Dear John

Funny you should mention it, Mr. Terry, because you’re really no-one’s cup of tea. If you were a cup of tea, I would choose not to drink you, probably because you contain some kind of nerve toxin that renders me dumb, slow, and prone to poor decision-making. You’re about as awe-inspiring as a colonic, and about as spiritually fulfilling, too.

Then again, this is THE ENGLAND CAPTAINCY we’re talking about, a responsibility akin to the job of that bloody hobbit, the ring, Gollum, and that large fiery volcano of death, doom, and importance. Heck, just wearing the stretchy bit of neon fabric makes you a proud human being. It makes you better. It makes you exempt from reproach. Which makes me wonder: why on earth is John Terry wearing it again? And, more importantly, just how hard and how pathetically do we think he quietly lobbied to be given that emptiest/not emptiest of responsibilities?

Obviously, he tried harder than he did to make us believe this slab of filth from today’s presser. If we’re willing to concede that being team captain contains some dregs of morality, then allegedly cheating on your wife with a teammate’s long-term girlfriend would surely shatter those base criteria in a heartbeat. Not that we expect England’s Big Brave Proud John Terry to be capable of such critical thought, especially when he’s busy shaking down undercover reporters for cash in exchange for stadium tours. Again, allegedly.

Shake a hand or two, look lion-hearted on the pitch, and lead men into battles against evil forces from Spain, Estonia, and the Faroe Islands. That’s what you do. You also get to prattle on endlessly to the media, what with being the team figurehead and all, even though watching England the last 12-18 months, you’d think every single idiot had imbued the powers of captaincy upon themselves without even asking. Every nonthreatening daisy-cutter from 35 yards uncorked by Steven Gerrard, every point to the heavens by Frank Lampard, and every aimless speedy run into three defenders undertaken by Aaron Lennon; clearly, they’re all living the captain’s dream of leading from the front, whether it’s you donning the spandex hoop or not.

Ultimately, John, I could care less which of you or the other overpaid, over-hyped pillocks wearing the Three Lions gets to sport the armband and prance around with its added symbolism dogging their every move. But please, stop talking. Stop noting how controversial you are for being captain, and how you have a lot to prove against all the naysayers, haters, and boo-boys sitting in the passenger seat. It’s like you’re sitting at the head of the table for your daughter’s tea party.

Few other countries make such a big deal about captaincy because ultimately, you’re still 11 men united against 11 others who’d like to beat you. There’s not much room for artificial, spirit-wrenching caste systems in this game where function and collectivism often triumph over glory-chasing, selfish form. But until England wakes from its glorious 1966 hangover, nothing much will change. We’ll read the tabloids, get irritated about which players made it and which didn’t, all that building into rabid national pride at the band of brothers picked to rep England somewhere before it all descends into Gazza-esque rivers of tears.

But hey, John, you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. And I suspect my frothy, esurient prose won’t be either.