From the Guardian. Love the Stanley Devasting and Luka Modric comments..
The summer transfer window is the most obvious example of football's refusal ever to stop happening. Even when it's not technically happening: it is in fact still happening, so much so that football is now one of those elements that are always there, like the weather or traffic or our communal hunger for toggled brown leather corner sofas, a yearning that must apparently be serviced constantly by a network of hangar-sized out-of-town warehouses.
Most of this week's transfer rumour stories have centred on familiar figures. Luka Modric may or may not be going to Chelsea. Either way he will continue to resemble a small boy dressed up as a witch, and to run with a football at his feet so naturally you feel without it he wouldn't be able to move at all and would simply sit down and mope like a kangaroo with an empty pouch. Samir Nasri wants to leave Arsenal in order to earn more money. And Cesc Fábregas could finally be going to Barcelona, albeit this saga has dragged on for so long Fábregas himself has begun to resemble a sickly one-legged dog being tearfully rehomed on daytime TV.
Perhaps the most interesting story is the proposed £19m transfer of Stewart Downing to Liverpool, a move that has been greeted by some Liverpool fans with a shrug and by many as conclusive proof of the "English premium" clubs must pay for underpowered domestic maybes. This is a depressing reaction. Downing is the most undervalued of English footballers: intelligent, scuttlingly forceful and with some refined touches in his versatile left foot. He is an unusual English footballer in other ways too. Mainly because he seems to be getting better rather than worse with age, and fitter rather than more raddled with booze and knee?snap. Going against the trend, he is also slightly better rather than slightly worse than he's cracked up to be.
Despite this Downing is still seen as a peculiarly depressing figure. Why is this? Undoubtedly he has a terrible name. Stewart Downing. Downing. Down. Ing. If only he could have been called Stewart Davis or Steve Dawning or Stanley Devastating he might have sounded more like a compelling athletic force and less like a travelling paperclip salesman or the pale boy at school who used to be sick a lot and cry in PE.
It isn't the name, though. Downing is a player cursed by association with the failings of others. At this point it is time to broach another subject. We need to talk about Steve McClaren. It's time. Those years, McLaren's England interlude, still seem hazy and smudged, a buried shame. There are players who have never quite recovered, the ones who emerged in a trickle to augment the wretched "Golden Generation" and who have since lost their way or remain burdened by the memories. We might even call these players the Ginger Generation.
David Bentley would perhaps have gone wonky in any event but he took his first wrong turn as a strainingly mimetic Ginger Generation David Beckham. Then there is the issue of Darren Bent's Air of Lingering Crapness. This is entirely undeserved. Bent is a fine player but he will continue to carry his Air of Lingering Crapness, conjured in the first instance by that famous missed chance against Croatia at Wembley, a muff granted premature howler status and then crystallised into a chemical stain, the Air of Lingering Crapness that – despite repeatedly proving his worth – Bent retains.
There are others. I believe Steven Gerrard was destabilised during this period by his match-winning performance away to Andorra, where the notion took hold that through the power of running furiously he could become invincible in an England shirt, creating ultimately the tortured arm-waggling stickman of the last World Cup.
McClaren did at least have ideas, a sense of tactical fluidity (disastrously fluid: but still fluid) and an air of the cautious internationalist. Would England really be in any worse a position now if he had been allowed to learn on the job, to sharpen his guileless good intentions? Probably they would, but the fact remains the England team are essentially on hold under Fabio Capello and will only begin to be interesting again when they are presided over by a crazed, touchy, flailing Englishman wreathed in deliciously poignant passions.
McClaren may be too far gone to rehabilitate fully just yet, but Downing – his protege at Middlesbrough, the poster boy for the Ginger Generation and surely the only tyro England international to be booed while warming up – deserves a second viewing. He is at least realistic. Downing is what we can do right now. He's not a peripheral jinker, a pretend Iberian. He's not a thigh?flexing warrior of the skies, the kind of muscular English centre-forward whose ideal incarnation appears to be Brian Blessed's chest-beating birdman character in Flash Gordon.
With Downing McClaren had a sensible idea: building a team around neat, skilful, hard-working players rather than false prophets and self?propelling celebrities. Downing would also be a smart buy for Kenny Dalglish: with a few more goals maybe even a Ray Houghton-ish team man, protector on the right of the blindly rampaging Glen Johnson. Give him a chance. Enjoy his craft and his energy. Bury the old shame. Give us all a break