Neil Brooks gives his verdict on the JT affair in his latest Talking Sport column.
Most of us know the story about United's Number 7. He's lying on the hotel kingsize with a scantily-clad Miss World, cash is strewn all over the shop, and he's three sheets to the wind after another night on the sauce (we've all been there).
Ta
king one look at what greets him, the young hotel employee who's delivering another bottle of champers, shakes his head in disbelief and says: 'George, where did it all go wrong?'
Apocryphal or not, it's a great line, and it's come back to mind with what John Terry has been up to of late.
Because of the intense pressure he was under, Capello really had no choice but to hand over the captaincy to someone else.
And who does he give it to? The camel-mouthed stroller himself: the very player who, not so long ago, was banned for eight months for missing a drugs test. If we're harping on about role models, the error-strewn defender is hardly a shining example, is he?
More recently than Rio's forgetfulness, old Golden Balls himself was – allegedly – up to all sorts.
Despite having a limited IQ, David did the sensible thing when the story broke by donning a tin hat and diving under the nearest table. Terry, meanwhile, committed the cardinal sin of trying to gag the press. Stupid boy.
Perhaps the FA should be more concerned about behaviour on the pitch: the blatant cheating, the verbal abuse, intimidation of officials, the spitting – hardly a good advert for the game, but something some of these 'superstars' are guilty of every single week.
Johnny's shenanigans will be forgotten by the time the chaps travel to South Africa, anyway, and the 11 chosen ones probably won't care whether it's John Terry or John Inman calling the shots.
Like him or not, JT is a fantastic footballer. But it's time to cut him some slack, let him sort his own problems out, and then we can all focus on other more important things: like Katie Price getting hitched to another Neanderthal man.
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Those of you who read this, and I know for a fact that there's at least three or four of you that do, may recall that I was recently a bit harsh on the only half-decent tennis player we've had in donkey's.
Fair do's, he actually performed better in the Aussie Open than I expected. My predictions have been somewhat wonky donkey in recent weeks: 'er indoors reckons I'm more Nosferatu than Nostradamus. Bit harsh, that.
Reaching the final of any slam is no mean achievement, but sometimes you have to understand that there will always be someone better than you. Murray was running around like a lunatic; Rodge was clad in a smoking jacket, and instead of the obligatory energy drinks, had the port and cigars out. Outrageous.
It's no disgrace losing to the finest craftsman of a stringed instrument since Stradivari was doing the rounds.
And you never know, if Nadal's knee becomes a pain, and Rodge can't be bothered, SW19 in June may witness something rather special – Murray, as he did in Oz, crying like a girl.
Agree with Neil, or is he talking rubbish? Email us and let us know your views.
