THE problem with teenagers, a headteacher told me this week, is that they are trying to live in two different moral universes.
He says that there is the moral universe we all know, with its rules, conventions and niceties.
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And then there’s another universe, the internet’s moral universe, where there are next to no rules and precious few niceties.
OK, every day’s a school day, so I’ll take that on board and, just for good measure, I’m going to throw a third moral universe into this mix — football’s moral universe.
This one, while not all bad by any means, can be a very ugly place indeed.
I’ve not met Phil Foden but from what I’ve seen and heard, as well as being a prodigiously gifted footballer he’s a decent guy.
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I was talking to one of his coaches at England youth level.
Listing the attributes Foden showed as a kid — speed, awareness, bravery, command of the ball etc — the coach added another, one which has stuck in my mind.
“He cared what his teammates thought about him,” said the coach.
Interesting that. You’d think that caring what your teammates thought of you would be common enough among footballers to not even merit mention. It would seem this isn’t the case.
Phil cares though, and that’s another reason I hold him in high esteem.
Perhaps that’s why I was more appalled than usual at the behaviour of football fans when I saw that photo of Pep Guardiola embracing him after he’d endured Man Utd fans chanting ghastly things about his Mum.
Awful. But incredibly, to a significant number of fans such conduct is quite acceptable. Because, you see, this is in football’s moral universe where, for some reason, there are those who think it’s OK to behave despicably.
Declan Rice, double miracle-freekick scorer and another nice guy, endures similar stuff — along with his long-time partner, the equally appealing Lauren Fryer.
Lauren, you see, doesn’t conform to some football fans’ idea of what a footballer’s wife should look like. So the poor woman gets abused on social media and, for Declan’s benefit, from the stands. Dreadful.
This is what happens in football’s moral universe. We seem to forget that footballers are human beings with, you know, feelings. However thick their skins have to be, they still have feelings.
I’ve been as guilty of forgetting this as anyone. Many years ago, when I was presenting Match Of The Day 2, I made a joking reference to Arjen Robben’s baldness.
The following week I got a letter — yes, a letter, that’s how long ago it was — from someone who said I should be ashamed of myself as Robben could well be very sensitive about his hair loss.
Initially I scoffed and was minded to reply that Chelsea’s multi-millionaire Dutch superstar could probably deal with a jibe from me.
But when I had thought about it, even though the man himself probably couldn’t have cared less, I concluded that I had been very wrong to mock his appearance.
That was on TV. I’m afraid I’ve said a lot worse as a fan at matches.
I’m not without sin
So I don’t preach this sermon from any moral high ground, because I’m not without sin. I confess, I’ve yelled and chanted stuff at football matches that I would never, and I mean never, have yelled or chanted anywhere else.
I shouted some dreadful things at Jack Grealish, for example, at a play-off semi-final when he was at Villa. I’m quite sure he couldn’t care less, but I can’t say it was my finest hour.
I don’t excuse myself, but these things happen in football’s moral universe, where it’s not that there’s no right or wrong, but there is a big, bad grey area.
There’s a line in there somewhere and we all know where it is.
Bawling abuse at a footballer, calling them terrible names, isn’t a good look. But it probably, arguably, just about falls on the right side of the line.
Abusing that footballer’s family is a different matter. That’s on the wrong side of the line.
It’s bang out of order, and everyone guilty knows this.
BOB’S A COMEDY GREAT
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SOME comedians you look at, and think there walks a genius, with a routine to die for.
Others, often by means of cruelty or crudeness, shock you into laughter despite yourself.
And then there’s Bob Mortimer, who just seems to have funny bones.
Really funny bones.
There was no danger of anyone else winning TV’s Last One Laughing.
What chance did any of them have against a man who can make “have you got a kitchen island?” sound like the funniest question ever asked.
And as for, “I like sausage dogs, with those tiny legs”, I will never again see a dachshund waddling past without thinking of Bob.
DON AND ON AND ON AND ..
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WHEN the history books about Donald Trump are written, the role of us journalists in his rise will be worthy of examination.
We can take a lot of the blame/credit – delete according to your view of The Orange Man.
Like him or loathe him, laugh at him or with him, we have found it quite impossible not to give him all the attention he craves because he provides us with all the material we crave.
He fills pages of papers and hours of television, radio and podcasts. Where would we be without him.
After his first term ended in ignominious defeat, we assumed we’d seen the last of him.
Back then, the brilliant political commentator, comedian and excellent Trump mimic Matt Forde captured the mood of many of us when he tweeted, “Goodnight sweet prince”.
And now it’s like he never went away.
IT’S BOT TO BE A BONUS
THE march of artificial intelligence will, at worst, destroy humanity or, at best, just take a lot of our jobs.
One thing pleases me, though, even if it means me being replaced by a machine – I’ve heard what’s about to happen described as the first technological step-change in history that’s going to hit middle-class jobs the hardest.
Writers and radio presenters will be easy meat for the machines.
But it’ll be a long time before AI can do proper jobs, requiring blood, sweat and tears as well as great skill.
Plumbers, chippies, sparks, gardeners, scaffolders, bricklayers – your jobs are as safe as houses.
Enjoy the ride, you’ve earned it.
WHY do so many people sit on public transport looking at or listening to their phones without wearing headphones?
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Why should we all have to hear their terrible music, boring conversations or mindless TikTok-ery.
I’m genuinely interested.
But I can’t come up with a way of asking the question in a way that’s not going to end with some kind of violence visited upon me.
PAIN IN THE CHIP BUTTY
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A CHIP shop owner in Gloucestershire has apologised for putting up the price of cod and chips to 15 quid.
I can’t remember the last time I left a chippy having dropped anywhere near that little. I just get too excited.
After a couple of pints with some mates in Stourbridge last month, I popped into the local chip shop on the way home.
Before I knew it I’d bought large cod and chips, small cod and chips, mushy peas, two battered potato slices and some cod roe.
And this was only for me and my Mum. We’re still not back to full health, financially or physically.
AIMEE’S PEARLY QUEEN
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EVERYONE I know is banging on about White Lotus being the best TV ever. I’ve heard it praised so many times that it must be true.
Well, I’ve found it to be absolutely indigestible, veering wildly between rather silly and terribly boring.
But I’m glad I saw the bits I managed to stay awake for because that was enough to confirm for me that Stockport’s Aimee Lou Wood is just brilliant.
At first you can see nothing but her proudly prominent teeth. But before long all you’re seeing is a brilliant acting talent going from strength to strength.