Think of the individual that you hate most in football. No, not him, not the guy who you’d willingly shake the hand of should you randomly encounter him in the street, and then walk away reasoning that perhaps he’s not an out-and-out rotter after all. Maybe he just gets a bad rap in the media?
I mean the person who you detest on a molecular level; the former player or manager or pundit whose mere existence in the sport that you love offends you. When he appears on television your liver fills up with bile. When he talks you change the channel.
Should you encounter this fella by chance down a supermarket aisle or on a city pavement there would be no reluctant frisson of excitement and certainly no request for a selfie. You would simply recoil and walk the other way.
Now imagine that the person in question has recently been appointed boss of your national football team, the team that represents your very being every time it plays.
It sucks. I can assure you that it sucks.
As a Welsh Manchester City supporter I have every reason to be last in the queue to sign up for the Ryan Giggs fan club and that’s before we get to his considerable personal failings. Throughout the nineties as City oscillated between calamity and disaster the flying left-winger with half a ton of hair gel atop his gargoyle face epitomised the swagger and glamour of Alex Ferguson’s trophy-hauling side, a modern-day Georgie Best minus one whole level of ability and an abundance of personality but still routinely brilliant in comparison to his peers. Before David Beckham became ‘Becks’ and coupled the mainstream world of celebrity with football Giggs was dating Hollyoaks actresses and adorning teenage girl’s bedroom walls, smiling faux-shyly and exposing just a hint of the hideous Axminster on his chest that would be given a full airing at the end of the decade. I once dumped a girl for having such a poster. I’m not proud of that but it’s true nonetheless.
At least Giggs was Welsh, at least there was that, and that meant he could atone for being partly responsible for making my life a misery over a sustained period of time by replicating his club performances on the international stage. Except he didn’t do that; indeed he did anything but that because for Wales to fully benefit from flukily possessing the best wide player in the world necessitated Giggs turning up. Just 64 appearances over a 24 year professional career was an abysmal final tally and only confirms the cliché of Giggs regularly pulling out with hamstring strains that conveniently cleared up the moment an international break ended. Worse yet when he did deign to put on a Welsh jersey I struggle to recall any game-changing showings, only punt-and-runs that could have been enacted by anyone deemed good enough for the squad.
I’ll level with you here, an admission that I’m not entirely comfortable in sharing, but even when City’s status was at its lowest and United’s fortunes were at their highest I never really hated the ‘Class of ‘92’. Or rather I did but only because they were the ‘Class of ‘92’. There was always a strong exception made for Giggs though. As a grandparent once said of a friend of mine I just couldn’t take to the lad.
Then came the shocking revelations concerning his off-the-pitch activities, myth-shattering revelations that repulsed anyone with an iota of morality that drip-fed into the news despite injunctions and super-injunctions. Innuendo gradually became substantiated and this all occurred at a time when Giggs was being widely venerated as the ultimate model professional: only two years prior he’d bizarrely won the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award simply for coming off the bench a few times in his late thirties. Surely that could now be disbanded, this industry of adulation that portrayed Giggs as being a saintly, perfect role-model? Furthermore – and we need only look elsewhere for examples of this – surely these sordid scandals would result in his managerial aspirations ending before they began?
Of course not, this is football, not Hollywood, and after a short stint scowling in the dug-out alongside Louis Van Gaal the charisma-vacuum duly stepped in as interim boss of Manchester United for four league games. In his second match in charge a woeful Sunderland side left Old Trafford with the points.
If anyone assumed that the recent dismantling of his reputation would lead to a humbler Ryan Giggs entering the world of club management they were in for a surprise as the next few seasons saw him undertake a series of media interviews and leaks reacting to job opportunities that largely existed only in his head. This club was too small for him. That club would be lucky to have him. Yeah, he might consider that one, if they got their act together.
It was a truly staggering display of arrogance and self-delusion from a man with precisely 360 minutes of managerial experience and all of it delivered in his trademark mumbling, life-sapping, monotone manner.
But now it’s evidently paid off because the FAW got all star-struck, ignored a fantastic application put forward by Craig Bellamy, and went instead for a headline-act who has already divided the fan-base.
Right now feels very far removed from the summer of 2016. That was another world, another time. Right now feels like a lifelong nemesis has befriended my other half.
Candidly speaking I don’t know where this leaves me, as a Welshman who cried at the sight of my fellow countrymen beating Belgium; who saw Mark Hughes’ bicycle-kick against Spain in 1985 and thereafter called him ‘Sparky’ despite the fact that he was a Red. My options are limited because I can’t very well hope that Wales embark on a losing streak that leads to Giggs’ swift exit. Similarly, I am physically unable to cheer on any team led by a man I detest with every fibre in my body.
Perhaps, for a short spell at least, I should just recoil and walk the other way.
