The thought of someone like Chelsea's Frank Lampard being at the apex of the English Premier League player's earnings is a curious and not entirely pleasant one. The feeling of disappointment that the climax of this somnabulistic transfer saga did not involve him being reunited with his beloved Jose Mourinho is profoundly felt.
Not simply because it conjurs the unusual, if not impossible image of Mourinho and Lampard meeting at the airport in a loving, yet manly embrace in the manner of a cliched romantic comedy. The real reason is that we are stuck with him. For another five years. Porridge.
There has always been something of the automaton about Lampard. The strange hairless chest. The weird hair. The puzzlingly unemotional 100 goals celebration, which had the blandest message to the fans I have ever seen. The vest that he was wearing was slightly camp, yet utterly heterosexual, like a British dad glugging Fosters with his wife and kids on summer holidays in Playa de las Americas. Which brings us to the next oddity of 'Lamps'.
The man is a walking contradiction. His name for a start. He is a Frank Jnr, which makes him sound like a Mafia don's son, but as his father is former West Hammer Frank Lampard Snr, he quite patently is not. He is an Essex boy, but went to a private school. The way his involvement in a lurid sex tape with Rio Ferdinand and Kieron Dyer has been almost entirely airbrushed from anything written about him. Perhaps, Fun-Time Frankie has a dark secret. He is not one of us.
To be fair, there is one aspect of 'Lampard v.5y' that runs parallel. He best personifies the madness and over valuation of football players in England in managing to use his mesmering robot powers to coerce Messrs Abramovich and Kenyon into giving a thirty year old a £39.2m five year contract. How fitting then, that he is a supporter of the Conversative Party. But while proclaiming his allegiance to the Tories, and this is where the contradictory and shadow nature of the one man cabal that is Frank Lampard re-emerges, he has still to vote in an election.
Not simply because it conjurs the unusual, if not impossible image of Mourinho and Lampard meeting at the airport in a loving, yet manly embrace in the manner of a cliched romantic comedy. The real reason is that we are stuck with him. For another five years. Porridge.
There has always been something of the automaton about Lampard. The strange hairless chest. The weird hair. The puzzlingly unemotional 100 goals celebration, which had the blandest message to the fans I have ever seen. The vest that he was wearing was slightly camp, yet utterly heterosexual, like a British dad glugging Fosters with his wife and kids on summer holidays in Playa de las Americas. Which brings us to the next oddity of 'Lamps'.
The man is a walking contradiction. His name for a start. He is a Frank Jnr, which makes him sound like a Mafia don's son, but as his father is former West Hammer Frank Lampard Snr, he quite patently is not. He is an Essex boy, but went to a private school. The way his involvement in a lurid sex tape with Rio Ferdinand and Kieron Dyer has been almost entirely airbrushed from anything written about him. Perhaps, Fun-Time Frankie has a dark secret. He is not one of us.
To be fair, there is one aspect of 'Lampard v.5y' that runs parallel. He best personifies the madness and over valuation of football players in England in managing to use his mesmering robot powers to coerce Messrs Abramovich and Kenyon into giving a thirty year old a £39.2m five year contract. How fitting then, that he is a supporter of the Conversative Party. But while proclaiming his allegiance to the Tories, and this is where the contradictory and shadow nature of the one man cabal that is Frank Lampard re-emerges, he has still to vote in an election.
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