Why we love the English Premier League

Brian Glanville, regarded in many quarters as the greatest football writer of all time, is a man who has always been critical of the English Premier League, and is the one responsible for its infamous christening as the Greed is Good league.

While I have grown up loving the man’s unique interpretations of the game, not to mention the nostalgic tributes to his boyhood heroes, the English top flight itself holds a special place in my heart. True, my opinion is but an insignificant speck in comparison to the great man’s, especially when his concerns, as an Englishman, are perfectly justified.

But you see, Mr. Glanville, thousands of miles away, in a little old country we love and loathe as our own, the gentleman’s game has always held sway. To a generation of young, impressionable minds to whom the beautiful game came as an explosion of adrenaline and heartbreak, courtesy the FIFA World Cup in Korea & Japan, Europe’s elite football leagues became an insatiable pursuit. And the good old Premier League our drug of choice.

In the wake of that World Cup spectacle, I was a naive kid reduced to watching endless replays of Ronaldinho’s audacious free-kick that had a 6’3’’ David Seaman shrink to all of two feet. The English game came as a revelation; David Beckham wrapping his feet around those delectable crosses in the famous red shirt, and Ruud Van Nistelrooy knocking them in for fun.

Thierry Henry was imperious for the Gunners, with a stellar cast of Pires, Ljungberg and Bergkamp completing an attack that oozed a suaveness that has since been unparalleled. Michael Owen was the new age England striker – quick, deadly in front of goal and lapping up the love of an adoring Anfield; while the raised arm of Alan Shearer signaled the quintessential old school English frontman.

Roman Abramovich emptied a truckload of dough onto the Stamford Bridge turf, and the sniveling hordes of wannabes flocked to the blue of Chelsea with a ferocity that signaled a new era in the English game. Never had the cold British shores looked so inviting, as the influx of foreign talent proceeded to stamp out any chance England had of actually putting up a decent eleven that could compete with the best.

This has been the root of Mr. Glanville’s indignation at the way the English game has shaped up in recent years. But it was a predicament that held hardly any significance to the neutral, a fan who simply delighted at the mouth-watering talent on display.

For him, the emergence of Chelsea, and then Manchester City, has only proceeded to break the hegemony that Manchester United and Arsenal had over the title for so many years.

That is a situation that still persists in Spain, Italy and Germany, with the usual suspects taking turns to colour the crest on their jerseys in that coveted golden tinge. Only the re-emergence of underdog Borussia Dortmund has inspired any real story worth telling in these parts.

Closer to home, Liverpool’s reluctance to move on from Stage 1 of grief, à la denial, despite last lifting the League crown in 1990, has always provided a constant source of amusement for everyone, none more so than the Red Devils themselves.

Admittedly though, the scenes that unfolded on the unforgettable night of Sergio Aguero’s stoppage time winner did give Sir Alex Ferguson’s face an unpleasant shade of purple.

Jose Mourinho 1.0 will remember that purple shade all too clearly, having taken the league by storm with two league titles in his first two years at the club. In doing so, the Portuguese squeezed himself a seat between Sir Alex and Wenger, who had spent years exchanging snide remarks about each other until that point.

When The Special One proceeded to leave after stepping on owner Abramovich’s toes once too often, the two old timers came to understand just how good they had had it before the bratty Mourinho arrived on the scene, and have now become the best of chums.

A heart-touching story, albeit one that had a sad end. Sir Alex pulled a fast one on Monsieur Wenger when he vacated the hot seat upon learning of Mourinho’s imminent return. Today Wenger deals with a sulky and infinitely stubborn Special One, while a timid David Moyes sits in a corner, still unsure as to how on earth he got there.

Abramovich is impatiently clicking his tongue, while Sir Alex swallows a piece of gum while trying to stifle his laughter. Rafael Benitez, who spent years tugging on the Scotsman’s pants, is, for the first time in his life, on the same page as Sir Alex in their schadenfreude at Mourinho’s plight.

Wayne Rooney’s remarkable likeness to lovable oaf Shrek has seen him wanting to build a new home in a new part of the jungle as every transfer window approaches, only for him to change his mind at the last moment, and stay on in familiar surroundings.

Unable to make sense of the confusion that still clouds his every decision, the superstar returns to the one place where his every touch resonates clarity and vision; preferring to score his way into Manchester United’s record books, and the hearts of the fans. Again.

David Moyes remains highly susceptible to a stroke, what with his big-haired Belgian looking like a drunken flamingo in United’s assorted stock of baby chicks. Meanwhile the one man who is doing more than anyone else to keep Moyes in the hot seat is also the one he once sued for libel. Good luck with that.

Arsene Wenger still cries over teen-aged photos of Cesc Fabregas and Robin Van Persie, while a patient Mesut Ozil consoles him. The only time his eyes light up are when he sees a hyper-active Aaron Ramsey scamper about, holding up his to-do list that has the name of a certain Ryan Shawcross on it.

This is the English Premier League, baby. A thrilling melting pot of complex plots and sub-plots, filled with stories of revenge and deception; unmatched in its intricacies and appeal by any other. By comparison, the most exciting thing that happens in all the other leagues combined is when Zlatan Ibrahimovic extends his wings and flies off to Munich to watch Pep Guardiola sleep, evil grin firmly in place.

Mario Balotelli is old news to us, having seen his histrionics once too often at Manchester City; as we fondly remember a deranged Roberto Mancini trying to practically beat the potential out of him. Call us when he does something that attracts more YouTube views than that hilarious bib incident.

Football is a spectacle above all else, unmatched in its reach and potential to both unite and divide. Amid all the chanting and swearing and exaggerations, the one thing that holds true here is that there is nothing – and I mean nothing – that can compete with a thirteen-year-old Indian kid screaming -“Damn all you Scousers”- as a cheeky Liverpool fan unfurls a banner that says “GGMU – Gerrard Gona Murder United”.

So all you purists out there can get off your high horses and join us in the muddy waters of the Premier League. We know you want to.