Football columnists essentially had a week off last week as the ever-newsworthy Roy Keane did their job for them and released his second autobiography, because one just isn’t enough. Despite his advancing years, the bold Roy displayed the same deft touch and subtlety that made him a legend on the pitch while promoting his latest literary offering. This time, our favourite furious, sometimes fantastically bearded, midfield maestro branched out and not only found new targets for his scorn canon but also reignited the seemingly never ending Batman/Joker style conflict with his former manager, Sir Alex Ferguson. Keane rescinded his years old apology for a near mythical interview conducted with MUTV where he tore his then teammates to shreds. A lot of people are beginning to, or already, think of Keane as a kind of marauding psychopath, so damaged by the injuries that sapped his legendary powers that he can no longer feel happiness, so instead rampages through the footballing wilderness, throwing flaming bags of hatred at those who don’t match up with his own old school philosophy, waiting until a worthy champion emerges to defeat him.
In truth, I think Roy has grown into and enjoys his status as not quite a pantomime villain, more a pantomime anti-hero. That, I think, is an anti-hero of massive proportions, the bad things are really bad (ask Alf-Inge Haland) and the good things are really good (Juventus, 1999). He’s taken on two assistant manager roles, assisting Martin O’Neill with Ireland and Martin O’Neill’s less charismatic clone at Aston Villa. I think this acceptance of the number 2 role reflects the fact that Roy Keane has, despite appearances, began to mature. Where before inflammatory statements like “Just because you are paid £120,000-a-week and play well for 20 minutes against Tottenham, you think you are a superstar” would be used to intentionally wound someone, regardless of whether friend or foe. Now he’s speaking his mind and can afford a wry smile as he kicks a wasp’s nest or farts in a lift when he calls Jose Mourinho a “disgrace” for trying to shake his hand before full time in Villa’s defeat to Chelsea. Which, in fairness, is at worst disrespectful and at best, weird. Whatever it was, the prematurely offered handshake did briefly bring two of footballs most polarising, yet contrasting, figures together. Really, I think I’d rather listen to Roy Keane shout at a cowering Kevin Kilbane about the weather or Nick Clegg’s trousers, than hear Jose Mourinho say “football is football” to an already salivating throng of admirers.
Thoughts on Thrones...and other things. 