What do you ask a Rooney?
I love football, and am fascinated by the teams and players, but not sure how much I can relate to the men who kick the ball. Wayne grew up in Croxteth, rough Liverpool and now immortalised as the place where tragic 11-year-old Rhys Jones was murdered. I’ll be there today and going to meet a Rooney in person as it was pretty hard to decipher what was going on down the phone, his souse accent and my Zimbabwean twang just clashing horribly, the two of us shouting away at each other, What did you say ? Didn’t get that ! Come again!
It really was impossible to get beyond that, so I thought it would be easier to jump on a train. Anyway I love trains, in spite of having been in a gruesome train crash, it didn’t seem to put me off, strangely. I love that sense of time suspended, in between two places where you’re allowed to dream and gaze out the window and have private time that no one you know is part of.
Unlike Beckham and Ronaldo, Rooney is totally devoid of glamour, portrayed as Mr Potatohead, ugly, thickset, all brawn and no brains. But I think there’s a lot we don’t know about the tough, close community of Rooneys that’s far more interesting and complex than that. They’re all boxers and like a good fight so you’ve got to be a bit careful and Croxteth isn’t St Tropez, but why is it that I’m really looking forward to this little jaunt. I’ll let you know how it goes.