A friend sent over a terrific old video clip on Monday afternoon. It was from Father Ted and he felt it was topical, because it’s the one where Jack has had himself another drink from the bottle of Toilet Duck and run away again.
It’s a little while later that Ted and the local sergeant spot him roaming wild and free and loopy in the local woodland. Taking aim with a tranquiliser rifle, the sergeant asks if he should shoot, but Ted presses down gently on the barrel. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Let him go. He’ll make his own way back.’
Wonderful. And hopefully you’ll see where this tangent is heading, but if not, the timing of the message will offer clues, because it arrived amid the flurry of videos about another thirsty chap named Jack.
There were a few of those clips, of course. We saw him being propped up by Kyle Walker on his way to the airport in Ibiza. We saw him drenched in Erling Haaland‘s champagne. We saw him slurring back at him through half-closed eyes. We also saw him sufficiently composed to make a request: ‘I am a turkey and the turkey needs feeding.’ We then saw the turkey’s mouth open and the vodka going in.
For almost three days that party went on – from Saturday night until the not-so-early hours of Tuesday. From Istanbul to Ibiza to the buses and clubs of Manchester. From Jack Grealish the winner of Trebles to Jack Grealish the downer of triples.
Manchester City’s Jack Grealish is a free spirit in the age of AI messaging and robot footballers
These are the greatest of times for him and sport would be a much duller place without him
It is tricky to know from this vantage point if Pep Guardiola ever had a dart ready. Or if there were stages within that bender when a few wondered if it was probably the time for bed. If they questioned whether a line was being crossed, to borrow from the thoughts of Gareth Southgate, or the more extreme musings of social media.
Maybe that would all be valid to some extent. And maybe it doesn’t go too deep into the realms of a curmudgeon’s misery to wonder if a £100million athlete might apply a fraction more restraint in a week when England have qualifiers to contest.
But then a nicer thought kicks in: isn’t Grealish bloody marvellous? Not too much of him, mind. He would drive you nuts. All that energy. All those turkeys flapping loose in his mind. So too much Grealish would be madness. Too much Grealish would be exhausting. But to have the right amount of Grealish is a fine thing indeed. Some Grealish is essential. All work and no play would make Jack a dull boy and wouldn’t sport be a duller place without the boy Jack?
A few weeks ago, in an interview with my colleague Ian Ladyman, he supplied a fabulous line that stuck in my mind: ‘Everyone is different, aren’t they? Look at Erling. He is the best professional I have ever seen. His mindset is something you won’t see again. He does everything. Recovers. In the gym. Ten hours of treatment a day. Ice baths. Diet. That’s why he is what he is. But I swear I couldn’t be like that. We have a great friendship but he will point at me after a game and say, “Hey, don’t you go out tonight partying”. I just tell him to shut up and go and sit in his ice bath. But that’s us. Two different people doing well in our own way.’
And aren’t they just, because these are the greatest of times for Grealish.
But perhaps it is also the most opportune of moments to have Jack popping out of his box.
Grealish is a reminder that not everything has to be quite so serious and a cleanser of sorts
The midfielder (seen enjoying the Treble parade) is the dose of unvarnished joy sport is for
For all the fine things we see and love in sport, it is the era of state-run football clubs and narrowing possibilities for the rest. Of golf wars and Saudi Arabia and bonesaws and what we might say about that. Of failed drugs tests and cover-ups in boxing and its awkward, open secret that Daniel Kinahan was able to have his way with it. Of athlete welfare cases in the Olympic sector. Of rugby clubs going bust and concussions being overlooked.
Again, sport is wonderful and so is the football played by Manchester City. But sport can also be pretty stinky beneath its surfaces and so are those 115 charges. You don’t have to look too closely at the slimy bits of our favourite games but, if you do, your eyes can really begin to burn.
And then you have Grealish, the free spirit in the age of AI messaging and robot footballers. He isn’t the modern-day Gazza because, for all his talent, he’s not as good. And he’s not that loose either – as best we can tell he has never set an ostrich free at training.
But he is a reminder that it doesn’t always have to be quite so serious, and with it, he is a cleanser of sorts. He is the dose of unvarnished joy that sport was designed for, but which is quite often suffocated because it is all so very important. He is the man roaming wild and free and loopy because he had a few very good days at work.
Folk might choose to fire a few darts at him, but let him go. He’ll make his own way back.
Why merger is a blessing for Rory
It is just about right that golf has spent the past week in La La Land. A few days on from the announcement of secret deals and brain-twisting mergers, not one of the many players or administrators approached for comment has any obvious clue about where this so-called peace treaty between squabbling factions will lead or how it might work.
When I asked Sergio Garcia what his LIV bosses are forecasting, he said: ‘I don’t think even they know.’
One man saying nothing at all is Rory McIlroy. For so long the punchiest voice on this topic, he has largely shunned any media here and those interviews he has given have been on the condition that LIV and the political chaos are not brought up. The upshot? Across two rounds he has played some of his finest golf in months and it has added up to a vast improvement on what he showed in the previous two majors.
As a campaigner for the PGA Tour, McIlroy was compelling. As a golfer looking out for himself, he seems to be flourishing in the silence.
The general perception is that the merger shafted him but in the longer term, irrespective of whether his form in LA holds across four days, it might prove to be an immense blessing in disguise.
As a golfer looking out for himself after the merger, Rory McIlroy is flourishing in the silence
