses — though he is not alone there. These young men have millions in the bank and yet when you see them in social situations they are happy to be seen in ripped trousers and T-shirts that boast some ludicrous slogan. Have they any regard for how they are seen and — whether they like it or not — judged? No, they don't give a tinker's cuss. They associate mainly with their fellows, and with hangers-on who tell them how wonderful they are, and keep them afloat in drink and other intoxicants.
Already Sir Alex Ferguson, Ferdinand's club manager, is wondering whether he invested wisely in the player when he paid Leeds United £28 million for his transfer two summers ago. Ferdinand seems to spend many of his social hours in London nightclubs (as if there are none in Manchester!) and Ferguson does not stand idly by when players abuse his trust. These will be eight trying months for the play
boy defender, although if Fifa, the sport's global governing body, has its way, that sentence may yet be extended.
While Ferdinand kicks his heels others will be trying to persuade the International Olympic Committee to pitch its tents in London in 2012. The Prime Minister has added his weight to the campaign to bring the Olympics to this country, and there must be a good chance that London will finish ahead of Paris, the current favourite, and New York. The campaign deserves support, not only for the economic reasons that Ken Livingstone holds so dear but also for the health of this increasingly indolent country. If we can produce more sportsmen and women, particularly if they do not feel compelled to dress in torn jeans to underline their star status, so much the better.
As with everything else that Tony Blair touches, this campaign may have more to do with image than substance, but that doesn't mean there is no substance in this bid, which, despite everything, deserves our support. Perhaps Ferdinand should enlist as a volunteer to assist the campaign, if only to remind his wealthy peers that there is a whole world out there that has nothing to do with football.
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